October 2023 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

OCTOBER 2023 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 — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.

PROMPT TWO — GUILTY PARTY: Interlopers are kidnapped and held captive by a being and forced to confess their wrong doings, or face fatal consequences.

PROMPT THREE — OFF THE BEATEN TRACK: Interlopers get more than they bargained for when a mysterious albeit friendly dog comes across them and persuades them to follow them into the wilds.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-October.
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.

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. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in several weeks, maybe longer. The fire is stone cold, the dishes in the sink are mouldy — it's possible the place has been ransacked, as if they've gone through the drawers and cupboards looking for something. 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.

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.

“Ah, more of you have come.” he nods, just as he suspected you might. “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 and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish, instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast. The old man has been busy. And Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. 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 is troubled, thoughtful. The arrival of so many is not something that sits well with him. The others from town will eventually trail in too, to eat and warm themselves, and search amongst the new faces.

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 perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

GUILTY PARTY

WHEN: Over the next month.
WHERE: Paradise Farm Outbuildings.
CONTENT WARNINGS: forced imprisonment; forced honesty; supernatural beings; confessional themes; threat of death; possible character death; possible death by throat injury.

You don’t remember how you came to be here. The air is cold and damp, the rot of wood is strong, and… blood. Why does it smell of so much blood? You can’t seem to see all that much in the gloom, but you think you’re in some kind of outbuilding of sorts. You find yourself chained to a chair, the metal is heavy and cold against you and no matter whatever you seem to do, you can’t seem to free yourself from them. No struggling can ease their hold, and there’s no lock to unpick or break. They weigh you down in your seat, you can't even seem to tip yourself over.

But you’re not the only one here. Across from you in the dark is someone else. One of your fellow Interlopers is trapped here with you, too. They too don’t remember anything either, they’re equally as confused and uncertain as you. Perhaps frightened. Not only this, they’re also sat chained up just as tightly. You have a little time to talk before you realise the two of you aren’t alone.

There's a glooming green light, the feeling of a presence. A huge figure steps into view, cloaked in black. It’s hard to tell whether it’s a man or a woman, and it’s difficult to make out much detail of them. Their face is obscured by a stone mask in the shape of a monstrous, horned and fanged Jackal. Green light glows from behind it, foreboding in the dark. It will not answer you if you try to speak with it.

“WICKEDNESS LIES WITHIN YOU.” The voice is a fierce chorus of whispers, but yet so loud. It sends a shiver down your spine. “I HAVE SEEN IT.”

... You can’t help but know it to be true. Something inside you knows what they speak of is true. Any misdeed or wrongdoing done by your hand, any cruel word you spoke, any life you took or heart you broke. You feel exposed, seen. The figure knows what you have done.

“CONFESS.” the figure demands. “UNBURDEN YOUR HEART AND BE FREE. BE SILENT AND CARRY IT TO THE GRAVE.”

The figure holds an item in its hand, something that glints in the light that glows from its mask. Now you realise why there’s so much blood in the air: it’s a sickle, dripping with blood. You are not the first to be brought here. You will not be the last.

Speak, unburden yourself, and if the figure is satisfied — you will, in fact, go free. Refuse, or not take the demand seriously, and the figure will deem you unworthy. They will move within the blink of an eye, striking you with the sickle in the neck — let it be a mercy that they kill you quickly.

OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

WHEN: Over the next month.
WHERE: Milton / Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural creature; trickster creature; themes of peril; possible character injury; possible dead body discoveries; potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk; possible character death.

The weather will continue to prove difficult for all who try to navigate this world, but with the current footfall in and around Milton, it’s at least helped to keep paths and roads somewhat clear despite the snow’s best efforts to cover up these walkways. Still, it’s a pain to get around, especially on particularly snowy days. Unfortunately, it’s sometimes necessary to go out on such days — survival doesn’t stop for the weather to pass.

And so journeys must be made, hunting must be done, forageables must be collected. You try to keep to the paths and trails, where the terrain yields before you for an easier journey.

… Until you hear barking through the trees, the sound of paws through the snow. Given the recent wolf activity of the last month, it’s understandable to be on edge. However, it isn’t a wolf that comes into view: it’s a large dog, bigger than any dog you’ve seen before. Coated in thick and shaggy black fur, this animal doesn’t seem to be like the wolves that have been found so far in this world. While the wildlife has certainly been altered, this dog remains very much like anyone would expect a dog to act in terms of behaviour. It’s playful with some, certainly friendly, constantly trying to play chase with you as it loops around in circles with a wagging tail.

However, there’s an insistence with this dog. It wants you to follow it. It will bark incessantly, trying to pull you from the path to go after it into the woods. It wants to show you something, take you somewhere. It will even try to gently pull at a coat-sleeve or trouser-leg to coax your forwards before heading off, keeping just in sight for you to go after it.

You’ll find it increasingly difficult to keep up, even if you pick up the pace as you head further into the woods. There’s less snow here, but the forest floor is filled with holes and tree roots that will trip you up. Falls are likely. But even worse is when before you know it, the ground simply gives way beneath you, sending you tumbling into a small valley or getting you stuck deep into soft, muddy earth. With it, perhaps, twisted ankles or worse. Or perhaps simply battered and bruised and unable to climb out of trench of earth. Maybe you come face to face with the body of some other poor Interloper who'd met their own end in similar manner — trapped and injured in the ditch.

Or worse still, the dog might just have you stumbling over a cliff face and tumbling into the Basin. Whatever fate befalls you, it’s as if the dog simply led you into it. And said dog, however, will be nowhere to be seen. It will have left you stuck, hurt, lost in the woods.

You’re sure you can hear some dark chuckling on the wind. Maybe it’s just the trees.

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.

GUILTY PARTY

1. Characters will find that once they have confessed, they will pass out. When they awaken, they will find themselves lying or sitting on the floor — the being, chairs and chains have gone. They are free to leave.

2. Attempts to search the outbuildings at later dates will prove fruitless. There is no sign of the being, nor the chairs or chains that held characters, but there will be blood on the floor that can be found.

3. One character can confess, or both. Player choice! As long as someone's doing some confessing.

OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

1. Gyests, sometimes called Ghests or Bargyests are evil creatures from Northumberland, UK folklore. They seek to lure travelers away from a known and safe road to their miry and marshy demise, or perhaps lead them to walk in the darkness of a Cheviot night over the edge of a precipice. Often taking the shape of horses, donkeys or large dogs, Gyests could also shape-shift to appear as men, or even stacks of hay. But always their intention was to trick humans, for their own amusement, and lure them to their doom.

2. Attempts to lure or trap the Gyest will not work.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

QUESTIONS

[singmod]

Ask them here.

Re: QUESTIONS

[flambeaux]

Do newcomers always find themselves at the feast first? Or is it possible to be unlucky and run into the other prompts?

Lestat de Lioncourt | Interview with the Vampire (AMC)

[flanerie]

1. arrival

Lestat is quite out of sorts.

It has been decades since he encountered true cold, but he is certain it did not bite at him then as it does now. Indeed, almost all of his vital strength seems to have been sapped, although whatever peculiar witchcraft that lifted him from where he lay and transported him here did him the courtesy of mending the gross damage to his body. It even restored some of his belongings to him, a favour which might mollify him somewhat if not for the rude deposit in some forsaken wilderness.

Still. He is himself, and no paltry North Wind can truly harm him. Despite his black mood, crisp night air and the calls of wild creatures are an invigorating improvement over fetid ruin.

Lestat cuts through the forest like a phantom in his bloodied white shirt and fitted black trousers, a meagre bundle tucked under his arm. He entertains himself with the thought he is a true orphan once more, out to make his way in the world unbound by fickle tethers, and although it is not at all true, it is darkly amusing.

It is all darkly amusing, if one has a properly sanguine temperament, as he does. One must laugh if one is not to weep. It is in this spirit that he catches sight of another in the woods. A guide, perhaps, or prey, or both, and does Fate not provide opportunity for those who persevere? He has always thought so, except when he has not.

"Good evening!" He calls out to them, gaily.

2. guilty party

The blood is the first thing to penetrate Lestat's awareness. He breathes it in deeply, savouring the tang of it, however dulled his senses are to true appreciation of the vintage. He lifts his head with eyes closed and lips parted, rolling it over his tongue with hunger-sharpened longing.

He attempts to move his arms, and his eyes snap open. His pupils are vast, pitch-dark hollows crowding the colour of his irises to obscurity, and his lips pull back in a snarl as he jerks at his bindings.

"What is this?" He demands, of the room at large, and perhaps of the companion in front of him, if they are inclined to answer.

3. off the beaten track

Of course Lestat followed the dog. He was taken with it from the beginning, delighted to have stumbled across such a charming creature. He had already begun to make plans to win it over for his own, imagining the sport and usefulness of having a loyal companion for the necessary endeavours in the woods.

Of course it betrayed him. What else could he have possibly expected? All the charming creatures of the world are in conspiracy against him, toying with his affections only to abandon him in the metaphorical and literal mud.

Anyone passing by the muddy ditch Lestat has found himself in will be treated to a liquidly spiteful murmur of invective, reproach, and frustration, paired with intermittent scrabbling. Those who stop to investigate will discover a dishevelled, mud-streaked man at the bottom of a slumped pit, staring up at them as if they have something to do with his plight.

"Well?" Lestat snaps, hands on his hips. "Do you intend to gawk, or make yourself useful?"

4. wildcard
[ PM me or message me at terriblepurpose if you'd like to plot something more specific! ]

2

[organising]

"Um, how the hell am I supposed to know?!"

Caroline is not doing so hot right now, and it's clear in the shrillness of her voice, cutting sharply through the darkness. Her outburst is followed in short order by the sound of her struggling to pull against the chains, which are usually not so much of a problem for her. She could, in another world, have snapped the links like rubber bands. She can't now. So: she's useless.

She gives the chains one final tug for the sake of vanity, and then slumps in her seat with a heavy sigh. "I know about as much as you do. Which is obviously nothing. But we should... stay positive."

sanji — one piece live action

[scone]

— guilty party.

note: some manga/anime spoilers re: sanji’s backstory!

[ when he opens his eyes and realizes he’s trapped in the dark, the fear that rushes through every nerve overwhelms him to the point of shock. he can’t think. can’t breathe. how did he end up back here, locked in his father’s cell? where the hell is — he can’t feel the shifting waves beneath his feet, can’t hear luffy’s laughter or smell nami’s tangerines. it smells like blood and rot, cold metal pressing hard against his thighs, chains looped around his ribs, his wrists bound behind the chair. trapped.

it’s for the best that he can’t will himself to do anything. he would scream, or cry, or —

he can’t do this again. this is so fucking familiar, but he got out, and he can’t do it again. he won’t. he bites the inside of his cheek to feel a burst of pain, forcing his eyes up, and — there. there’s something there. someone else bound in the room with him.

the vinsmokes wouldn’t give him an ally. this is something else, then. ]

Hey —

[ before he can get another word out, the jackal-headed creature is there, demanding their secrets, and somehow the image of the beast isn’t as frightening as letting go of the truth of all that’s happened to him. even staring down at the sickle, his breath coming in heavy rasps, he doesn’t confess a word about himself. ]

— off the beaten track.

