August 2023 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

AUGUST 2023 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A group of newcomers 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.

PROMPT TWO — HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE: Once recovered from their journey, newcomers are free to explore the town of Milton for supplies and find any signs of the townsfolk.

PROMPT THREE — THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN: A mysterious woman haunts the frozen lake of the Milton Basin, trying to lure newcomers to their deaths.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Day One.
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 days, maybe longer. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are a little mouldy. 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.

But it won’t be long until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire.

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. As you head into the outskirts and 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, are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up. Other than those heading in the same direction, towards the smoke, you won’t find any townsfolk coming to greet you, or even looking at you from behind curtains. … Where is everyone?

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the smoke 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.

“It seems like a great deal of you have come.” he muses finally. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. Please, warm yourselves. Eat. Get your bearings. Mother Nature has not been kind to you.”

The room is dim, lit mostly by the weak 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, places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold or any injuries. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long, foldable tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred moose, deer and rabbit meats, 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.

If you ask him where you are, he will simply respond: “This is Milton, of the Northern Territories.”

If you ask how you came to be here, he will shake his head: “Something has changed. The sky, it was… full of light. The Flare. I felt you coming, a great arrival. But I cannot say for certain how, or why you are here.”

He is regretful, genuinely so. He wishes he had more answers for you, but he does not. Instead he will simply insist you rest, get warm and eat. There is plenty to go around. Eventually, when you feel well enough, Methuselah will gesture to the door: “When you are ready and able, explore the town. Many left, others could not make it out. I have found no one but the dead. They will have no use of the place now, perhaps you might in the meantime.”

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

WHEN: First couple of weeks since arrival.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: frozen dead bodies, unexplained deaths, suicide, murder.

Other than Methuselah in the Hall, the town of Milton is void of life. While not a particularly large town, there’s a few stores and even a gas station. Life here is rustic. Function over form. Homes are simple but sturdy and warm, it’s a rugged place and one can easily deduce that the folk living here led simple, self-sufficient lives.

Commercial buildings and stores of note include a bank and post office, a hunting/fishing supply store, a grocery store, and a clothing store. There is even a church just on the outskirts of town. The buildings are ripe for picking, with most of them still with the doors unlocked, including the residential buildings. Others are locked, but can be broken into easily enough. A few are even trickier, with some of them boarded up or with entrances blocked. In terms of contents, a third of the residential buildings seem to be almost empty, as if the owners moved out long ago. There might still be things left behind of use: old, warm clothes good for the wintery weather, tools and cooking utensils — but little in terms of food. Even if the former residents move some time ago, they didn’t completely empty their homes.


Most of the homes in Milton seem to be left as if the owner stepped out only a short while ago, and with very little disturbance. Some houses, however, seem to be abandoned in a hurry, with a mess of items strewn about in some last-minute dash to grab essentials: keys, identification, treasured personal items, supplies for a quick exit. Cupboards are typically filled with an abundance of canned goods, and some chilled goods might have survived in the cold weather within the fridge-freezers, but it might be a gamble if one wants to try and eat them. Any and all electronics within homes: televisions, computers, mobile-phones — although dated, will all appear cracked and damaged, and will not function or turn out at all. The same will go for any vehicles around the town: there is no hope of starting any of them.

Diaries and journals kept by the former residents may remark on a change in the weather, with the cold and harsh climate becoming more hostile as of late. Others remark strange lights in the skies, dating several weeks or so ago, strange noises in the air, issues with power and electrical items. Some make mentions of changes to the wildlife, with wolves coming close to the town even when they had never done so before. One or two mention problems on the Mainland, with increasing difficulty of reaching out to loved ones who don’t live in the Northern Territories, or deliveries being unable to arrive. The growing trend is that something odd and terrible has been happening, although no one can truly explain what, and the problems have been growing increasingly worse and worse up to the final entries. You might note that the actual years and dates might not line up with your own: the current year given in these entries is 2014.

The newcomers are free to take over these homes, if they wish. No one appears to be stopping them, and even Methuselah seems to shrug about moving in. And as he’d mentioned, he has found no one but the dead: and plenty of them can be found.

Bodies of the town’s former residence can be found scattered over the town. In homes, in stores, out in the snow. They appear still relatively fresh, although it may be hard to tell if it’s from the cold or if it’s from very little time passing. Most appear to have died from cold exposure, some appear to have simply dropped dead on the spot. Others may be found with a gun in hand. Some, worryingly, appear to have perished by another’s hand. You won’t find the entirety of the town’s population, but there’ll be at least several dozen. Men, women, children.

Methuselah seems to have begun laying the dead to rest, but there’s too many for one man to do. Maybe you can work out what to do with them, try to bury them in their backyards, or try to take them to the churchyard.

THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

WHEN: Until the next Aurora.
WHERE: Milton Basin.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mental manipulation, malevolent mythical creatures, falling through ice, attempted drowning/possible successful drowning, potential character death.


Those who venture further south of the town will find themselves traversing the steep, winding paths down towards the Milton Basin. The way down is treacherous, but if enough care is taken you should be able to make it down in one piece. The water is just about completely frozen over down here, thick and sturdy enough to walk over for the most part. Within the Basin there’s more wildlife to be found: deer and rabbit are plenty. And there’s even plenty of foragables, too.

Out on the water are two small ice-fishing cabins, enough to fit one or two people inside comfortably, which hold a few forgotten supplies to try out some ice-fishing if you want to see if anything bites. Both even hold little log burners to keep warm. An old hunter’s shack can be found along the water’s edge, for those not quite brave enough to travel out onto the ice, to take shelter in for when the weather gets a little too difficult, with an old log burner still working within it.

But it’s calm down here, for the most part. Peaceful even. It’s an excellent place for fishing and hunting, and a little more sheltered from the freezing winds.

Until you hear the voice. Something soft and feminine, echoing across the ice. The Basin helps to amplify the sound, and for a long time you can’t quite be sure of where exactly it’s coming from. It’s singing, she is singing. Something old, in a language you can’t quite understand. Maybe it’s not even a language at all, but simply melodic vocalizations. It’s... beautiful, you’ve never heard anything like it before in your life.

And then you see her: a woman standing upon the frozen waters of the Basin. You realise she’s probably the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life, even if you can’t quite even begin to describe her. She appears different to everyone who beholds her, some one might see her hair is long and dark, others might see her with neat red curls. Some swear her skin is dark and rich, that looks almost plum when the light hits it just so, others claim it to be cool-toned that glistens like sunlight on snow. Whatever someone might find aesthetically pleasing is how she’ll appear, and even then to describe her to others will bring you at a loss for words. And she’s singing… to you, for you.

You’re compelled to go to her, although you can’t explain why. You’re drawn to approach her, to hear her better, see her better. Your feet carry you onto the ice, out into the midst of the Basin. You ignore the calls of everyone and anyone around you, fixated on the woman before you. She smiles when you’re close enough, beckons you a little closer.