[ nothing’s broken, he knows that much. he can move his ankles with only mild discomfort, and more importantly, his hands are okay. maybe a little scuffed up, which is annoying when it comes to cooking, but no serious injuries. that’s important.

also important is that he landed right on top of someone when the dog lured him straight off a cliff. how did he not see that coming? shit, he’s as bad as that idiot swordsman. ]

I’m sorry. [ and he really is, triply so if he landed on a woman. less so if it’s a man. men can take a few knocks to the head; sanji doesn’t give a shit. ] If you’re injured, let me have a look.

— wildcard.

[ ooc: will default to brackets. pm me if you'd like to talk about ideas! this is 100% ota despite sanji’s man-hating agenda, pls forgive him!! also note that sanji's backstory includes physical and emotional child abuse. ]

Of the beaten track, cw injuries and broken bone wompwomp

[ployboy]

[Cricket had beaten the absolute crap out of him, and not even Black Bat had stood a chance. Tim remembers it vividly, because he doesn't have much of a choice. Every lingering bruise in his legs and chest is screaming and he can't focus on the jolt of white-hot heat that bites at his arm. He'll cry of he does, he thinks.

Like, it's just not fair to have his arm broken again. It had been healing. He had followed a big ol' happy dog. It had been fine.]

...ow.

[Ah yes, the pathetic little mew will surely communicate that he's fine to the person who just fell on him.

Okay. Okay. Laying down, unmoving in the ground wasn't a bright idea and Tim silently begs forgiveness from Saint Bats for it but. Consider:]

Ow.

[Bitch more about it, Drake.]

's fine.

zoro — one piece ( la )

[gripping]

01 — methuselah's feast

( so, waking up in the snow in the middle of the woods hadn't been on his list of things to happen to him today. but, that's what happened and he's still really confused about the whole thing. not first of which was because he could've sworn he was on the merry with the rest of the crew heading toward the grand line. he doesn't remember docking at any kind of island.

hm.

it's freaking cold and he's definitely not dressed for this oh so pleasant weather, so he makes the executive decision to get up and go off in search of... well, anything, really. he gets up and brushes the snow off of himself, straps his sword belt on and heads off.

by the time he locates the path — not his fault, the path clearly just moved around a lot in the woods — he's nearly at the village. town. whatever it is. not that zoro would ever admit to anything, but he may or may not speed up when he sees the smoke rising.

warmth.

it sort of hurts his skin and bones as he begins to slowly defrost, but again, not like he'd say anything. briefly he wonders where he's going to have to steal a coat from once he's done filling up on the food spread out. he gathers up some of the meat, stew, and tea, and moves to sit directly in front of the fire, uncaring that he's on the floor. while he's eating he won't really speak unless spoken to, but once he's done and squared away the dishes he used, he'll return to the fire, this time wrapped in a scratchy blanket and a little more open to conversation; )

You know anything about this place?

02 — guilty party

( well, that's a scent he's far too used to than he'd like to admit. the sickening copper tang of blood fills his nose and makes his lip curl in distaste as he blinks his eyes open to figure out where the hell he is now.

he's used to getting lost, but this is a little bit ridiculous that it's happening this much.

there's someone else here, but zoro doesn't really care. he hears the stupid thing accuse him and zoro just stares blankly at it. big deal, he's a sinner. oh no.

he exhales a breath, not really wanting to waste time doing this. confessing to anything and everything he's done isn't something that matters to him, his heart isn't burdened with anything. so, it's a simple thing to just, rather blandly speak up, )

I've killed people who deserve it for money.

( okay. now let him out. )

03 — wildcard

( feel free to hmu if you'd like anything specific or wanna hash out deets for something else! )

guilty party (I COULD NOT RESIST)

[scone]

[ must be fucking nice, to have a heart not burdened by anything. zoro speaks up like he's announcing the weather, while sanji struggles against his chains so hard that the metal sinks bruises into his skin. the chair doesn't even budge.

he's going to die. that sickle is going straight into his neck because he's not — he can't — confess to anything. not with zoro right there, as nonchalant as can be, oblivious to the fact that sanji, if given the choice, would break his own legs rather than confess to get out of here.

this isn't about zeff. zeff was the best thing to ever happen to him, after luffy. no, this is about uttering the vinsmoke name after swearing it off, that he might have that cursed blood in him after all, that his mom sacrificed herself for nothing — if that doesn't make wickedness swim all through him — ]

Shit. [ sanji looks wildly at the creature, trying to lean forward. ] Fuck off, you dog-headed shitbag.

Jason McConnell | bare: a pop opera

[triedtobelong]

ARRIVAL

[Jason hasn't slept, and he's thinking this might all be a nightmare. He'd spent half his night pacing his room, Father's words bouncing around in his head, remembering the way Peter had pulled away from him, Matt's pointed accusation. He probably fell asleep eventually, and this is all some weird stress dream, right?

He's pretty sure you're not supposed to be so cold it hurts in a dream, but it's the theory he's working with as he trudges through the snow. It makes as much sense as anything else.

It also means he's half-expecting the distant figure in front of him to be someone he knows. Maybe Nadia's come to yell at him the way she probably will in person tomorrow. Maybe it's Matt, coming to spill more of his secrets, if there's even any left. Whoever it is, he's pretty sure waiting won't mean he gets to avoid it, so he puts on a little burst of speed, calling out to get whoever it is to slow down.] Hey!

[--and then blinks, startled when he doesn't recognize the face in front of him, even vaguely.]

Who are you?


GUILTY PARTY
additional cws likely: religious trauma, homophobia, teen sex, teen pregnancy

[Jason feels like he's going to be sick just from the overwhelming stench of blood. It's not something he's used to, and he coughs harshly as it hits him, not even noticing the weight of the chains until he tries to lift his arm to cover his mouth and can't move it.]

The hell? [He struggles against the chains for a moment, rattling, before he gives up to start looking around instead and registers the person across from him for the first time.] Hey -- are you okay? Are you bleeding? [There's clear nervousness in his voice, anxious about what's going on.]


OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

[Mostly, Jason's stuck to the community hall, not really sure what he can offer as far as help goes -- but he's finally managed to get someone to give him an idea what to look out for when foraging, and he really needs to do something, if just to keep him from sitting around thinking all the time. The cold is harsh, and he's still only kind of sure what he's picking, might get someone else to look over it when he gets back, but it's something, right?

And of course he's going to follow the dog, when it comes out of the bushes, barking and apparently trying to lead him somewhere. Why wouldn't he?

Fast forward less than an hour later, and he's tumbled to the bottom of a ditch with a yelp, and his ankle's killing him. Twisted or broken, he's not really sure; all he knows is it hurts, and his couple of failed attempts at climbing out by himself haven't helped.

He's slumped on the ground, breathing hard and trying to regroup for a third probably-hopeless attempt, when he hears something moving nearby, and he'll call out in the hopes it's someone who can understand, and not the dog back for -- whatever it was trying to do.] Be careful out there, the ground's pretty rough.


WILDCARD

[[ Hit me up if you've got any ideas, or shoot me a PM or a message at balsamandash if you want to discuss anything. Canon CWs also include abusive parents, suicide, drugs, and underage drinking, but I don't think any of those are likely to come up on these prompts. ]]

Arrival

[ployboy]

Uh.

[He's not usually an idiot, though Tim can see how one might come to that conclusion about himself. It's just-- the deer in headlights look isn't entirely foreign to him on a good day, and maybe of all the people he half-expected to cross paths with (in this case, literally) some other dude who had to be closer to Tim's age than not... uh, wasn't really one of them.

Which is sad.

That's sad, isn't it. That finding a peer in a new, hostile environment is the weird thing.

Said hostile environment snaps Tim's brain back to working order with a (distant) wolf's howl. Tim heaves on a dry and tired smile, and decides against offering a handshake. He dusts snow off the gray, fine chinos. Tries not to move the arm that's in the sling too much.] I'm Tim? I mean, that's not the question.

I'm Tim. Tim Drake. Did you just see me eat it? There's a... root, or something there. So. Careful with it.

Abigail Hobbs | Hannibal

[climbingwalls]

ARRIVAL
additional cws: abuse/manipulation/isolation by a parental figure

[It's been a while since Abigail has spoken to or seen anyone but Hannibal. She hasn't kept track of how long it's been since they faked her death; there's not much point to it. Time just seems to slide by, most days.

Milton is small, by any reasonable standards, but it feels like there's so many people, as she gets into town and starts seeing them. She's a little startled, feels surrounded and out of sorts, even though most of them barely do more than glance at her. It's enough. At home, it would probably be enough visibility to call the FBI down on her.

She's shivering, freezing in her sweater, designed for staying comfortable in Hannibal's drafty house and not for this kind of weather. But she still hesitates as she nears the center of town, ducking out of the loose collection of people heading for the promised warmth of that smoke to find somewhere quiet for a few moments.

Her arms wrap around herself once she finds a spot where she feels alone, her eyes close, trying to calm herself down a little and not paying attention to listen for anyone else approaching.]


GUILTY PARTY
additional cws: murder, cannibalism, abuse/manipulation/isolation by a parental figure, abuse/threats from a parent

[She's panicking already, finding herself tied to a chair with someone else, surrounded by blood, no idea what to expect. The figure only makes it worse, the appearance and their words, the weapon. Abigail shifts in her chair, not struggling to escape, just restless from that sense of rising guilt, trying to ignore that feeling of her worst deeds being known. She's had practice trying to fight the feeling that everyone knows what she's done, but it's never been like this.]

What? [She's trying to sound confused, like she doesn't know what it's talking about, deflecting as she glances at the person across from her.] Confess what?

[Maybe they'll have something to say instead, and then -- well, then she'll see what happens next.]


OFF THE BEATEN TRACK
additional cws: implied/mentioned cannibalism

[There'd been a familiar hunting rifle sitting in the community hall that first day, when Abigail had finally gone in. Part of her had wanted to ignore it, pretend she didn't see her father's gun -- but the more she'd learned about how things worked here, the more she'd understood that, unsettling as it was, it was a genuine gift. The more people who could get food, the better.

She's listening for animals to approach, the gun braced and ready -- but she hesitates, when the dog comes out of the woods. She's certainly eaten worse than a dog, but it still feels strange. What if the dog belongs to someone?

She hesitates long enough to lose the shot, and she shoulders the gun as the dog barks and playfully pounces closer, frowning slightly as she moves in the direction it came from to see if anyone's over there.] Hello? Did somebody lose a dog?


WILDCARD

[[ Hit me up if you've got any ideas, or shoot me a PM or a message at balsamandash if you want to discuss anything. ]]

Guilty Party

[flambeaux]

Louis de Pointe du Lac stirs when a sickle is put to the collar of his well-tailored suit. He jerks against the chains as if he expects them to fall away. They do not.

For a moment, he goes preternaturally still, staring unblinkingly up at the masked figure with his green eyes glittering dangerously in the gloom. Is this some killer looking for victim's words of a certain nature? Are they going to open a diary and record what he says, take a trophy perhaps? He's imagining all the things he'd like to visit upon his captor if he had his vampiric strength back. Then he sneers like a regular man to hide his fear, even if mouthing off might get him killed.

"You ain't no priest. And it's supposed to be done alone. Just you, me, and the Lord. I ain't confessin' things unfit for a young lady's ears."