… Then everything changes. Without warning, the woman leaps for you, her face contorting into something hideous, mouth opening to scream to reveal rows upon rows of tiny, needle-like teeth. She collides with you, and the force (paired with the slippery ice below you) is enough to send you off your feet. As you fall back, the ice cracks beneath you with an almighty sound, plunging you into the frigid depths below.

The woman fights to put you beneath the water’s surface, those needle-like teeth bared like some ferocious beast. She can be fought off easily enough, but she might just drown you before you’re able to. If you’re lucky, someone might be able to help pull you out. Tools or weapons made of iron or silver are especially harmful to her.

Once you’re pulled from the water, getting somewhere warm will be the utmost priority — otherwise the cold will kill you quicker than the woman would. The woman, you’ll find, will have vanished, and the ice where you’d fallen will have restored itself, as if it had never been broken at all.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. 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.

2. 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.

3. 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.

4. If asked how he knew that the Newcomers were arriving, he concedes that although it is a strange thing to know, it is much like how one knows a storm is coming.

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

1. Characters are welcome to take up residency in any of the homes of Milton. Methuselah will strongly advise characters to leave a huge, dilapidated house — known as Milton House — well alone, due to extensive fire damage.

2. More information about Milton can be found here.

THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

1. Characters with hearing impairments will not be susceptible to the Siren's song, or may only be somewhat susceptible depending, but may be entranced to a degree by looking at the Siren. However, this will be far easier to snap out of.

2. The Siren cannot be killed, only fought off. She will disappear for a length of time to recover before she attempts to lure her next victim.

Comments

QUESTIONS

[singmod]

Ask them here.

Re: QUESTIONS

[blondfragility]

Do TDM threads count as game canon? Apologies if this is answered somewhere and I missed it.

kieren walker | in the flesh

[burying]

✞ ARRIVAL PT. 1

[ Kieren is plenty used to the colder climates, but certainly nothing like this before. This isn’t the rolling hills of Northern England, with its clinging damp and dreariness, the bleak emptiness of a landscape still recovering from the return of the dead. Instead he finds himself staring out of the open mouth of a cave, slack jawed in some slow-dawning horror and confusion. He remembers the lights, the noise and then… well, he doesn’t know where this is. The uncertainty is a gnawing ache, over-shadowing any sense of wonder and marvel at the sight of this place. He’s never seen snow this deep before, not in person. But it isn’t home, snow would never fall like this back home, not even in the hardest of winters. And the question of where he might be is one that sits within him like a stone. He knows he can’t just stay here, though. Wherever this is, he needs to work it out, and work out just how he’s going to get back home. The voice rings in his ears, clear as day: you are not part of nature’s design. It almost makes him want to laugh, yeah, you didn’t need to tell him that twice.

Whatever it is that’s brought him here, at least they were kind enough to send him with supplies. He stuffs the boxes of his cover up mousse and contact lenses into his hoodie pockets with haste. The photograph he finds upon the floor he’s a lot more careful with as he gently puts it in his back pocket, not wanting to stare too hard at the two faces in it.

He stumbles off into the unknown, clumsy and awkward through the deep snow. It’s the most difficult part of it all. He doesn’t feel the cold; part of him wonders if that might just be a blessing. He knows it’s not exactly going to be tropical temperatures stumbling around in this winter wonderland. Very little breath fogs around him, only with the sharp exhales of frustration can it be seen — a room-temperature body in a frigid world.

Upon finding one of the trails he'll eventually come across someone, slowing to a stop with a cautious air. Holy shit, a person? ]

Uh, hello. [ There's an awkward wave. Wait, this isn't him just imagining things, is it? God knows how long he's been walking for. Ages, probably. ] I'm... shit, are you real? I was thinking I was completely alone here.

[ This place definitely feels a bit... desolate. ]

✞ ARRIVAL PT. 2

[ The first thing Kieren does is head into the Hall’s bathroom in search of a mirror. He needs to check his cover-up, to make sure his hike through the woods to get into town hasn’t smeared away anything on his face. The need to remain undetected in strong. He doesn't know how well people will react to him, there's so much unknown here.

At first he’ll keep to the fringes of the room, just watching the happenings as more and more people file in. He stands somewhat awkwardly, hands in his hoodie pockets and half-soaked from the trek into the town through the snow. If anyone comes to him with food, or tries to encourage him to get something to eat, he'll quickly shake his head with a smile. He doesn't eat. Not anymore. ]

Oh, no. I’m alright. I ate, already. [ Yeah, back in 2009. He pats his stomach with both hands and chuckles. ] Still full.

[ Knowing fine well not eating isn’t very… uh, ‘normal’, he will eventually take a seat by the fire. His hood up as he quietly warms his hands by the fire. Even if he doesn’t feel the heat, it would probably be the thing to do, would it? Yeah. Try to not draw suspicion, that’ll be good. If anyone draws near, there’ll be the faint disarming smile as he half-looks to the person ]

So... has anyone actually worked out where this place is yet?

✞ HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

[ It isn’t long before Kieren is out searching the town of Milton. He doesn’t want to dwell in the Hall for long, a new gnawing in his stomach. He has his cover up and his contacts, but they won’t be enough to last him long. A few months worth, at best. One very important thing has been absent: his Neurotriptyline. The gnawing feeling hasn’t quite slid into panic just yet, but it’s certainly rising. He needs the Neurotriptyline. If he doesn’t have it, then… then— he can’t think about it. Not yet.

The first thing he does is head to the store in hopes of finding some kind of pharmacy section, quickly heading to the back of the store to find a small, locked up pharmacist's counter. If there’ll be any Neurotriptyline, then surely it’ll be there. Only there’s a locked door in his way, and he certainly doesn’t have a key. He looks around, seeing if there’s something he can use to break the door – it doesn’t look too difficult, or so he thinks. At least there’s not any kind of passcode for the door, he’s got that on his side.

He’ll try ramming the door with his shoulder a few times, until he stops with the uncertainty of if he’s either using enough force, or if he’s using too much and about to give himself some kind of injury. Eventually, he gives up and finds a nearby fire extinguisher to start bashing it against the door handle.

... Until someone comes across him and Kieren’s startled back enough to cry out and drop the fire extinguisher. He quickly raises his hands up in a defensive gesture. It’s not a very good look to be immediately breaking into a pharmacy, and he cringes a little at the whole visual. ]

Christ, you startled me. [ There’s a strange little sound, half-whine, half-nervous laugh. It quickly melts away into an awkward silence as he looks to the fire extinguisher at his feet then back to the person who's happened upon him. ] Listen. So... as bad as this looks, I’m not a junkie. Promise.

arrival pt 2

[friendsfordinner]

[ Cornelius Hickey, who has his cheeks almost bursting at the seams due the amount of food stuffed in there, looks at Kieran like he's a goddamn idiot. He finishes chewing and swallowing, chipmunk cheeks doing down to something normal. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve (a Victorian era naval officer's coat, please ignore the dried blood on the back of it) before pointing out, ]

Well that's a bloody stupid decision. [ He's got an English accent and a slightly sardonic tone: Hickey isn't hiding the fact that he thinks Kieran's being an idiot. ] But if you want to turn down what might be your last chance at a good meal, more for me.