The smell of blood is maddeningly sweet, even if it is dead blood and his senses have been dulled back to a human's. He's so thirsty, but he resists the urge to bite his own lip. He works his tongue unseen and swallows.

dean winchester | supernatural

[nugent]

arrival;

[ Dean Winchester is not really a fan of the cold; it's wet, it sticks to you, it seeps through your clothes into your bones. It reminds him too much of his first solo mission, a thing he keeps locked in a box in his mind, the key safely hidden away. It had been snowing, something to be expected in Wyoming, but now it triggers memories he'd rather not think about.

Easier to focus on the fact he's pretty sure his hands and feet have frostbite. He has no gloves, he isn't wearing snow boots. The tips of his fingers are turning pale and hard, his toes tingling, wet socks rubbing blisters on his feet.

Misery, that's what this is.

He trudges onward, forces himself to keep moving, follow the smoke trail he sees in the sky that has to lead to fire - and it does. The building is a beacon of Gondor in the grayness of the world and Dean barrels in, barely listening to the wizard, shaking violently from the cold that's gripped him, hands and feet aching. If he shoves you out of the way you'll get a muttered apology, but he's on his way to the fire, shucking as much of his cold, wet clothing as is proper, letting it drop to the floor beside him and whoever happens to be next time as he toes off his boots to try to warm up. ]

I hate being cold. I just want sand and tiki torches and umbrella drinks.

guilty party;

[ Blood isn't a new smell for Dean; it's kind of a 'thing' at this point in his life - be it his, Sam's, or someone else's. It's always around, it's just part of his life - so when he blinks into awareness and he's hit with the scent, it's no surprise.

The chains, though - they kinda freak him out, because he can't do anything about it. No amount of wiggling and squirming does a damn thing, and by the end of it his heart is slamming in his chest both from fear and exertion, and the creepy ass voice does nothing to assuage his terror.

But he's Dean Winchester, dammit. Screw this thing, and screw this situation.

“WICKEDNESS LIES WITHIN YOU.”

Dean laughs, squirms a little and flicks a wink at the hooded figure, slumping in his chair, relaxing, like nothing is any big deal at all. ]

Well, not yet it doesn't. You offerin'?

[ No it is not, Dean.

“CONFESS.” the figure demands. “UNBURDEN YOUR HEART AND BE FREE. BE SILENT AND CARRY IT TO THE GRAVE.” ]

Alright alright, [ he says, still slumped, wiggling a foot, anxiety and dread in his gut. ] Hey, does trying on women's underwear count? Cause Rhonda Hurley definitely made me put hers on.

(( ooc; feel free to wildcard any option! the second prompt you can either respond to dean hitting on 'death' like an idiot, or wait until he's finished, up to you! if you have something specific in mind, feel free to dm me :>

**a note - Dean is from season one, so he is BABY ))

[dirtytrenchcoat]

[Castiel comes to the schoolhouse when he can't come by food on his own and the chill has soaked through the brick of his chosen resident. Tonight, the wind felt less merciful, and even in a thick woolen sweater coarsely knit and his usual suit and tie, he could feel its effects.

This time the food is more appetizing and Castiel himself has some of the stew in hand when he comes to sit in front of the fire and let it soothe his aches. What he's not expecting to hear is Dean, the age out of his tone, his world-weariness replaced with youthful folly.

Castiel's not sure it's Dean he's looking at, until he studies him more closely - a sloppy gape on his face, blue eyes wide under a pair of knit brows.]

Dean?

Louis de Pointe du Lac | Interview with the Vampire (AMC)

[flambeaux]

1. Arrival

His head doesn't whip around. It's not the first time Louis has heard a voice in his head. Neither are you, he feels the need to answer back to a fellow immortal. Claudia? he tries to reach out with his mind. Nothing. It's like speaking through cotton, and nothing but cotton answers.

He was traveling, last he remembers, in a suit good enough--if not formal enough--to be buried in. He shivers in his coat, thankfully wool, but not built for heavy snow. He doesn't need to examine the new old weakness in his body. He can feel the paltry strength of a mortal with each crunch of his thin shoes in the snow. His limbs don't feel smooth and powerful. They feel sluggish and, most of all, cold. This is hell. He's a Southern boy used to hot nights and humid storms; he's not built for this.

Nevertheless, he straightens his hat and stubbornly drags a shiny black coffin behind him with a scavenged rope.

2. Guilty Party

Additional CWs: brief reference to suicidal ideation

Groggy as he is, he immediately knows something is wrong. Louis de Pointe du Lac sleeps in his coffin, or tucked under a blanket in comfort and safety, not upright in a hard chair. And the smell. It calls to him so sweetly. He's hungry. Cinnamon, cabernet, leather, iron--tasting notes only for him, but strangely not as sharp as usual.

His eyes open, preternatural stained-glass green nearly obliterated by the dilation of his irises. He moves against the chains, struggles with a faint puzzlement, as if he expects them to fall away like paper.

Finally he screams, hot murderous anger in his blood, and virulent hunger, and a deep sorrow cutting through the panic; for if he's been captured and had the strength sapped from him, surely this is the end. He's wanted to die so many times, yet he keeps struggling for life like some wriggling crawling thing.

"FUCK YOU!!"

He's usually a little more classy than that.

3. Off the Beaten Track

Additional CWs: attempted animal hunting

"Just a little closer," he coaxes in a voice suited to dogs and children. "Promise it'll be quick--Aw, damn..."

So much for that. He trudges after the elusive dog, fancy walking stick in hand, hoping at least it'll lead him to some other game. Maybe he should have asked someone how to set rabbit traps in town. Maybe he should have asked about a lot of things. But he left town quickly. The night is young, and like youth, it is fleeting. He has to feed before sunrise, and he has to do it in private.

2. guilty party

[flanerie]

Oblivion is not entirely unpleasant. As much as Lestat revels in the pleasures of the embodied world, in his times of greatest unhappiness there is undeniable comfort in the brief cessation of self that comes with dreamless sleep.

To be abruptly jarred from that reprieve is bad enough. The cause and quality of that jar amplify the insult, the injury, unbearably.

"Va te faire foutre aussi!" Lestat crashes into wakefulness as a body flung through a window, jagged shards and the rip of gravity, his instinctive retort wracked with passionate tongues of flame. He does not know the alien air of this strange land rips his words up by the root to transform them into the bluntness of their meaning. "Fuck you, too!"

There is nothing else in the room, in the world, but the man bound to the chair before him. Lestat surges against his bonds heedlessly of their strength, blown wide eyes fixated on the prize he seeks. He will fling himself on him like the wrath of the absent God. He will wrap his arms around him and crush him into dust. He will press his face against his chest until he may feel the wounded throb of Lestat's heart and repent everything, and still, he will give no mercy, no misbegotten tenderness, no, his weakness cost him enough the once, he will - he will get out of this fucking chair.

Lestat snarls like a rabid thing as he jerks at his bonds, his eyes like the death of light.

Johnny Lawrence | Cobra Kai

[strikefirster]

Arrival

[Waking up in a dingy cabin that appears to be ransacked with moldy dishes might have alarmed anyone else. But honestly Johnny's apartment was just as bad if not worse on some days. It takes him a little to come to his senses and realize something isn't quite right. He's pretty sure he's still a little drunk from the night before.

But as he slowly comes to his senses and takes stock of the cabin and the snow on the ground his jaw goes slack.]

Holy shit-

[And it doesn't take him long to gather what things he can find and make his way outside.

Someone may see him jogging through the woods and up the largest hill he can find. When he gets up to the top he's a sweaty mess and he throws his hands into air.]

Aaaaaagh! DRAGO!

[He's convinced he's having the Rocky IV dream again.]

Guilty Party

[This is a less pleasant way to wake up for sure. Johnny's head lulls from side to side as he realizes the situation he's in. There's a brief moment where he pulls on the chains but they don't budge. Before too long he's struggled enough to make the chair shift a little but not much else. He hasn't even realized there's someone else in the room with him.

He just stares up at the ceiling and shouts.]

What the hell is this shit? Too much of a pussy to come out and fight me like a man?

Got chain me up to feel like a real man?

Wildcard

[Feel free to choose your own adventure of hit me up at jjabarrett on plurk to plot something out.]

Arrival

[catsgothistongue]

[Ranma's been mostly trying to mind his own business, focus on the essentials right now. Like where he's at, how he got here, why he's here, who could've brought him here, etc. Because, and this may sound hard to believe, he does not want to waste time out in the snow for days to come, perhaps more. At least the snow doesn't trigger his curse. So that's a silver lining in all this.

Still, it's pretty peaceful out here. Yeah, he's been shanghaied, but when hasn't he or anyone in his life been kidnapped once? But no rivals at his head, no people to drag him into their wacky shenanigans, none of the usual chaos that follow him wherever he goes? He could get used to thiiiiiiii-

-iiiiiiis that man posing like he's just finished some training montage? There goes the peace and quiet. Ranma sighed, cleaning out his ear with a finger before calling out to the older man on the hill from down below.]

Yo! You want to be any louder up there, "Drago"?

[He doesn't watch too many movies or shows outside of martial arts stuff, only occasionally watching things like Power Rangers. He did not get the reference.]

Ranma Saotome | Ranma 1/2

[catsgothistongue]

~I. Arrival~
["You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature's design."

Ranma wanted to roll his eyes as those words burrowed their way into his mind. He's already called a freak and uncivilized by many people, he didn't need... whoever or whatever that was telling him that. The raven-haired pigtailed boy opened his mouth to let out some snarky comment...

... Only to realize that A. He's laying face down in the snow. And B. Said snow just got into his mouth when he opened it. He pushed himself up out of the snow with a holler, spitting it out with an audible "ptooey!" or three or four, complete with scratching his tongue for good measure. It wasn't the worst way to wake up, he's had plenty of worse, but... That didn't change the fact that he wasn't in his room at the dojo. In fact, this didn't look anywhere like Nerima! Snow, snow, snow as far as the eye can see! His trained ears could pick up the howls of wolves off in the distance, and given that it was cold as hell just standing here, Ranma had one thing on his mind: Find shelter.

Cold environments weren't an oddity to the martial artist. He's faced plenty of bad winters while he and his pop were still trekking around the world training. Only this time, even as scarce as they might've been all those years ago, he still had some shelter or supplies. Right now, he's got nothing but the clothes on his back. How did he get all the way out here? A question that crossed his mind numerous of times while running through the snow. Yet that didn't concern him at the moment, he only wanted to find warmth or a town.

Should he not have run into someone (quite literally knowing him), he'd eventually spot signs of smoke far off in the distance along with that rusted sign "MILTON, POP. 947”. Perfect. Civilization! That motivated Ranma enough to keep pushing through the brumal breeze and the frigid air until finally making it to what he could only assume was a mining town. He isn't going to complain, long as one of these buildings have warmth, food and answers to where the hell he is!

The community hall seemed like the natural place to head to once Ranma tracked down the rising smoke trail from it. He waited and waited and waited, until finally the doors let him inside. Boy, he's only been out here for... an indeterminate amount of time given he was taking a dirt nap face down in the snow for who knows how long, but feeling warmth on his skin, pricking away any forming frostbite was simply revitalizing. And the food? Oh man, the moment he smelt it, the Saotome boy rushed over to the feast and began wolfing down whatever's put in front of him like he hadn't eaten in months.

It's a bit messy and undignified...]

~II. Guilty Party~ (TW: Slight emeto mention)
[The pungent smell of metal rotted wood jolted the martial artist out of his forced slumber. He would've complained something about getting knocked out so much, had he not realized he was shackled and bind to some chair in a dreary cellar. The overwhelming stench of rustic blood hit him next, and while the scent wasn't unfamiliar with how some of his serious battles can be a bit messy, the sheer quantity of it was enough to twist his gut and made him choke down his lunch.

"Focus," he ordered himself to mentally. First things first: Break out. Ranma kicked and squirmed, trying to rip himself from the shackles keeping him there. Normally not an issue for him... Except, that wasn't what was happening. He could barely budge! What the hell is... Are these things enchanted or something, or...

The thought wouldn't be able to linger much, for Ranma's blue eyes darted around the room, spotting more individuals. One of whom appeared to be in the same sticky predicament as him. The others? Definitely the perpetrator behind this.]

Alright, very funny. Now are you going to untie me and let me go, or do I have to break out of this myself and kick your sorry butts?

[...

The latter, it seems.

Unfortunately for him, the cloaked figure in the mask didn't look all that fazed by his declaration, only showing off the sharp sickle that glint in the light. Maybe it's just him being far, FAR too used to having weapons pointed at him, Ranma didn't show any worry or concern. It was almost close to apathy, which quickly gave way to a stupefied "Eh?" once the figure's behest of confession was heard. Hell of a way to get someone to repent for their sins...

Ranma doesn't even know what they want him to confess to! The pigtailed boy sat in deep thought, nodding his head as he tried to think of something. And... he's got nothing. So with an all too casual timbre to his voice given their circumstance, Ranma turned to his fellow interloper and simply asked--]

You come around here often?

[It was his attempt to lighten the rather grim situation for the other, an icebreaker [pun not intended], and give himself time to think of whatever horrible thing he did to end up here.]

~III. Off the Beaten Track~

[Ranma's beginning to rethink the saying "every dog has its day" as he laid in the muddy ditch he now resided in.

A moment ago, he was doing just peachy. Well, as peachy as he could in this tundra. He's been exploring the town and the area he was in, refamiliarizing himself with the environment. Maybe he wondered a bit too far off the safe points, but when has a little adventure ever killed anyone? Ranma was confident enough that whatever might be out here, he could handle just fine.

Apparently what that "whatever" was turned out to be a dog, barking and crunching the snow with its paws. Least it wasn't a wolf or a cat, Ranma kept to himself as he stared at the black coated canine. Did someone lose their dog? A stray? Either way, Ranma began whistling and calling out to the dog, wanting it to come to him. It did with a wagging tail behind it, letting the martial artist stroke its soft coat. He wasn't much of an animal person, and given his life before settling down in Nerima, he could never own pets. It was almost nice, relaxing petting its fur.

That's where things began to snowball, starting with the dog tugging on Ranma's sleeve.]

Hey, stop that! You're gonna tear it-

[This dog's got some strength to it, only letting go after a couple of seconds, pointing off in some direction. Ranma may not be good with animals, but he can pick up some signs.]

You want to show me something boy? Or girl?

[He doesn't know. It didn't matter, since the dog ran off on him. Usually that sixth sense of his would tell him that following dogs into some neck of the woods where you hadn't explored yet might not be the smartest idea.

... Though to be honest, even if it was there still, Ranma's more of a leap first, think later kind of guy. Hence why he's booking it after the running canine without even considering that maybe this wasn't going to end well. To make a long story short, this came back to bite him in the butt when he found himself careening off off a cliff into a miry ditch below. He wasn't badly hurt, just a few scrapes and scratches here and there, he's walked off worse things. But...

Whoever may be walking down this path may be enjoying some nice and quiet time to themselves. Said quiet time is disrupted by the loud voice yelling from a nearby ditch:]

YOU STUPID, MANGY, FLEA-RIDDEN MUTT! I GAVE YOU PETS, YOU ACTUAL BITCH!!!

[... yeah, he might be a little bitter about being screwed over by some pooch.]

~IV. Wild Card~
[hit me up if you've got any ideas. Feel free to PM this account or wahoothis (Plurk's the same)]

III

[solitarysoul]

[He wasn't quite enjoying the quiet time to himself, but the sudden shouting was a shock anyway. Levi follows the voice, stopping at the edge of the ditch and peeking down at Ranma.]

...are you okay?

[Ugh, what a stupid question to ask, why would he say that.]

Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca | Better Call Saul

[salamanca]

ARRIVAL
(cw: early stages of frostbite, early stages of hypothermia, minor injury

[ You're not sure how, or maybe you are; maybe you went out here looking for newcomers, or maybe you are a newcomer yourself, suddenly dropped into the forest with no explanation.

No matter how you got here, it doesn't take long for you to come across a man, Latino, early-to-mid 40s, with dark hair and white-gray streak. He is categorically not dressed for this weather, in a white-and-blue button-down and jeans, and if you get closer, you can see his fingers are red and he's shivering.

He shoots you a smile when he sees you, but it's shaky. He's shivering. ]

¡Hola! [ He's nursing an ankle. Rubbing it with his hands, before occasionally stopping to blow on his reddened fingers. His voice is oddly cheery for the situation, but it's also understandably strained. As you approach, he winces. It looks like his ankle might be twisted. He calls out hopefully, and with almost eerie cheerfulness considering the situation: ]

Sorry to bother you! Little help? I don't know what happened. Think I slipped and fell. OOF! [ He laughs, and mimes someone walking along and then suddenly crashing with a hand.

If you have any medical knowledge, as you get closer, you'll see it looks like his ankle is twisted. ]

---

GUILTY PARTY (PART UNO): YOU CONFESS
[ Finding himself chained up in a room, reeking of the iron tang of blood, is a possibility that has always existed for Lalo, in a way that it doesn't for most people. This isn't how he thought that would go down, though. There's somebody else here, too. Somebody he doesn't recognize.

He forces himself to stay calm and still, to not revolt against the chains, despite the instincts that tell him to. He can feel their heaviness, weighing on him, and he imagines the other person feels it too. He can see it on their face: they're surprised, maybe even frightened. They probably don't treat being kidnapped like it's something that happens everyday. But there's something about them; maybe it's in their face or their body language or their eyes, maybe they hide it well but sheer instinct tells Lalo what he needs to do.

They want to speak. No, they need to. This is someone burdened by guilt. Haunted by something they've done. In a gentle, encouraging tone: ]

Go on. I'm listening. I promise, no matter what you say, I won't judge. [ He means it. What could they say that would shock him, of all people? ]

---

GUILTY PARTY (PART DOS): HE CONFESSES
(cw: may contains references to: drug use, drug trafficking, murder, violence, torture.)

[ Welcome to Red Flag City, population: you. It's not just the weird presence, either, or the haunting green light you're bathed in that emanates from behind the presence's stone mask.

The other Interloper trapped with is... well. Let's just that he's strangely calm, almost eerily so, considering the situation, like he's done this before, many times. He looks you over with a gaze that's curious and friendly, but there's something sharp and smart behind his eyes.

Lalo heaves a deep breath, or tries to. The chains tightly lapping over his chest make it a little difficult to even breathe. He fixes the person across from him, also bound in chains, with a cheery smile. He can already tell by looking at them, observing their body language - they're closed off. Not gonna say shit.

Lalo's main thought is that he hopes this isn't an elaborate plan to use whatever he says against him in a court of law somewhere.

He gives you a little nod, a faint bob of his head, like he's conceding something. ]

Don't worry about it. [ He says; his way of conveying: You don't need to. ] I'll go.

[ It's all he can do not to laugh. Where does he even start? 'I've seen the wickedness in you'... yeah, you and everybody else he's crossed paths with, Weird Jackal Man. You ain't special. Lalo continues on anyway. First, before he confesses, he needs to know... ]

How strong is your stomach?

guilty party (part dos)

[flanerie]

[ The blond man seated across from Lalo is still, his features arranged in a semblance of calm. Only an insightful observer, one perhaps familiar with such seeming appearances, would perceive the seething outrage leashed in his uncannily blue eyes. He is certainly not one yearning for the absolution of confession.

Lalo's offer mollifies. Lestat breaks into a smile of his own, showing the barest glimpse of his teeth, and inclines his head in gracious acknowledgement. The masked other might as well not be present for all the heed Lestat pays them, which is a deliberate (if likely wasted) snub. ]

Surpassingly.

[ His French accent is marked, but not overpowering. He leans forward very slightly, openly intrigued. It seems only polite to be an attentive audience. ]

adrienne peters ★ original

[pathologise]

★ arrival

( her head hurts, though it's not the worst complaint that adrienne would currently have. waking up in a cave was certainly not where she'd gone to sleep, her skin feeling chilled from the cold of the ground, the tee and shorts she'd worn to bed doing very little to help her out. though she looks out of the cave it feels even more unappealing outside -- freezing temperatures and the snow?

but what are her options, stay in a cave and freeze or hope that wherever this cave is isn't too far away from someone that might help?

there's no winning in this situation and steeling herself she makes her way out of the cave hoping that she's going in the right direction -- hoping she won't just fall into the snow and die )

★ guilty party

( she hasn't even been drunk the previous night... not that drunk, so to find herself kidnapped for a second time and chained up? well, at least this time she had proper clothes on, it was the only winning point this situation had. as she looks around the room adrienne can't even be certain that she knows the person that she's with, surprised by the amount of blood around them even if she doesn't immediately recoil at its sight )

What the fuck is this?

( though even if the other person answers the question gets answered pretty quickly by the other voice. and this-- this part seems more frightening than the general scenario. confess. wickedness. even if adrienne wouldn't deny it-- she's not just giving up herself )

★ wildcard
i'm happy for something else during the feast when she's been brought into town (and maybe clothed??) or general town look-abouty-ness.

Guilty Party 🎉🎉🎉

[catsgothistongue]

[The figure sitting across from Adrienne had been awake for a few minutes now, his previous attempts to break his cuffs proving to be ineffective. So he sat there calmly. A bit too blasé given the masked individual toting a sickle around going on and on about 'wickedness within' and 'confess'. He was starting to get really sick of hearing the same thing being repeated over and over and over that the other 'Interloper' waking up across from him was a blessing in this trying times.

... Of course, that calm quickly subsided when it hit Ranma that he's not the only one they're doing this too. The acrid aroma of blood all around them really should've been the dead giveaway. He's fine with people threatening his life, he's been used to it all his life to the point it's no longer a big deal. But threatening innocents? That was crossing a line. It made him all the more pissed he couldn't bust out of the chair and plant his foot in the masked figure's face. For now? He's going to have to play this smart to not get himself or the older woman across from him killed.]

A small game of truth or die, from what Jacky-- [Tilting his head to the sickle wielding psycho in the jackal mask] --here's saying.

[Is it smart to snark at your captor? No. Is Ranma going to anyway? Yep.]

Are you alright, miss...?

[Besides the obvious factor of being cuffed to a chair with the threat of a sickle slashing their throats imminent. He's still going to ask anyway.]