[ He'll take another bite of the charred moose on the plate he's holding. Hickey eats with a voracity unknown to most men, a purposeful sensation that this meal might be his last. That nothing is for granted. He doesn't know when he will get food next, so he's eating his fill and then some. ]

As for where we are? Only one place I can think of that gets this cold. We've got to be in the Arctic.

[ he is totally guessing. ]

Cornelius Hickey | The Terror (AMC)

[friendsfordinner]

arrival - methuselah's feast
There's food here.

Fucking finally.

Hickey eats with the vigor of a starving man. Soup, meat, potatoes, it doesn't matter, he is eating it. He is hungry, his last meal not doing that much to satiate the hunger that broils and churns in his gut, the hunger that grows inside you when you've starved for months. There is food here and he's eating it because who the hell knows when his next meal will be.

That being said, there is one thing that Hickey seems to be studiously avoiding: the tinned vegetables. As he slurps down the last of his soup, he nudges the person next to him who, let's be real, has probably been dodging food particles for the past five minutes. "That soup came in tins. D'you know where they put them afterwards?"

arrival - methuselah's feast, pt. 2
His knife is there. A boat knife, with the word 'Hickey' carved in the handle. Hickey picks up the knife as well as two other items close by it. A bedroll, rolled up, for sleeping on the ground. And a small ring on a chain.

Huh. He never really expected to see that again.

Hickey picks up the ring, looking at it, quizzical frown on his face. The next person who approaches him gets asked, "I gave this to somebody else. Why the hell's it here?"

A question for the ages.

hope nobody needs this, possible cw for gross body horror/corpse abuse
Cornelius Hickey is looting a body. Granted, it's a little bit hard to loot the body when it's cold to this extent. Rigor mortis has set in and then some. But that body is holding a gun. Hickey wants that gun.

He's squatting next to a body, wearing a hat and a muffler that you might have seen on a different body. They're not using it anymore. More for him. Waste not, want not. And here, in this new world that annoyingly is so fucking close to the world he left behind? He's not wasting anything. He's not going to let it get like it did before. Here? He's going to thrive. And he's going to thrive with a gun.

When he spots someone walking down the street, Hickey calls out, "Oi! Got any warm water on you?"

arrival pt 2

[residues]

"Um, because they didn't want it?"

That's definitely not what he's asking, but Jules loves to be annoying, and this is simply a golden opportunity. She offers a cheery smile, and then looks properly at the ring, tilting her head to one side to give it a proper look.

"It's kind of ugly. No offence."

Matt Murdock | Marvel 616ish

[motiontostrike]

arrival

It’s not the realization that he can't remember falling asleep that's most distressing. Matt scarcely sleeps any more. If it's not his own tormented guilt keeping him awake, it's the sounds of anguish from those around him — the ones they don't even know he can hear. But when he jerks himself awake, everything is quiet now. The stillness is beyond that which he's ever known. More profound, even, than the cold, it's that suffocating sense of absolute stillness that brings Matt Murdock lurching back to consciousness. For a man who's used to an incessant cacophony of sounds and scents and vibrations, the total absence of anything at all is all the proof he needs that something is terribly wrong. The voice he thought he'd heard just as he was slipping under might not have been his own conscience after all.

Well, maybe not entirely nothing; not exactly. His first instinct is to reach out for anything with which to orient himself, but the particulars of his current environment are further away than they've ever been. He's searching for something deeper than the obvious that surrounds him, but when he flails out he's met with a hard, unforgiving reality: frigid tree bark scrapes at his bare arm and he realizes all of a sudden that he's sitting in snow. Matt thinks to cry out, and then stifles the notion. He can hear his own hands on his skin, but not his heartbeat, nor the heartbeat of anyone else. If there is anyone at all. Head swimming with static, he climbs to his feet, steadying himself against the massive conifer. Except it isn't steady. Not at all. His hands disappear into a thicket of sharp pine needles, and he finally does cry out. "Damn it!"

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The Man Without Fear. Who would believe it now?

methuselah's feast

Help is the last thing on earth that Matt Murdock wants, and help is exactly what he needs. The community hall is teeming with people. At least, that's what it feels like to the man suddenly struggling to differentiate one person from another. Matt still can't seem to get his bearings, but a bowl of stew and a mug of hot tea might start to set things right, if he can find his bearings.

Once he's sufficiently warmed up and feeling a little more like himself, Matt will jump immediately into helping out. He may not have any formal medical training, but the man's an old hand at field medicine. It's a little different when he can't hear the creaking of other people's bones or feel the way their breath hitches unevenly, but the standard ways of treating hypothermia aren't too varied, and blood still smells like blood. He's parked himself near the fire as part of the queue to help any newcomers who arrive with injuries. "Here, sit down. Tell me what's wrong."

Later on into the evening, he can be found negotiating cot assignments. That is to say, he'll keep offering his own to anyone who seems to be struggling to find a place to rest. "Here, you can lie down here."

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

Time passes, as it is wont to do, and Matt adapts, as he, too, has developed a capacity for. It's not the weirdest place he's ever found himself (which is certainly saying something), but the circumstances are among the most frustrating. So the normally cool and self-aggrandizing Matt Murdock appears more subdued than he normally would be. Not that a stranger would know the difference. In fact, anyone meeting him for the first time now would be forgiven if they didn't like him very much. Needing help and needing to ask for it are the worst things imaginable for the formerly superpowered blind Catholic.

Maybe you run into him on one of his daily walks as he's meticulously mapping out the town foot by agonizing foot. Maybe he's finally found his way into that old clothing store to pick over the fashions that have been left after all the newcomers have had their turn. Or maybe he's just faceplanted into the snow after tripping over one of those frozen corpses. Whatever the case may be, you might find yourself sucked into playing navigator.

wildcard

[Prefer something different entirely? Come at me with whatever you've got. TBH this is as much a voice test as it is a test drive for him! As a note, I typically play him of the 616 variety, but he's in his mid-thirties and his canon is coming up on its 60th birthday so things are weird, time is weird, and I'll follow your lead.]

methuselah's cot conundrum —;

[birkenstock]

Barbie has been more or less doing a similar thing, offering to get any of the other stranded settled into cots before taking one for herself.

Of course by the time the night gets just a little too late, and the embers burning in the fireplace slowly begin to dim and cool, the number of cots has dwindled remarkably.

And yet Barbie, who was never the selfish sort (she simply wasn't made that way), will continue to protest against taking any of the last of the few that remain.

"Oh — no, that's all right." She shakes her head. "Where would you sleep?"


ooc: also! i got so excited i completely forgot to ask: are you okay with spoilers? if so, cool (and i'll mark 'em for others); if not that's totally cool and i can keep it general!

max briest | original

[thephix]

one » arrival

[Anyone wandering through the forest will come upon a woman in the snow, dressed simply in jeans and a leather jacket, her hair tied up in a braid, looking almost peaceful for the split second before she awakens with a gasp. She's up remarkably quickly, despite the cold, reaching for the gun that had been hidden under her jacket.