The Biologist / Southern Reach (book trilogy)

[x12a]

( ooc note: There are no real icons on this account due to there being like four entire fanarts for this canon. I'll add icons but they take time to draw! also note 2: the black device does nothing. its canonical function is to look sus. )

1: OBSERVATION (arrival)

[ What the Biologist notes, on waking:

- Temperature. No way of knowing what date it really is, thanks to the organization's "orientation". At a guess, it's late spring, early summer. Nothing like this impossible cold.
- Flora. Nothing unusual about the dry grass, or the powdery dirt underfoot, or the other scrubby plantlife in her surroundings. Characteristic of boreal climates? Nothing like the northeastern coastline she arrived from.
- The stiffness of her shoulder, where she'd been shot. Hard to tell from the cold numbing her senses, but something feels different.
- The silence. It's more than the lack of noise. There's an absence, a lack of presence that she can't put her finger on. ]

[ To an outside observer: In the middle of a plain, there's a tall, heavyset human crouched on the ground. She's dressed like a field researcher, with dried blood spattering her shoulder and side, though she doesn't look like she's actively bleeding. She doesn't exactly look military, with no insignas or weaponry (besides a black device with a red lens attached to the belt), but not exactly civilian, either. ]

[ If undisturbed, she just... stays still for an uncomfortably long time, simply observing; more like a wild animal frozen in place than a human. If approached, however, she jolts into motion, backpedalling and reaching for a nonexistent gun at her belt, her hand clutching at empty air. ]

Who is... [ Her voice comes out in a dry croak, like she's lost her voice. ] How did you pass the barrier?

2: HYPOTHESES (off the beaten track) (cw: examination of a corpse)

[ Milton isn't exactly a major municipality, but even the presence of a few dozen people is like nails on a chalkboard. Volunteering to forage in the wilderness isn't just out of the good of her heart. She ventures out on her own — at the sound of distant barking, her first instinct is to give it a wide berth: If it's a feral dog or an abandoned pet, she knows they're too unpredictable to handle alone. ]

[ Then she finds a piece of Milton left out in the woods. So to speak. ]

[ It's a corpse, lying a few yards away from the forest path. Legs twisted, as if broken or sprained. Clothes are torn and filthy. Maybe a day or two old, but with the subzero temperatures, who could really say? Anyone else coming down this path will find her kneeling by the body; her expression is hard to read even in the best of times, and she's certainly a closed book, now. ]

Keep your distance. [ A hypocrisy, coming from her. By way of explanation, the Biologist holds up a gloved hand: ] Not all microbes die in cold.

… death by exposure, if I were to speculate. They were unable to walk, and tried to crawl home. If there's wolves in the area as they say, it's curious they haven't touched the cadaver… [ She pauses (for her, three sentences in a row is an extended speech), then adds carefully: ] Recognize them?

1

[solitarysoul]

[Oh. Until she talked Levi hadn't been sure that this person was alive. Or even a person and not just some strange rock formation or animal. When she does speak, though, he takes a step back and holds his hands up. He's got a rifle slung over his back, but his hands are empty.]

S-sorry...There's a barrier?

Jack Kline-Winchester | SPN | OTA

[dimensionalcanopener]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
cw: early stages of hypothermia
[Jack wasn't exactly pulled from a convenient time. One moment he's not human and this shouldn't even bother him, the next he wakes up in a frigid hellscape, in just a t-shirt and jeans. He pulls his arms around himself and starts moving forward.

He looks for anything, anyone, a place to get out of the cold.

Jack even pauses to call out at some points, hoping to see anyone else who might know where to go. Or at least get warmer clothes.]

Anyone out here? Anyone?

[He might get lucky. Or he might end up falling into a snowbank, further covered in icy snow. He's not a fan, he decides.]

[He does, eventually, make it to a place with warmth and food, whether he is still alone or not. He might lose the people he arrived with when he enters. Jack wastes no time in grabbing for a warm drink and some fish. If he sees anyone, he doesn't hesitate to talk, either, starting with a greeting.]

Hi. What did Methuselah mean by lights? Changing things? What things are they changing? I feel very changed.


OFF THE BEATEN TRACK
cw: possible death
[The worst part about all of the snow - aside from the cold, which he has clothing for now, at least - it's disorienting and everything starts to look the same to Jack. He is out foraging when he hears - ] A dog?

[If anyone else is around, now would be the time to advise he not follow.]

[But Jack can't seem to help himself. He's curious as he trudges through the snow, kicking it up at certain places, going faster to catch up with the barking. It's inevitable this would end in disaster. But it doesn't have to end with death.]

Option A
[Jack feels snow fall from under his shoes, hears it, and stops short, just before the edge of a cliff. When he looks down, he seems another individual hanging on the ledge, or perhaps on a section just below. He lowers down.]

Are you okay down there? Need help? [He offers out his hand to help them up, without hesitation.]

Option B
[He doesn't catch himself in time, not before his feet slip over the edge. Jack does manage to twist himself around and get his hands somewhere in the snow, barely holding on, possibly to some long dead tree roots that won't hold for long. He will need assistance.]

Help! I'm...well, I'm not quite over the cliff yet, but I almost am. [No, the specifics are not necessary right now, but Jack is careful with his words, even in this situation.]

Option C
[He wasn't the only one following the dog, and he and another reach the cliff at the same time. Jack figures it out and reaches out for the other person. The question is, was he in time to save them, or will they both fall?]


Wildcard - always up for something else if you have something in mind! And will do Guilty Party prompts, but mostly tagging out for that.


[ooc: Will do prose or action brackets. Will follow. Feel free to discuss ideas with this journal, on plurk metaljean, or discord: midnightcat]

Feast

[catsgothistongue]

Wazzat?

[People tell him time and again not to speak with his mouth full. Most of the time, he doesn't listen. Buuuut he's being asked something, so Ranma had some courtesy to swallow whatever he had in his mouth to answer Jack's question. He mulled over the question, crossing his arms behind his head while he thinks.]

Your guess is as good as mine. I mean, I don't feel any different than I normally do. I guess I was a lot slower and sluggish feeling while running here. That's about it. Haven't had to fight anyone or anything yet, so I don't know for sure if anything's changed.

[He hopes not. His body's been fucked with countless of times already, from magical curses to losing his strength and becoming weaker than a toddler.

Ranma did stop to take a brief glance at himself for anything off. So far, nothing seemed weird. No weird markings, recent wounds, nothing.]

What about you? What feels off?

Henry Collins | AMC's The Terror | gently voicetesting..

[demerge]

⚓ arrival / off the beaten track
cw: drugs, drug-induced euphoria, minor injury

[ What sights—! And sounds—! Fantastical as they dance before him, he barely notices the voice that hisses deep in his ear: You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design. He does know how he comes to find himself on his back in the snow, but he doesn't linger long, clambering to his feet and staring wildly, slack-jawed as the quiet woods before him.

He reaches for a tree, brushes his hand upon the bark and marvels: it is real. Laughter erupts from him, manic and delighted. His feet carry him forth, from tree to tree as he stumbles through — each one feeling more and more real beneath his fingers. The laughter follows, and he calls out into the woods — bellowing and shrieking into the hush. What is this place? Where is the fog, the desolate rocky scene that stretches out far beyond camp? ... Where is camp? Could this be somewhere new? Or some distant memory, shaped by fantasy?

A dog's bark pulls him from the thoughts, and before she knows it he's accosted by some huge, black mongrel. There's no fear in him, and he laughs as the dog gives chase, looping around him as he tries to catch it. It means for him to follow it, and follow he does — crashing through the snowy, marsh undergrowth — calling after it: heel—! heel, boy—!

But the ground is uneven, uncertain. If gives way beneath his boots and something twists painfully as he falls. He yelps, toppling heavily to come face down in the snow and earth. There's a silence for a long moment and he lies there in some stunned quiet, some distant, dull throb in his ankle. The mongrel now nowhere to be seen.

... Until the chuckling comes, as if it were upon the wind. Collins rolls onto his back, replying with a laugh of his own. ]

⚓ methuselah's feast
cw: drug-withdrawal/comedown; themes of starvation/cannibalism

[ By the time he finds himself in the Hall, he is a sick and shaking mess. The wine of coca's effects have subsided, the numbing joy slipping away into something far sharper. His ankle throbs still; not broken, at least. Sweat beads at his forehead, his eyes still wide and anxious as he gazes about the room. His hands twist and fidget in his lap as he sits. The heat is pleasant, but even the most terrible of fires make for pleasant heat.

There are so many faces he does not know. All of them, perhaps. These are not the men of Erebus and Terror. And women, too. He cannot say what this is. Every so often, he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, as if opening once more might find him in some other place. Has the trapdoor opened and pulled him through? Is this his own mind's torment? The warmth and safety of shelter?

And... food. Grilled, charred meats on the tables. Stew and soup. Is it game? Or.... some other kind of meat...? Is this also here to torment him? His mouth waters, his stomach gurgles in protest. He knows horrible from supper, he does. But now? How can he be sure? Could his nose and stomach has won over his mind? He does not know if he can trust it. He dare not approach the table.

He wants to cry out, to weep. But he is silent, uttering a shaky breath as his head bows. There are no means to distract himself, and he finds himself at a loss. ]

Arrival + Off the Beaten Track

[catsgothistongue]

[Although Ranma wanted to stay at the community hall, he decided to venture out of the town and into the snowy land. After all, from what he's heard and saw at the feast, he's not the only one getting plucked from where he was and dropped off here. Not everyone is prepared for the harsh winters, nor how to traverse through them. It's his duty as a martial artist to help and protect people from anything!

Which was why the sounds of laughter coming from a nearby ditch drawn him in to look over.]

Yo! You alright down there? Need a hand?

[He called out to the man down below, getting on a knee to get a better look.]

Ruby Rose | RWBY

[guidemyway]

Arrival

[For having spent the last few months of her life in a tundra, Ruby had never felt so unprepared for the cold. Something had been off since she had woken up here, her aura wouldn't activate regardless of how hard she had tried. It didn't only protect her from damage in battle, but helped fend off the extreme heat and cold.

So like any teenager, she was handling this like a champ.

She sees the trail of smoke from outside of town, and can be found running down the path toward Milton with her cloak and arms wrapped tightly around her. Teeth chattering loudly.]

Cold, cold, cold! Why is it so freakin' cold!

[And in her rush she misses a patch of ice and slips, falling flat on her butt. Don't mind her as she flops over on the ground to look up at the sky.]

This sucks.

Guilty Party

[There's an air of calm beyond her years when Ruby wakes up to find herself chained to the chair. She flexes lightly to test the bonds and she's not really a fan of the results. She shifts her head around and catches sight of the other captive in the room. She makes a little jingle of the chains on her wrists to try and get their attention.]

Hey. Hey. You okay over there?

Off The Beaten Track

Oh? Who's a good boy!? It's you! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!

[Ruby had grown up with a dog and various other critters running around her home, this one seemed friendly enough and she was more than happy to indulge it in pets, and a little chase for fun.

But when it bolted off in a more leading way, a pit of worry started to form in her gut and she quickly moved to follow along behind it. She was athletic and fast and keeping up through the messy path hadn't been hard off the start. But without her abilities she finds herself getting tired a touch faster than she's used to. Eventually she does slip up and catch her foot on an exposed root and before she knows it she's tumbling and rolling into a trench she hadn't been expecting.

There's a groan and she slowly tries to pull herself up to her feet but there's a stinging pain in her ankle that gets her to give up on that fairly quick. Great. Just great.]

Wild Card

[Feel free to choose your own adventure or hit me up at jjabarrett on plurk for further plotting!]

Arrival

[catsgothistongue]

Preaching to the choir there.

[A shadow casted over the girl as another teenager casually looked down at her. He had been exploring the outside area and searching for fellow newcomers, see if they need any help. And right now, he just caught the moment Ruby slipped on the ice. And if you think he's not going to bring it up...]

It'd be a lot less colder if you got out of the snow and quit making snow angels.

[... You're giving him way too much credit. He does have some courtesy to offer a hand to help her up.]

Sebastian Moran | The Hound of the D'Urbervilles

[tigers]

🐅 Arrival/Off the Beaten Track CW: threat of animal death THE DOG ISN’T DYING I SWEAR

[ Something about this is Moriarty’s doing, no doubt, or Hell has finally managed to snag its newest denizen. Moran is not stranger to coming to in out of the ordinarily places, but this time, he awakes in confusion sheerly because nothing is out of place. He checks himself over—not stabbed, shot, clawed, or pummeled. Two eyes, ten fingers, four limbs. Wallet and guns still firmly in place, mind and eyes clear. No new scars, no new wounds.

But it’s cold, colder than London has any right to be, and the dusty cabin he’s found himself in is certainly not his rooms on Conduit Street—and then there’s the voice to consider. ’”You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.”

Had it been Moriarty’s voice? There was none of that reedy, schoolmaster quality to it, but if you ask Moran, this still has Moriarty’s fingerprints all over it, and he isn’t particularly happy about that. But it’s fine. He’s seen worse frozen wastelands. He survived the Himalayas in sub-zero temperatures, all while hanging from an icy cliff. This may as well be a walk in the park.

Despite being poorly dressed for the weather, he walks himself towards town, walks himself until he hears the barking of a dog. Friendly enough, but Moran knows better. If it has teeth and claws, it can kill. He’s kind enough to ignore the creature until it makes a grab for his trouser leg. That’s when the gun comes up, and gets pointed right at the poor creature. ]


🐅 Guilty Party

[ Moran knows the scent of blood well. Truth be told, it’s so commonplace for him that it’s little more than wind in the trees to him now. It’s something he’s come across so often, his stomach doesn’t so much as quiver at a whiff of that dry, metallic smell.

Wickedness lies within you, the voice whispers, and Moran can only look amused, cocking his head as an eerie sort of calm comes over him. Yes, it does. He’s a wholly wicked man, and he’s never tried particularly hard to hide it, but a chestful of medals and being in mention in the dispatches carries enough weight to it that no one really sees much else. ]

My heart isn’t feeling particularly burdened today, chums, but there’s no need for these theatrics.

[ They never bother asking first, he thinks, rolling his eyes and making a show of shaking his chains. ]

So, dear little friend of the world, what would you like to hear about first? The Oxford days, or shall we skip ahead to more recent events?


🐅 Wildcard

[ Whatever! Surprised me or catch me over at muttonchops ]

Arrival/Off The Beaten Track!

[salamanca]

[ It's lucky - for the dog, probably, more than Moran - that Lalo appears. Almost not unlike a spirit himself, he slides out from the trees, his tall silhouette coming into view as he approaches.

He whistles, patting his knees until the dog runs to him, and kneels down to play with it, ruffling its floppy ears and cooing at it.

Then he stands up, turning his attention to Moran. He smiles gamely, and waves. ]

Hello! Are you lost?

[ It's not especially difficult to notice he has a bit of a limp when he walks, like some kind of a twisted ankle. He's either not trying to hide it or just not doing a very good job of hiding it.

He is very, very, very cheerful. The dog hops around him playfully and barks, like it's trying to re-attract Lalo's attention, or possibly Moran's. But for the moment Lalo's focus remains on the other man, his gaze lively and curious. ]

Tim Drake • DC Comics

[ployboy]

Arrival, Days 01 - 0? cw injuries, maybe some manipulation, maybe paranoia, descriptions of depression

• [He's ditched his companion at some point, having made it to the community hall in one piece. There's a wily edge to his every movement now that he's in a crowd-- crowd used very loosely to describe the unfortunate others who are gathered at the banquet. It takes him no time at all to want to hoard the heat of the fire, and he has enough brain left to peel his shoes and socks off to dry. He's given a blanket at some point by that old man who seems to be everyone's savior.

...and he doesn't know when he nods off to sleep, knees drawn up tight against his chest, a little ball of regret and big-city futility. Somebody kick him.]

• [The feast ongoing, and having finally eaten, Tim surrenders to the need to wander once more. He holds the blanket close, each step away from the main room ushering in more of that bitter cold that wants to make his bones ache.

He stops in front of a popcorn machine, pondering his (in)sanity. It's a popcorn machine in the middle of this frosty dystopia. It's his popcorn machine in the middle of this frosty dystopia. Because of course it freaking is.

Tim reaches his one good hand, his left hand, and lips parted in solemn wonder, he reaches for the plain metal bo staff propped against it.]

• [He needs two things: a place to sleep, and something to guarantee he won't freeze to death as he does. So Tim can be found rustling through shops, feeling guilty over wanting to take a fleece throw blanket or some such. He's not used to not paying, and it shows. Painfully so.

Like a dog with a nose for trouble, he might even make an entry into an already inhabited home. Locked doors, boarded windows? Even with a broken arm, it's no biggie.]

The Lion, The Witch (Days 07 - 0?) cw injuries, maybe paranoia, mention of death and animal deaths
• [There's food on the table and that's all Tim concerns himself with for a solid stretch of time. It's not even anything personal, or anything to do with the Winter Wonderland. Tim just always eats like the sentient garbage disposal he is-- when he can, anyway.

Anyway, he doesn't think he's met the person across from him. And the first thing that comes to mind, to prove to himself and hopefully others that he's no stranger to communal living is,] So, like. Where's the chore wheel? [--my god, he's serious.]

• [Tim stares at the Bulletin Board. It stares back.

He thinks about,
IT HAS BEEN __0__ DAYS SINCE TIM DRAKE HAS BROKEN HIS ARM
but that would be dumb. Funny (to him), but dumb. Dumb like he is, because he's broken his arm again, and that's just.

Like, damn, dude.

Tim returns later with a poorly scribbled note, and he pins it.]
BRING BACK RABBITS (ALIVE) TO [the... address? directions? to his humble abode is next. And next to that is a toddlerish drawing of (One bunny + One bunny = Two smaller bunnies). Because he's a goddamn genius, that's why.]

The Audacity of this Bitch (Guilty Party) cw threats of self harm, possible actual self harm, death mentions, suicidal thoughts

[He stares at that sickle the way a bull does a red flag. There's a twitch of his jaw... he runs his tongue over his molars and then his front teeth.

He made an oath and his journey here has been paved by too many bodies. Too many bodies. Too many tombstones, funerals and fire.

Tim had been-- fine. With falling.

This wouldn't be so different.

But the other prisoner here... will they save themselves, or should Tim...? He shouldn't even be wondering if he should try, but here he is, and there's a silent rage at the very thought.]

[[wheeze....... want to plot something?? Hit me at Fourboars on plurk, pm, and we'll talk it out!!]]

Guilty Party

[guidemyway]

[Ruby's silver eyes passed cautiously between Tim, the figure that was holding them captive and the sickle. ...It felt like an odd sort of roll reversal to have someone threatening her with something like that.

She was used to being caught up in life or death situations, but there something about how quiet Tim was being that unsettled her about the whole thing. ...Dying wasn't something that really bothered her, but she had a calling. And she wasn't about to let someone else get hurt if there was something she could do.

And while he options were limited she was going to give it a try.]

Hey- Why forget about him. If you're going to get all stabby on someone- Why not start with me?

[And then she looks to Tim and mouths "Do it." if anyone should be getting out of here alive. It should probably be him.]

Max Mayfield | Stranger Things | OTA | Voice Testing

[madginger]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
cw: vague mention of (not) death and bone breaking
Max doesn't realize she's still alive, not at first. The last thing she remembers is her whole body being contorted, then darkness. Before she wakes up in blinding white, alone. Everything seems to ache, but as far as she can tell, her body is whole. She might have been asleep while healing for a while, now, seeing as her bones seem to dislike the cold more than she recalls before the incident with Vecna.

"Hello?" she shouts out. When there's no response, she huddles her arms around, shivers, and thinks out loud, "Yeah. Makes sense Hell would be lonely and very cold."

She really thinks it might be Hell, at first, until she finds the lights. Max is pretty sure, in Hell, she would see lights but never be able to get to them. They do get closer, and finally, she is in a place that is at least warmer, with a lot of warm food.

"So not Hell," she mutters under her breath as she settles at a table.

Anyone might have heard that and could ask, but she has questions of her own.

"Why would anyone just give us free food? Is there a catch? Is something wrong with it?"

Or, perhaps, something is expected of them in return? If she eats this, does she have to do something unsavory? Max thinks all of this over while she stars at a piece of charred meat with wide eyes, hesitant, but hungry all the same.


GUILTY PARTY
cw: vague mention of death, cussing
The hooded figure shouts. Combined with the green light, the accusations of wickedness make an all too familiar scene, to the point Max feels her stomach turn with stress and memories. She gnaws the inside of her mouth until finally -

Her own scream, calling out Billy's name echos in her mind. She knows exactly what to say. And she deserves the judgement, doesn't she? She knows she does. Max hasn't even noticed the other person in the room, hasn't given them a proper look, but let them hear this. Let them think whatever they want. She deserves it.

"I -" her voice catches in her throat, and Max has to swallow as her eyes start to burn. Even after admitting this before, and even after how long it's been since Billy's death, it still feels like part of her is being ripped apart. Such a lost opportunity for two broken people.

"I never really gave him a chance," she finally admits. "He wasn't my brother. And we hated each other. Looking back, though, I don't think I gave him the chance to be better. I saw him as a bully. An asshole. And he was." But he apologized at the end, didn't he?

She closes her eyes.

"Maybe that's the worst part. Not that I stood there and did nothing to save him. Not that I felt relief for a little bit. But that I never even gave him a chance to be anything more than that."

Maybe also she's blaming herself for more credit than she really had in the matter, but it's still the truth. She still feels it in her heart.


Wildcard; totally willing to do some follow a dog and get super lost in the snow adventures!

[OOC: Will do [, (, past, present, prose, whichever is most comfortable - I will follow. Feel free to contact me on plurk metaljean, on this journal, or discord midknightcat to discuss ideas.]

arrival!

[fidior]

Edward has been a victim of this place for a few months, now. And when newcomers begin to arrive, he sets out into the snow to seek out any who may need assistance finding their way to the town. Several hours pass this way, with the lieutenant helping people in and then heading back out. He doesn't let himself rest, not for long.

But eventually his bones are so weary that he's a bit dizzy, and the cold has drained his energy. He needs to recharge, however reluctant he may be to stop searching. He'll only rest for a few moments, he reminds himself, and so he heads back to the warmth of the Community Hall, finds a cup of hot coffee and begins to seek out a place to sit for a few moments when he spots a young-looking girl on her own.

He's certainly not seen her around here before, clearly the girl is new — and Edward finds himself moving towards her, brow knit with concern. He settles in across from her, gloved hands carefully setting his mug down, and then reaching up to remove his officer's cap and set it down on a seat beside him, mindful of his manners despite everything. He has to cling onto those, to who he once was. To who he still must be.

When the man speaks, his voice is richly-toned, formal, and Very British.