She trains it immediately on the person approaching, finger resting against the trigger guard.]

Who are you?

[Her voice is even, despite the shiver that runs through her.]

two » community hall

[There is absolutely nothing about this situation that she likes; the fact that she can't shift is high on the list, but so is the presence of a seemingly kind stranger who isn't saying nearly as much as he likely knows. Max watches Methuselah carefully, even as she carefully picks at the food, wary but knowing that it's better to be well fed.

The only relief is that Maurice is with her; all 130lbs of him sitting calmly by her side as she occasionally slips him pieces of bread or meat. Back home, he isn't allowed human food, but she's making an exception on account of dog food not being offered in the hall, right now.

Once she's eaten her own meal, she starts approaching others, with food or first aid supplies or blankets, being sure to look kind and gentle. Maurice trails behind her, but he won't approach anyone without permission from Max.]

Can I help?

three » scavenging

[The mystery of this place is important, but Max's immediate priority is supplies, and that's exactly what she heads out to do during her first several days in Milton.

Her first few stops yielded more appropriate shoes and a heavier jacket, after which she'd found a slightly cracked child's toboggan. It had taken her a little while to patch it up and find a rope, but now she has a makeshift sled to fill with any supplies she finds. Maurice trots alongside her, alert for danger.

He leads her to anyone else out in the town, but she makes sure to speak up before approaching, not wanting to startle anyone.]

Hello, have you found anything useful?

[She's willing to help ferry supplies back and forth; helping each other is going to be the difference between surviving or dying, in a place like this.]

four » unraveling mysteries

[In an ideal world, Max would pick a comfortable house for herself and hole up there, but that seems exceedingly stupid when she has no idea why she's here, or what this place is, or what threats might lurk out in the darkness. There's safety in numbers, so she simply claims a cot for herself in the community hall, setting up a little home base.

Right now, after a hard day of scrounging up supplies, Maurice is sleeping on the cot while Max sits at one of the tables with a spread of diaries, calendars, planners and letters, along with a roll of butcher paper and a handful of mismatched pencils.

She's pouring over everything she's gathered, making notes in the margins and on the butcher paper. Anyone who approaches might be able to tell that she's trying to figure out a timeline of events, hoping that may help solve this mystery.]

five » wildcard

[[ooc: other things! idk what!! if anyone wants a rescue from the siren, Max can definitely help on that front.]]

arrival!

[acheless]

—the fuck are you?

[ Says the guy, who does not, by all accounts, look fucking thrilled with having a gun pointed at him.

To his credit: Nathan raises his hands slowly, as if he's facing a particularly angry but flighty deer. It contrasts with everything else he's putting out: the fact his jaw tenses and ticks, and how anger and palpable frustration tightens everything, solidifies the set of his shoulders into something that acutely screams fight more than flight. He looks at her with something bitter and flinty. Not nice by any half.

But at least he's dressed better than she is. Jeans, boots; a thick brown corduroy jacket, plaid flannel, and a pair of thick workman's gloves tucked into his back pocket, along with a wool beanie.

He clocks that shiver. Breaks that staredown he's got going on, eventually, and slowly, slowly, lowers one of his hands. ]

Don't shoot me.

[ The gloves are thick, not meant for insulation so much as heavy work mending posts and fixing shit. He takes them out, offers them to her; too-large, probably, but better than nothing. ]

You even gonna be able to aim straight in this cold?

maria juliana anthony | original

[residues]

001. arrival.

[ If you were to take an objective look at Jules, who not half an hour ago had stumbled blearily out of an abandoned and utterly empty cabin and has since been trekking through bitter wintry cold like a grey smudge from an inky thumbprint on a sheet of white paper, you would assume she's somehow, against all odds, having fun. Her spirits are clearly up. She's even smiling, despite the fact that it feels like her fingers and toes are about to snap off and she's sort of sick of the colour white. None of that means anything to her. In fact, she's barely aware of it. What she is aware of, more than anything else, is that something is missing from her. Hence the high spirits.

If you stray close enough to her, she offers her sunny disposition fully and blindingly. ] I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. Do you?

002. methuselah's feast.

[ By the time Jules actually gets to the building and its warm fires and spread of food, Jules is actually aware of how hungry she is. Her spirits, which had inevitably dampened a little the longer she walked, dressed only in a thin nun's habit and an equally useless green bomber jacket, are back up again now that she's warm and her extremities are warming. She pours herself a cup of coffee, heaps a plate with as many offerings of food as she can manage to fit on it without losing the structural integrity, and goes to sit cross-legged on one of the cots to eat. ]

I bet this is just what summer camp is like. [ She's carefully levering food into her mouth with one hand, and massaging a stockinged foot with the other, trying to rub some feeling back into her toes. ] Except it's not freezing or run by Apocalypse Santa and it's all kids and not adults and you wouldn't die of hypothermia if you jumped in the lake. But other than that, probably exactly like summer camp. I can't wait to make some memories.

003. bodies.

[ Settling in is hard and weird and Jules doesn't much like it. She's good at adapting, and usually she likes the process, but the shine has worn off this place by now and there's not nearly as much fun to be had with snow as she imagined there might have been. Nobody, for example, is interested in a snowball fight. And, of course, there are all the dead bodies.

She finds herself clinging to her habit, the one piece of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. It's probably why she feels the need to present herself as available to take part in the dirty job that is deciding what to do with the bodies strewn about this place like confetti. Chewing her lip as she stands near a long-departed frozen body, she clears her throat and sighs. ]

Churchyard, right? It's the best place for them.

004. diaries.

[ Exploration naturally requires a bit of snooping, and it's not like these people are around to be upset that their diaries are being read, so when Jules stumbles on a diary as she's looking through an abandoned house, she doesn't think twice before she cracks it open. This is because she thinks maybe three or four times about it, and eventually decides that it's worth a look, even though it feels a little bit shitty. It's fine. She's barely only opened it, though, when she recoils from it as if bitten. ]

Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck. [ And then, in a hushed, horrified voice: ] It's 2014 right now? Does that mean I'm twenty-two again? May God strike me down as a mercy.

005. wildcard.

[ feel free to find jules elsewhere or hit me up at crowders if you want to plot something specific out! ]

arrival!

[entered]

None in the slightest.

[ Reed, hands tucked under his armpits, easily keeps pace with her. For all the panic, and the cold, and the flecks of snow that have settled over the shoulders of his tweed jacket, barely any of it seems to linger on his person. He smiles back at her as if this is all that they are: two strangers, meeting on a nice walk, and not the blistering, bitter cold of it all. ]

I think, [ he allows, tone still genial, ] there's something very rewarding about setting out on a journey, and seeing where we end up.

[ Even if it is freezing to death, evidently. A beat passes and he adds, brows raised, breath coming out in front of him in thick, opaque clouds, ]

Are you always this cheerful?