"I understand all of this must raise much suspicion. When I first arrived here, I was also wary of it, but the food is quite safe. There is nothing required in return for it."

millions knives | trigun: maximum

[brutalact]

[ methuselah's feast ]

[ a - getting there ]

[when he opens the door of the dilapidated cabin, the sight of snow greets him like a punch to the gut. desolate white blankets the world around him, such a stark contrast to the planet of heat and sand and not much else he'd come from before he'd opened his eyes. the only logical conclusion he can come to is that this must be death. no warmth to tinge his skin, nor sun to bake the sand beneath him into glass and stone, and he is alone here. even without his abilities to aid him, knives can tell there is no one around this little cabin to greet him. it's almost a relief, even as he is faced with sensations of cold he hadn't felt since his first year of life wandering the cyrosleep pods.

there is no jacket to warm him here like the one he wore in his youth, but knives makes do with fashioning the threadbare blanket left behind on the bed he'd awoken on into a hooded cloak. the boots he finds tossed haphazardly beneath the bed are worn thin, but he knows better than to try and venture into snow barefoot. even in death he can feel the chill right down to the bone, cooing threateningly to let down his guard and fall back asleep in its icy embrace. it is tempting, but despite the exhaustion that hangs heavy in his limbs he finds his legs moving of their own accord. perhaps this would be his punishment, no peace allowed for the wicked even in death.

the cold is terrible and the cloak hardly helps, but what really bites are the hidden patches of ice beneath layers of snow right along the path he discovered earlier. of course he slips and falls right on his ass, tumbling into a snow bank that has him cursing colorfully as he tries to knock snow off of his shoulder and pitch-dark hair.]

[ b - feast ]

[whatever he feels when he sees the mining town is stuffed down until he's left feeling absolutely nothing at all. he didn't need help or assistance, not when such things could be given to others who were deserving of such things, but that doesn't erase the yearning to understand exactly what was happening. was this truly some kind of afterlife, a purgatory for the damned, or something entirely different? knives could hope, but that would be a pointless endeavor.

inside the community hall, he's posted himself in the very far corner in the back against a wall, his hood pulled up over his head. there is an untouched plate of food next to his seat, left there by someone who wouldn't take his no for an answer. he's watching the people who arrive, searching for someone he knows he will never see here.]

[ c - wildcard! ]

[got an idea? throw it at me! knives is post-trimax (trigun maximum), so his hair is pitch black :) if you'd like to wildcard feel free to PM this journal here!]

b!!

[amo]

[ Vash has been helping Methuselah prepare from the moment the old man returned to town and now that new people are arriving, Vash continues to help take care of the Newcomers much the same way he'd done when he'd first arrived himself. The only difference this time is that he's taken it upon himself to help with the cooking. He's no stranger to conjuring up feasts. (Even if the last one he made was his largest and only for two, he and Livio had eaten enough for a small army.) Inside the hall, near the warmth of the fire, there's no need to wear the red winter coat he's taken to wearing so instead he's clad in black — a cozy cable knit sweater he's come to favor, fur-lined thigh-high boots and black trousers he couldn't resist adding his numerous belts to — as he flits about the place to and fro, keeping the tables stocked and making sure empty plates are taken away.

He's just come from the kitchen with refilled canisters of soup when he takes a moment to load up a tray with hot drinks after setting the canisters down. With the tray filled, it's finally time to mingle and meet some new faces. When he turns to scan the crowd for anyone who looks like they need a warm drink, his eyes catch on a lone hooded figure in the back. There's something painfully familiar about them, their posture and the way they're holding themselves, but Vash has been seeing traces of the dead in others since he's gotten here. It's just his grief-laden imagination. Still, nosily drawn to people who seclude themselves, he surreptitiously approaches from the side anyway, tray balanced expertly on one hand.

Even up close he still can't see their face, but no matter. He takes note of the untouched plate of food and deems that a good enough hook to latch on to, drawing to a halt with a cheerful: ]

If you're not hungry, can I offer you something to drink instead?

Nebula | Marvel Cinematic Universe

[bluecircuit]

METHUSELAH'S FEAST

Something is wrong. And not only that she's apparently found herself on some backwater planet without even basic technology. There's something wrong with her cybernetics. The parts of her body replaced with machinery which are many appear to be meeting only their most primary requirements but do not seem to be operating optimally. She shouldn't be this cold for one thing. At least she can move and her robotic prosthetics haven't frozen up entirely or she'd certainly die here.

She's not going to rely on the fact that they'll stay that way, so she's quick to move from the cabin and out into the wilderness to somewhere she hopes to find better shelter. The town takes a while to find, so much so that when she finally makes her way into the offered feast, she ignores the welcome and the offered food entirely, instead pushing her way past the host and everyone else to get to the fire. Nebula can't recall ever feeling this way. She didn't love the monster that her father had made her into, but that didn't leave her any less unsettled to find herself suddenly without the familiar hum of her monitoring hardware.

"What is going on here...?" While Nebula is only muttering to herself, someone nearby may be forgiven for thinking she is asking them.


GUILTY PARTY

The threats leave Nebula's lips as soon as she wakes up, snarling and straining against her binds. When the masked figure speaks of wickedness and confession, Nebula laughs out loud. It's not jovial but feral.

"I'll show you wickedness when I'm free of these chains! I'll take that knife and make you swallow it before I kill you." She might not be the same sadistic psychopath that she'd been years before, but her brutal side is far from subsided. If only she could free herself from these chains that have no business being as hard to budge as they are. She can't remember the last time she'd felt this weak, so perhaps her threats are going to remain only that.


OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

"Come back here, you mongrel!" Nebula snarls uselessly from her spot, clinging to the cliff face, with only a small ledge to stand on that keeps her between life and horrible mangled death if the length of that fall is anything to go by.

She tries to find purchase in the stone to climb up but none is forthcoming. And no matter how much she curses at her hands, her cybernetics will not abide her and extend her durasteel claws.

So it's come to this...

"Is there anyone there? I require assistance!" Just don't expect a thank you. Nebula isn't always great at those.

OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

[madginger]

Max isn't the physically strongest person around, but when she hears the cry for help, she runs toward it, instead of away from it. There was a part of that considered it, to run away - she could get help - but no, her feet move and she's there before she knows it.

She too had been following that cursed dog, but lost its trail a while back.

"That mute do this to you?" Max asks as she reaches out an arm to grab for Nebula's hand.

vash the stampede | TRIGUN STAMPEDE

[skelters]

➤ METHUSELAH'S FEAST

[ he remembers falling. he remembers the glint of the blade, the discordant note of the snap, the recoil, the weightlessness followed by the inevitability of all the forces of the air and metal and water closing in on him. he remembers the look in nai's eyes, the name in his mouth. he screams. but instead it reverberates into a choke, a mouthful of snow that he half inhales into his lungs - an aborted little pathetic thing as vash scrambles up into standing from where he is laying face down in a field of white. ]

➤ Y/N/CONTINUE?

[ the snow is a new thing for him - which in itself is novel enough, all things considered - but vash quickly decides that he doesn't like it half as much as the occasional rain that would drench noman's land. it's hard to walk in the snow, too, but in a different way than the sand that would turn underfoot into a sucking mire, and vash keeps finding himself shifting his weight in the uneven frozen land as he would normally used to; he's lost count of how many times he's fallen on his bottom.

the field seems endless. the snowflakes fall into his eyes, into his hair, melting and slipping through the seams of his clothes until he is shivering and clutching at his coat to wrap it tighter around himself, like a cocoon, but it doesn't bring him any relief. but finally, there is something (or someone) in his line of sight that isn't just some endless open nothingness. immediately, as though he hadn't just been looking like he was about to turn into an icicle, vash is going to throw up his arms (one, a bright bottle-green skeletal concoction) and wave frantically, calling out: ] Hello!!! Hi there!!!! Hold on!!!!! I'm not going to hurt you!!!!

[ at this point, you have two options:

1. [ vash will run towards you, a stumbling, awkward blur of red coat and blond hair, until a stray hidden root under the snow catches at his foot and send him sprawling rather spectacularly, sliding at least a few metres face down in a shower of snow and dirt until he comes to a slow, pathetic stop in front of you ]

OR/

2. [ he makes his way miraculously without any root-related accident happening, and immediately starts invading your personal space, taking off his coat and throwing it around your shoulders - or at least, attempting to (barring any resistance on your end). ] How long have you been out here? It's freezing! Here, take this -

➤ FINALLY, ACTUAL FEASTING

[ eventually, like many others, vash will make his way into the town - he is sitting near the middle of the room, close enough to the fire that the bright crackling light glances off the oversized, orange lenses of his glasses every time he looks over, scanning people's faces - but it doesn't look as if he is particularly looking for anyone. he doesn't look as if he's doing it out of any apprehension or nervous fear either, which would be made more obvious when he is constantly moving - jumping up from his seat only to hand over a mug of (untouched) tea that he's been holding to someone else, or to guide them closer to the fire, or else scramble to bring more blankets or bandages or anything that they might need.

maybe you're one of those people, or maybe you're just looking on - just resting like so many others - but when each task is done and people are settled, vash is just going to settle back down to his rather isolated bit of corner, absently rubbing at his upper arms to fend off the cold and hunching in on himself. at the first sign of any eye contact, though, his whole expression will brighten instantly, and vash will wave a friendly, if not slightly tentative, greeting (almost as if he isn't sure if you're actually looking at him), before pointing at the nearest table of food. ]

Hello! Do you need anything? Are you hungry?

➤ GUILTY PARTY potential cws discussed: "child" abuse, science experiments, body mutilation, murder and violence, gaslight gatekeep genocide, etc

[ WICKEDNESS LIES WITHIN YOU. CONFESS.

vash lets out a laugh - or, at least, it's intended to be a laugh - it is more like a wheeze of breathing through lungs constricted by the chains, and he wriggles (ineffectually) in the seat with a chaotic jingle jangle of metal links that almost drown out the rest of the words. for the first time his smile seems too forced, slipping off kilter, strained. ]

Um, I don't really- ow, these are sharp - [ a little whine in his voice ] D'you really have to tie people up like this?

➤ WILDCARDIN'

[ vash is from the end of episode 10 of TRIGUN STAMPEDE. happy to work with any other ideas you have! i got too shy to write more so throwing the rest into this option ... i'm open to shenanigans and vash will get himself into plenty of trouble, so pm me to chat! ]

y/n - one + sum wildcard

[brutalact]

[having left behind the warmth and relative safety of the community hall to wander the snow-trodden roads that unraveled past the mining town, knives welcomed the cold. it was uncomfortable, the chilled winds biting at whatever exposed skin it could touch. he may not be dead, but he could still find penance where he could in these wretched lands. if anything, he could at least lead others lost in the snow towards the town.

a trade off, from one desolation to another. he simply cannot escape this cycle of suffering.

powdery snow gathers across his covered shoulders, dusting the top of his hood. his face is left freezer burnt across his cheeks and the tip of his nose, turning it up at the sound of someone calling out. there isn't even a chance to react beyond simply watching as the poor fool trips over himself, tumbling through snow like something out of a cartoon gag, until they slide to a stop right at his feet. knives sighs, weary worn and heavy, before leaning down to grab a tight handful of that bright red coat by the scruff and lifting the idiot up to his feet in one fluid motion.]

Not very bright, are you?

[there are details that stick out to him as he keeps his grip firm. red coat, blonde hair now sprinkled with snow, and a face that was too familiar -

he is too tired for this.]

wynonna earp – wynonna earp

[pacificator]

.feast.

[ In many ways, this place is an improvement on Purgatory.