Anne Bonny | Black Sails

[unwifeable]

1. arrival;

a;

[ She hasn’t seen snow since she was thirteen years old. That was the second time she was ripped, without any input from herself, from the life she knew and thrust into a new one. This will be the third. Anne doesn’t realize it at first, when she wakes up in the cave, curled up like an animal, cold like she’s never felt before seeping through her coat, past the skin and the meat of her, into her bones. This is a woman who could be comfortably called frosty, on a good day, and that’s in the bright Bahaman sun. This is unsettling in a way she rarely feels, and even more rarely lets on. She’s only got one thought, as she puts herself on her feet and sits her wide brimmed hat back onto her head.

Where the fuck is Jack?

The pirate is a sight against the landscape of snow, bright red hair and a scowl, trudging through terrain her leather boots aren’t meant for. Eventually, she comes across a body, laying on its back in the snow. Anne crouches beside the other person, one hand on a dagger at her hip, and the other tapping the person’s face, seeing if they’re alive. She’s never been the most sociable woman in the New World, but someone’s got to know what the fuck’s going on. ]

You’ll die of cold, laying around like that.

[ Not an ounce of concern in her tone. Just the facts, like she’s telling them they’ve got food on their face. ]

b;

[ The Northern Territories. Sounds like a load of shit, from where she’s sitting. The old man’s lucky she hasn’t slit his throat. Anne hasn’t completely decided that she won’t.

After she eats. She’s absolutely ravenous, and she eats like it, not too good to turn up her nose at game meats. Not too good to chew with her mouth open, keep her hands clean, or make sure her hair isn’t dragging through her stew either. She looks nearly feral, pink from the sudden warmth after traversing about outside, dirt under her nails and caked on her rings, and eyes darting around, like a wild dog getting ready to protect its hunt. ]

Got a problem?

[ A snarl at the person she catches looking at her, her lip curling up dangerously. She hates it, feeling looked at. Jack demands enough attention that most people don’t bother giving her a second glance, but he’s not here, is he? He’d have found her by now, if he were. It’s been hours. ]

2. nobody needs this anymore;

[ Anne’s been a pirate since before she sprouted tits, and as such, she’s got more experience with dead bodies than most. She may not know cold, but bodies, sure. Once she’s found herself some halfway decent boots, she starts looting them, picking up gloves, scarves, going through pockets, breaking off frozen solid fingers for the rings stuck to them, whether they fit her own hands or not. Anything that might be of value is in danger of being stolen, and anything she doesn’t know what it is, almost certainly will be. After a week, she’s come to realize there’s a lot she doesn’t know - this place claims to be three hundred years in the future, after all. Her partner would give her an earful if she didn’t try to learn. ]

Hey. Fuck’s this?

[ It’s a cracked cell phone, shoved in front of the unsuspecting person who’s caught her going through dead men’s pockets. ]

3. Siren’s song;

[ Sailors know not to follow the siren’s song. No matter how much they want to. No matter how beautiful she is, no matter how thick and shiny the hair that frames her face looks, no matter how the smooth, dark skin of her bosom heaves, how much the goosebumps that rise along her flesh urge for a warm hand to touch them, to hold her close and soothe that chill.

She knows better. And yet, she’s close enough to see those goosebumps in the first place. It’s as if Anne had floated here. She doesn’t remember giving her feet permission. Not to come out on the ice, and certainly not to plunge beneath it.

Suddenly, there’s no trace of her, but a hand with a blade in it, stabbing into the ice as she scrambles to pull herself up. ]

wildcard me?

[ Hey I’m trying a new character hit me up! I am at dorsquee if you want to chat <3 ]

nobody needs this

[friendsfordinner]

[ Inevitably during her corpse looting session, Anne's run into Hickey who's also doing a corpse looting session, with just as much blatant thievery, breaking fingers, and absolute disrespect of things like 'the dignity of a corpse in death.' That bastard's not using his boots anymore. His now.

Hickey's trying to gently finagle a scarf off of a nearby corpse, possibly the partner of that dead body Anne's dealing with, when she shoves the cell phone in his face. Unfortunately for everybody, ye olde pirate lady is asking this question to ye olde Victorian man. ]

Hell if I know, [ Mr. 1840s responds. ] There's a button on it, maybe something happens when you press it?

Oberyn Martell | Game of Thrones

[the_redviper]

[ Arrival; Methuselah's Feast ]

[ Dorne is not a region that sees the kind of weather that Oberyn has found himself in. No, his first thought when he awakens is how he managed to get from King's Landing to the North. Had he died? He might have, but so will his opponent. Eventually. The last thing he can remember is the pressure on his eyes and the Mountain's giant thumbs in his sockets. Fortunately, he can see but there is still blood in his eyes and his head throbs as if he has drunk himself unconscious.

When he arrives at the building, Oberyn wraps himself in a blanket and asks the old man where exactly Milton is and whether it is near Winterfell, or Beyond the Wall, but the vague answer he gets only frustrates him further. So, he begins asking the others that are steadily gathering in the hall. ]

So many people and no one knows where this place is? [ He looks at several people nearby as he speaks. ] Or how we all got here?


[ Arrival; Methuselah's Feast (PT 2) ]

[ There's conversation and speculation but after a couple of hours, Oberyn has resigned himself to being stuck where he is for the time being. There's no way he'll revisit the horrible weather conditions outside to try and find a way out and it is warm and there is food. Eventually, he finds himself on a cot, watching people come and go at first until something catches his eye.

His belt and dagger. Two things that should not be here. With it was a coat adorned with the Dornish sun motif, one that was often kept for trips to the colder parts of Westeros. Oberyn's dark eyes dart around the room, looking for familiar faces: Ellaria, any one of his beloved daughters, even his brother Doran, with no luck.

The Prince looks uneasy. ]


[ Hope Nobody Needs This Anymore ]

[ With not much to do and no way to leave, surviving is the only thing he can do. So, Oberyn takes refuge in a small home down the way from the community hall. It was nothing like the palaces in Dorne, but he found plenty of firewood and some food and a number of technical advances that he wasted very little time trying to understand. Nothing of the sort exists where he's from and he saw no use to educate himself that simply looked odd with absolutely no functionality.

He spends his days learning and helping who he can along the way. If anything, it's a distraction from the growing ache in his chest that longs to return home.

Traipsing from building to building, and house to house in search of supplies, he passes by people all the time. But this time Oberyn hits the jackpot by finding a bottle of something that, after opening, he realizes is some potent type of alcohol. ]

Do you know what this is?

[ He asks, sniffing the contents again. ]

It's unlike anything I have ever smelled before.


[ Wild Card! ]

[ Find Oberyn anywhere else or you can find me on lilbeejack to chat something more specific ]

arrival 1!

[infiniteheart]

It would seem that way. It appears to be a mystery to all of us.

[The woman seated beside him looks exhausted from the trek here out of harsh and unforgiving wilderness. But at least, she's dry and relatively warm here compared to the outdoors. She eats the food that's been offered to her without any fuss. Even if the situation is terrible and the food isn't nearly spicy enough to her liking, she's going to do her best to make the most of things.]

But it's very clear that something catastrophic happened here. We'll need to rebuild before it happens again.

[She's from a family-oriented, community-focused culture. The idea that others in this place might not be doesn't even enter her mind.]

Alyson Ronan | Tell Me Why

[acraftygoblin]

✧ arrival: around milton

[ Alyson's lucky enough to wake up in a cabin, disoriented and cold, but sheltered inside. She moves around the cabin first, looking for signs of life, calling out despite the fact that she has no real hope of getting an answer. Eventually she opens the front door to shout into the wind one last time-- ] Uncle?

[ She'll move on before long, driven by the need to figure out what's going on and find somewhere warmer, but she's luckier than some, already dressed for Alaska's weather. It means that she's not freezing, at least, and she'll hurry forward when she spots somebody who looks less prepared for the weather, calling out with concern and already moving to unzip her jacket. ] Hey, are you okay?


✧ arrival: methuselah's feast

[ Alyson isn't looking for anything specific, wandering the community hall once she's eaten her fill. She's just examining the surroundings, still trying to get her head around this place.

It doesn't take long before she notices something, though -- one small wooden figure, sitting in the middle of a similar collection of small items. It's not the most noteworthy thing, but her eye is drawn immediately, a hand coming up to cover her mouth as she moves closer, the other reaching to pick it up like it's something precious. ]

How did you get here? [ She's talking to the doll, not anyone else, but she glances around her a moment later, like she's wondering if there's an answer that she missed. ]


✧ hope nobody needs this anymore

[ Despite the town being deserted, she can't really shake the discomfort at rifling through stranger's things. Alyson will do her best to stick to the stores for a while, at least when it comes to food, but clothes are another story. She already has something decent, and she has a sewing kit that she'd found sitting in the community hall, notes in Mary-Anne's familiar handwriting making it clear it's hers even if she hadn't known the small box on sight; she'll leave the store to people less prepared, she decides, and eventually she'll go rifling through the houses to see if there's anything a little beat up she can make use of.

She still doesn't like it, though, and she's even jumpier the first time she finds herself in one of the houses that look hastily abandoned instead of neatly set aside. She's muttering to herself as she picks through the messy living room when the front door opens, and she jumps out of her skin, whirling around and then feeling ridiculous when it's just another person standing there. ] Uh. Hey. Kind of a mess, huh?


✧ the siren of milton basin

[ The basin reminds Alyson of home more than anywhere else in Milton has so far, and she lingers there the first time she makes the trip, feeling the closest to settled she has since arriving here. More than long enough for the siren to appear to her. There's no hesitation as Alyson follows the sound, smiling peacefully. Nothing feels wrong at all, until it does.

She's clawing at the siren as she pushes her down, but she's not a fighter. She thrashes, surfaces with a scream that's a painfully human contrast to the sound of the siren and then swallows water as she slips below again. It's quickly getting harder to try and squirm her way to freedom, and all Alyson can think as she kicks out at the creature holding her down is that she's going to die the same way her mother did. ]

hope nobody needs this anymore

[burying]

[ Kieren is still on the hunt for Neurotriptyline. The pharmacy has proved unfruitful, but he's wondering if by some miracle he might come across some by chance in one of the many homes of Milton. He isn't hopeful, but he has to try. He has to fight to stay himself. He doesn't feel any different, not yet. Maybe he'll still have time.

The next home he tries already has someone inside, and he doesn't realise it. A girl, not much older than him. He jumps just as much, almost falling back out of the front door. ]

Shit, sorry. [ He grips the doorway to steady himself, floundering for a long moment until it soon passes. He huffs out a quick sound of awkward, nervous laughter as he calms himself down. ] —yeah.

[ He looks about them, letting go of the doorframe and stepping into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Yeah, it's a mess in here. Yeah. ]

There's been a couple more like this. Looks like a lot of people left in a hurry.

Edward Little | The Terror

[fidior]

ARRIVAL

[ There is nothing like the cold. It becomes you. You become it.

Edward wakes with something's voice echoing deep in his bones and a shudder rippling through his skin. Immediately, he is thrown off-guard, startled into numb disbelief. He stands in a small, dark structure: one that is..... impossible. There is nothing like this to be found, no place with four walls to seek shelter within. They abandoned the ships long ago, walking until they couldn't, setting up tents. There was— nothing like this.

He comes out of his stupour, wrenches himself forward. He looks around, looks for anything, but there is no fire and no food (he picks up plates with trembling hands, searching each one, stomach curling at the sight of mould and at the horror of himself, the immediate yearning to eat what rotten film remains anyway). Edward Little takes a step back, heavy boots drawing out a resonating creak from the wooden floorboards below, and the ache draws moisture to his eyes. He knows this place has been abandoned.

He could remain here for a time, and something in his heart longs to, to stay within the space that feels like a home the way nothing has in three years, but this space is no home. It is safe from the elements, but it provides nothing more than that. And the men..... He has to find his men. His captain. (He gives a quiet gasp as memory comes seeping in, a cruel beast; what has he done?)

Edward reaches for the uniform cap that lies on the floorboards, near where he woke. He presses it down over dark tangles, and steps outside, into the cold. He is, at least, well-equipped for this particular environment in his lieutenant's garb of the Royal Navy, high-collared sweater and vest beneath a long black uniformed coat, thick and warm.

He walks, slow and searching. He stays quiet; there are enemies not far from here (or where he thinks "here" must be), and he has no gun yet with him, he must be careful. But it feels like a nightmare, surreal, to be so alone. Where are the others (the few with him, the ones marching forwards, unable to look back at what they were leaving behind?) Something must have happened, and now he... he is alone.

But it's as he finds a trail (again, this is impossible; there are no paths in the bitter Arctic, nothing to follow) that Edward spots the shape of life and movement, and he almost cries out. Both hands (wrapped in a pair of warm fingerless gloves) come up to show that he has no weapon, and he freezes where he is, tension wound tight. He knows what desperate men will do, and that his appearance may elicit immediate fright, inevitably violence, from the particular group he thinks lies in wait; from his position, he at first sees only a threat, one he must quickly extinguish. ]

Hold your fire! I am unarmed!

METHUSELAH'S FEAST
CW: HEAPS OF DISSOCIATION

[ It can't be real. Perhaps this is death, and if it is, it can only be Hell. Edward stares, wholly floored. Somehow, impossibly, he has found himself at a refuge with many others — a place of life, warmth, and....... food.

It can't be real, and his instinct and everything that comprises him tells him to be cautious; he approaches warily, stunned, thick brows knit and features tight with worry and ache rather than any initial relief (Edward please take five seconds to relax....) Slowly, he moves through the building, searching the faces of the wounded and lingering for any sign of Crozier or the others. He doesn't trust this.... any of it, and he finds himself wanting to resist whatever call, whatever pull, this must be underneath its warm exterior. There shouldn't be warmth here. Perhaps he has lost his mind.

But his body still seeks to live. To survive. Isn't that the true horror of it, how long a person can remain, even when parts of them have blackened and fallen away? Edward has lived among the walking dead for longer than he can say, now. And it isn't long before even Lieutenant Little's obstinate wariness and brooding can't suppress the gnawing thing that lives inside of him. Hunger, one that has been his constant companion, and it stretches its mouth open and demands him forwards. He takes a bowl into his hands, wide-eyed in his disbelief, thinking it must be some mirage, some insincerity, a trick. He moves to sit away from others, dark and silent in a corner of the space, holding the bowl in his lap. Staring down into it.