No revs coming after her? Check. No Nedley on her ass? Double check. No Dolls refusing to admit he thinks she's funny and also hot? Check check check. It's not even all that different, weatherwise: is she freezing off her better-than-average ass? Yeah. A fire would be great. Food would be better. Hot food would be best. At least she's used to the taste of stewed rabbit and over-extracted coffee.

She sits for a while by the fire, doing her best to pretend she's not searching every new arrival for Waverly's brilliant smile, Doll's broad shoulders, Doc's ever-present hat. It's better that they aren't here, wherever here is; if she's here, maybe the curse is taking a break for as long as she's gone. Peacemaker is tucked cold and still in the side of her boot, the comforting weight of iron there at her calf. That's all she really needs, anyway. Better to be alone.

Once she's warmed up, she goes to check out the town and the empty houses there. The boards of an old deck creak beneath her feet as she pushes open a front door. The hinges squeak, needing oil. ]

Uh, hey? This place taken? Anyone home?

.guilty.

Really? I've gotta do this again?

[ The sickle is a nice touch; definitely much, much scarier than the razor blade the stupid ghost barber had used. She can still feel the sting of it on the skin of her throat. ]

Uh, okay. I cheated on every test from fifth grade on. I was never going to sleep with Evan McKinley, I just wanted access to his parents' liquor cabinet – okay! Okay, okay!

[ She'd blinked, and now that sickle hangs perilously close to her throat. ]

Okay. Take it seriously. I got it. [ She glances over at her companion. ]

Got anything you wanna get off your chest?

.off the beaten track.

[ Xylophobia. It keeps Dolls from wandering the woods that blanket the triangle, at least by himself, but she's never felt it, that pressing, stifling fear of the trees and the shadows and the snow that blankets both.

Not until now, anyway. ]

Stupid dog.

[ Wynonna turns, trying to get her bearings, but it's too cold for moss to grow on the tree trunks and she's gotten all turned around. Lost, a voice whispers, lost in the woods. If she closed her eyes right now, she thinks she'd see Kiersten's cold dead face, her twisted and broken body.

She doesn't close her eyes. ]

Hey! Anyone out here? Maybe someone familiar with finding the cardinal directions without a compass?

.feast.

[kidproof]

[Joel's place is about as far from the thick of the town as he could get, and it's a small wonder nobody's found their way over to bother him yet. It's decently sized, an old farmhouse with an accompanying barn. He hasn't put Callus in the barn yet, it needs more work, and a lot more insulation. Instead, Callus occupies the garage on the lower floor, and Joel leaves a window open when he can but only when he's working outside.

It's no surprise that Joel no longer makes the trip to the schoolhouse most days. He's been working on getting the cooking right on his own and has been doing some hunting when he can but it consists of whatever scarce prey he can dredge up. A lot of it was from using the meat for trapping and the rest from canned goods he'd pilfered from other places in town.

He's got a fire going, and there's a pot on top of it that's barely started to boil. He's up the minute he hears movement on the deck, and he's got his rifle in his hands pointed at the door as she makes her way through.]

I reckon someone is home.

James Holden | The Expanse

[startedawar]

i. methuselah's feast

[ He'd fallen.

Not with the slow descent of a gentle one-third g, but with the breath-taking force he remembers from his childhood in Montana. And, like his childhood in Montana, the snow only sort of breaks the force of his landing. It leaves him on his back in the icy drifts, watching his breath fog above him, feeling the sting of cold – the bone-chilling cold of atmosphere, not the total lack of warmth of hard vacuum, so that's something – against his cheeks. Ice forms on his lashes, splinters stars into his vision.

But the cold will still kill him, even if he has air to breathe; it just won't be as fast as if he'd been spaced. Holden gets to his feet, trying to get used to the grip of a full g pulling down on him, and brushes the snow from his jumpsuit. It's too damn thin for this weather, the word TACHI stenciled across the back, between his shoulders. First order of business: get to shelter. Second: get some food and water. Third: find something to wear that will hopefully keep this world from summarily murdering him.

Fourth: get back to his damn ship.

He trips multiple times on his way into the town, following the tracks of other unfortunates, his arms tucked tight around his chest to keep his body heat from leaking into the atmosphere. He hasn't been planetside in... hell. Years. At one point, he stumbles and almost faceplants, but for windmilling enough to get his hand on a stranger's shoulder. ]

Sorry! Sorry.

[ Inside, his mind goes white for a moment with panic at the sight of an open fire, until he remembers he's not in a fragile bubble of steel and ceramic with an enclosed life-support system. Fire here is okay. Actually, fire here is great.

Even better, there's coffee. He curls his fingers around one hot mug and breathes in the scent, sighing like a lover. He still might die, but: at least he'll have had another cup of coffee before he goes. ]

ii. off the beaten path

No. Absolutely not.

[ He'd grown up hunting; the concept isn't alien to him even though it feels strange as hell. And something he remembers from when his fathers took him out and taught him to read trails, to shoot straight, to mark his path, is that it's just never a good idea to follow a mysterious creature that desperately wants him to come along.

Oh, wait. He'd learned that one later.

Holden looks askance at the dog, jerking away his hand when it tries to tug at the sleeve of his scavanged coat with gleaming teeth. The thing's breath fogs, hot, in the air, and he wishes it were a dog he knew and had trained, because a dog would be pretty damn helpful. If he knew for sure it was helping. ]

Go bother someone else, I'm busy.

the feast —

[rescapee]

[ La'an doesn't spend much time in the hall when there aren't community meals available. Despite the weeks beginning to stretch into months that she's been trapped in this place, she's still keeping most people at arm's length, for their protection as much as her own. For her, it's emotional; whenever they escape this place, she'll never see these people again. For them, it's practical; she can't risk exposing them to future information that might alter their timeline.

So while on a normal day she wouldn't be found in the community hall, today is a 'feast' day and she can't pass up a hot meal she hasn't had to warm up herself on a fire. She's already had a plate while watching a handful of new arrivals trickle in, and now she studies each of them over a steaming cup of coffee. One in particular catches her eye, his reaction to his own mug grabbing her attention.

After a moment, when no one else approaches him, she leaves her spot against the walls and walks to him, sidestepping a few people preoccupied with their own meals. When she reaches him, she asks her question in all seriousness, her expression stoic and expectant. ]

How long were you out there?

A. Rama Raju | RRR

[load_aim_shoot]

ARRIVAL

The venom running fire through his veins almost doesn’t hurt, now. Or maybe he’s only too weak to care. His body’s given out before, but never like this. Never this completely.

It did what it needed to, in the end. Even if the rest of him couldn’t. It’s a shame, or it should be. A lifetime of work. Everyone back home, the old men who’ve known him since he was a child, the mothers who’d always struggled so to sit him down long enough to keep him fed, the boys who had always been jealous and had always, in the end, helped him anyway, Seetha—

They’re all waiting, all hoping and desperate, all needing him, and now they’ll all be waiting forever. It’s almost a shame. It should matter more than the familiar hands broad and warm on him, turning him over, the familiar voice calling to him from some place far away. But it doesn’t. This is what matters, here, now. The hands, the voice. Whatever it is that’s draining out from his body now, and the relief. His eyelids push their way up one more time, earning him a blurry sliver of full cheeks, soft, curling hair, of the last face Raju's chosen to see in this life, of buildings rising up behind, of sky—

Colours, brilliant colours moving through the sky, a voice, a terrible storm somewhere above—

And then the hands are gone, the friend panicking over him is gone, and Raju is all at once standing upright in the snow. There’s life inside him again, he can keep his eyes open and move his limbs, and the cold freezes the sweat over his skin and his shirt and steals his breath all at once away from him, he can’t tell if what hurts is the unimaginable cold or the venom still inside him somewhere, and there’s thicker snow around him now than he has ever seen.

He just had been laying down, dying, and now abruptly he is standing up, and his body doesn't know what to do with itself, and totters forward about to fall over face forward into the snow. Or down a steep and inconvenient hill. Or into the nearest person, if one happens to be close. Or, if he's unlucky enough, perhaps he's about to experience all three. Raju throws his hands out with no idea what they might be about to grab, survival instinct that'd gone so quiet since the snake bite suddenly waking up and knowing only that he has to stay upright, no matter what else is about to get in his way.


GUILTY PARTY
(cw: Raju thinks he's about to be tortured, and it might or might not come up here that he's tortured other people.)

The cold is almost alright, now that it’s being used against him on purpose. This part is almost a relief, next to waking up dead-or-not-dead, earlier. The bite of cold metal, the smell of blood in his nose, what they tell him is at least something familiar. Something in front of him which can be dealt with.

He isn’t used to being on this side of things. But at least here and now there’s something to fight. Or lie to. He’s still shivering, which could make it harder to be convincing when whoever put him here decides he’s waited long enough. He will manage it, somehow.

But it isn’t only him here, he notices, only after noticing that he can’t feel a lock behind him and he can’t seem to move the chair. Two chained up here at once. One to feel whatever’s coming, and another one to watch? A flat, matter-of-fact part of him appreciates the technique. Sometimes the information comes more quickly that way.

His stomach rolls. Empty, but nauseous suddenly anyway. He takes a breath, but only finds the smell of blood. He hasn’t eaten recently enough to vomit anything up, if this feeling should come to that. So that’s alright. He pushes all of it away, gathers himself. What does he need?

“You!” Raju hisses to the other prisoner, voice low and urgent. “Who took us? Did you see?”


METHUSELAH'S FEAST

There’s blood frozen over one side of him, where he’s just been lying down. It isn’t his. Which puts him one over on some of the others he’s seeing stumbling inside here.

The centre of his chest won’t stop shivering, and the movement keeps spreading out into the rest of him. His slow, determined steps toward the fire don’t feel like a choice. A small part of him, now that he’s in front of people, has started reminding him about the state of his hair, of his sweat stained, bloody clothes. It’s been years since he’s looked like such a mess without a weapon in his hand, but at least so many of the other strangers here don’t look any better.

For a moment the memories of all the other elaborate meals in a large hall that he’s ever managed his way into lay themselves overtop the sight in front of him here: those pompous officers stuffed full of caviar and their own glory, their wives wrapped in so many layers of the very latest in English fashion it’s a wonder they can ever move. Exactly what their faces would look like if any of them could see the ‘guests’ filling this room up, now.

The noise that rocks him forward isn’t a giggle and it isn’t a laugh, but it isn’t quite anything else either, and he swallows down whatever’s in his throat once, a second time to make sure it stays, takes a breath in through his open mouth that almost doesn’t smell of blood, and it almost helps him looking calm. His jaw is tight. The breath he lets out afterward only shakes a little.

Reflexively, Raju looks around. Some here seem beyond caring what anyone else is or isn’t laughing at, but some aren’t. If he catches anyone’s eyes he’ll smile, the look friendly and warm and just a shade too tight to look as natural as it usually might, and as he makes his way close to the fire he might move close, too, to whoever’d been looking, the urge to smooth over what shouldn’t have been seen strong enough that he doesn’t think to resist it, even now.

The hand that gestures toward the nearest chair is shaking. “Do—“ Raju’s voice cuts out. The only thing to do is rally and try to smile and to move past it, as if it didn’t happen and no one was close enough to hear. “Do you mind?”

Feast

[solitarysoul]

Coming back in from the cold, Levi had paused briefly to glance towards Raju when the other laughed. But only briefly as he was cold and really wanted to be next to that fire. He looks up at Raju when he asks about the chair, but it takes him a moment to realize what's being asked.

"N-no, go ahead."