After an unknown amount of time slowly passes by him, the lieutenant begins to eat, but still it's slowly. Tears of shame and disbelief and pleasure all mingled into one well up in his eyes, and his heart aches unbearably, while his stomach churns. The warm food hurts to eat, after so long without it. He can barely taste it, this dream. Edward sits there in a chair like that, eating so stiff and strange and unhappily, eyes held wide, and it begins to feel as though this moment is happening to someone else. He's no stranger to that sensation, that detachment. ]

THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

[ He is no longer hungry, by now, having eaten so morosely, and now his belly is full and his guilt has swollen with it. Restless, searching, still confused, Edward wanders and continues to search for the others (above all else, perhaps he fears being the one left, the last. Truly and utterly alone.)

But there are other fears in him, and this white world holds them. The fear of the unknown, the supernatural, and always he is on alert for The Creature. He'd found his shotgun back in that dining hall, as though it had been brought there for him, and though perpetually suspicious, Edward wasted no time strapping it to his back. Now he's searching through shacks out near the ice for more ammunition when he hears.... something. Singing, a woman's voice, an unnatural sound; how long has it been since he heard the song of a woman?

But this song is not for him. Not just now. There's someone else (you!) who has been ensnared by her calling, and as Edward rushes from the shack, he only sees a glimpse of the being for himself (a flash, not enough time to perceive her as his own maiden) before she's moved to take her victim. A person out there on the ice, being... attacked by the woman (the thing? He isn't sure, but she thrashes against the poor soul like an animal.) A bone-deep terror freezes Edward in place for several seconds before he moves to act, lifting his gun and firing. He isn't aiming directly at the creature, still mostly perceiving it as a woman; he can't. But then the thing lifts its head to snarl at him, exposing that awful circle of needle-teeth, and woman becomes monster. The next shot comes from trembling hands; he only grazes the side of her (still cannot bring himself to shoot directly at the thing), but it's enough to send the entity away.

He barely has time to process anything, finds himself rushing out towards the ice, heavy boots crunching dangerously against its precarious surface. The person is slipping under, and Edward kneels, thrusts his gloved hand to them, holding steadfast and tight. ]

Hold onto me! I have you!

---

WILDCARD / ETC

^{Feel free to hit me up at horreur or pm! I'm also just fine with prose if that's your preference.
For any potential canonmates, I'm pulling Edward from epsiode 10 / right after he decided to Follow The Captain's Orders, u get me :')}

arrival

[jackdawvision]

[Unlike Edward Little, Edward Kenway did not come prepared for the cold. He'd come straight from death, and when he died, it had been in his trousers and house shoes. He has found a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket, so that's at least keeping the chill off his neck for the time, and he's mostly just stumbling toward the road with the grim look of a man determined to not die (again) to the cold.

When he hears another man's voice, he perks up, and gives a laugh that might, perhaps, be tinged with a hint of hysteria. He's had a rough few hours, he can be forgiven for sounding and looking like a madman.]

That'll be quite the feat, with no pistol to fire with! [Kenway staggers forward onto the road, having tied the blanket around his neck in such a way that it serves as something of a makeshift cloak.] Spare a coat, by any chance? I'm afraid I'm ill-prepared for the winter.

john irving ♱ the terror

[extramuralise]

✒︎ i. |  ARRIVAL｡

[ Maybe he's dreaming. Maybe he's wide awake. Is there any real difference to John Irving, now? The last thing he remembers is already fear, darkness, and pain, then nothing--

Not even darkness, only a void.

It's colder than he remembers it being, too, colder than it's been in at least a month or more. Irving sits up, squinting out the jagged natural opening of what he now realizes to be a cave, not a tent, and sees only snow and more snow.

Well, at least he's used to that.

Still, where is he? ]

Where am I?

[ His voice feels hoarse as if from lack of use, but it surely hasn't been long since last he spoke. How long ago was he stabbed, killed? The fruitlessness of trying to work out timing after one wakes up in what can surely only be the afterlife isn't lost on him, but Irving is a man of numbers almost as much as he is one of faith, so the instinct rises to him regardless, his brain and heart both seeking comfort in the known.

If he can be thankful for anything just now, it's that he's dressed for cold, layered heavily in his greatcoat and slops. Staying here feels unwise, and he may not be precisely dressed for this much cold, snow, and uncertain terrain, he's afraid to hear wolves somewhere unseen in the distance, and he needs to go, to move, lest he fall asleep here and freeze or die of exposure. Likely there are predators, wolves or bears or God only knows what else, that live in this cave themselves.

Never mind that he's dead already, never mind a lot of things.

After what feels like days and miles of wandering blindly along paths and roads through the endless snowblind, Irving reaches a town, small and abandoned, but still this gives him hope. It's as close to a sign of life that he's seen so far, and maybe there will be supplies, food, even, that he can collect. ]

Hello! [ he calls, after a quick scan for footprints or tracks of any kind, after listening for voices or animals. ] H-hello, is there-- I mean you no harm, is there anyone who can help me!

✑ ii. |  HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE｡

[ There is some irony, perhaps, in the fact Irving imagines he might have otherwise quite liked living in a town like this -- rustic and simple, designed for humble, modest living, designed for little more than prayer and sacrifice -- were it not abandoned for reasons unknown, but that fact alone makes the silence heavy and malevolent. The town appears well-enough equipped to him for its size, and the abandoned stores and houses give little to no hint as to what drove their residents out; bankruptcy? Food shortages? Drought? Plague?

Irving had almost ruled out that last one, at least, with relief, until he began to find bodies.

He collects whatever journals he finds, although has yet to open any to read, only taking quick glances to see if they've been used at all first before storing them in his coat pockets. ]

This is ungodly, [ he mutters to himself with increasing fear, growing dread. Draining hope. ] This can only be Hell itself.

[ It no longer surprises him, at least, that Hell should be so relentlessly cold. ]

✒︎ iii. |  THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN｡

[ Despite his fear, despite his explorations bringing him nothing but increasingly dire insights, there is nothing to do but carry on forward, so that is what Irving does. When he reaches the fishing shacks on the ice it is tempting, so very tempting, to see what he might catch if he last a line, but Irving doesn't trust the food here yet, no matter how his stomach protests the abstinence.

He enters, instead, with no further plan but to sit and warm himself for a spell, but then the sound of singing stops him at the door, as clear and haunting as a bell ringing in this vast, empty silence.

Without thinking, without reason, he begins to follow it. Sailors like him know well of tales like these, but he is not thinking of that now, he is only drawn to the sound of another human voice, of the sweet, ancient hymn drawing him in like he were a fish himself. She appears to him like a savior, a dark-eyed, bronze-skinned angel dressed in a heap of furs, standing apart with a spear. A sword? No, a spyglass--

But before he gets any words out, she is upon him like a beast, like a bear that is not a bear, something that has not yet walked upon any inch of the earth recognized by mankind. And he, with nothing at all to fight her off but his cold, cold hands, only one of them gloved, and pockets full of notes and diaries that weigh him down. He hears rather than sees the ice crack beneath him, and manages one simple, desperate cry into the stillness: ]

Please, s-somebody help me! My God, please-- p-please hurry!

🌊 w i l d c a r d｡

[ Choose your own adventure! Hit me up with anything, or PM / plurk / discord me @ reggiemantle or littlesailorclown to discuss in further detail. ]

arrival!!

[fidior]

[ It all feels like a dream. (But too palpable, too real; the familiar cold that worms its ways into his bones despite his own thick clothing, the sterile crispness of so much white. It feels like breathing air no man was truly meant to breathe. It always has.)

Edward has found his way towards the town some time ago. He has filled his belly (with much suspicion and grievance and yet an overarching numbness, stricken into strange detachment by his own disbelief) and he has recovered his shotgun from the dining hall. It's strapped to his back now, though he walks with the constant needling worry that he has hardly any ammunition left. The Creature could be anywhere, or one of Hickey's men. Surely they would be drawn here like vermin, to infiltrate this place (this impossible place; it wasn't on any maps, shouldn't exist at all). .....They may have brought the captain here. Kept in one of these abandoned buildings. Edward has been searching each one, numbly marching through his own periods of overwhelmed shudder, having to pause and take moments to gather himself before he continues on with fresh resolution.

There isn't much to find. But there are bodies, and he has been searching those as well, stooping quietly beside each stiff corpse, throat tight as he carefully tips their heads back to look for any sign of the men he knows. The men he lost sight of. (And the men you've abandoned, a voice whispers beneath his skin.)

So far, none are the men, whether enemy or ally, or the captain. Heavy boots are crunching against snow as he moves down another road, following a line of abandoned homes back towards the entrance to the small town. He doesn't know what to do, other than to keep moving. Keep looking.

—A voice, calling out for help. A voice that gives the man immediate pause; he turns to face the cry, and his eyes widen at the figure moving there. Everything within Little comes to a halt, every breath; for a long, painful moment, he can only stare.

It cannot be. Edward saw Irving's body, saw what had been done to it by that— that monster. He was there when Goodsir opened him up to reveal those horrible, condemning truths. (Hodgson will never recover from what he'd ordered, what he'd done, and oh, how Little knows it well; all of them are Damned men.) This may be Hell, truly.

The name of his fellow lieutenant comes from his parted mouth, breathed in a hush of disbelief, but recognition. ]

John.

[ Edward is filled with an impossible mixture — a yearning to approach the other man, but a horror in the face of what is absolutely a falsity (a trick of the mind? He has lost his own, surely. Or perhaps something even more horrific than that, what he fears beneath everything, ghastly and supernatural; he is facing the spectre of his lost brother.)

So he stands there inbetween both halves of himself, not moving closer, but not flinching away, either. His face is also a blend of the two — eyes wide and wet, but fear tensing his features, making him look stricken to the point it's painful. ]

remy "thirteen" hadley / house md

[symptomatic]

i. methuselah's feast, part one. (cw: passing mention of symptoms/illness)

[ Well, she thinks, at least it's not prison.

Funny, how a night's sleep changes things. One minute, she's sharing a motel room with House; the next, well. There's a lot to unpack about what's going on. It takes what feels like hours and hours, warming up in this— wherever the fuck this is, Milton? Where the fuck is that, Alaska? —hall, staring down at her fingers, clenching and unclenching her toes, shaking out her wrists, trying to warm her muscles up.

When her hands shake, she balls them into fists, as tight as she can. Fingernails press almost painfully into her palms.

(It's the cold. Cold makes your hands shake. It's a normal, physiological response. It's as normal as can fucking be.)

She's happy to distract herself by keeping an eye on that door for newcomers. It's easy enough to approach someone at one end of a table, Thirteen's incoming smile a little wry, drinks in hand. ]

Hey.

[ She offers them the coffee, arm outstretched. ]

You looked like you were freaking out.

[ Delivered honestly, but not unkindly. Her expression flattens a little, then her brows raise up. Somehow, it conveys both What, am I wrong? and Trust me, five minutes ago, I was doing the same thing. ]

ii. methuselah's feast, part two. (the obligatory accelerated cr option)

Okay, take a deep breath for me.

[ Thirteen gets to work quick. She goes from patient to patient, tucking warm fingers against throats to measure pulses, or pressing gently against swollen, sprained wrists. Some are doing okay, but the ones that are worse — bite marks, bloody, some of them even needing stitches — those make her gut twist sharply, unforgiving in its starkness.

Sure, it could be wolves. Or scavengers. Or something else fucking post-apocalyptically insane.

It's during one of those cases, mapping out exactly how injured one of these people are, that someone's daughter starts to cry. Five, maybe six years old, and Thirteen's not apologetic about getting someone's attention as they pass by, bumping her shoulder into theirs in lieu of actually touching them with her hands— ]

—hey, can you help me with—

[ Her chin juts towards the kid. Can you handle it, bud?

And then, later, after she's definitely put her impromptu assistant to work, Thirteen brings coffee. It's an obvious consolation prize, or gold star. Depends on the person. ]

Don't say I never get you anything, [ she says, taking a seat right alongside a section of table, shoulder-to-shoulder with her newfound assistant. ] This is prime, bottom of the barrel, arctic coffee.

iii. hope nobody needs this anymore. (cw: obligatory corpses/gore/it's not lupus, it's bodies.)

[ As far as scavenging goes — and that's what they're doing, they're scavenging and trying to put some pieces of their new reality together, like they're out of some fucking zombie movie made real — Thirteen focuses on the things she knows she'll want. That might run out, without Mayor Twin Peaks's help. A thick-knit, dark blue sweater; thicker socks; boots half a size too big that, blessedly, will fit comfortably as long as she has those socks. Gloves. A beanie. Fishing line, and then a couple fishing hooks that, at a stretch, will do to stitch wounds shut. Not that infection is really the enemy, out here.

She's startled, by the sight of the frozen body. Its mouth agape, its eyes still wide, staring up from the kitchen floor. Near the corpse's right hand is a gun. The front of their shirt is dark, almost black, with old blood, and it's not exactly like this is the first corpse Thirteen's seen in Milton. But it sure is the first one she's seen that looks like it was shot by someone else. ]

Jesus.

[ She gestures to the body, looks over at the person she's, inadvertently, ended up looting a dead town with, ]

Have you seen any others like this?

iv. wildcard. [ feel free to hmu with another kind of starter if you'd like! thirteen is a doctor, so, you know. if you're hurtin', come a'knockin'. ]

ii

[thephix]

[It's almost a relief when someone with more expertise asks her to help, offering clear directions about how best to treat any wounded amongst them. Max follows instructions impeccably; there's no ego at play despite her being more used to giving orders, and she's spent enough time working with Marissa to know how to work effectively as a doctor's assistant without getting too in the way.

Once they've done the best they can and she's collapsed onto a bench, Maurice comes trotting over, tucking himself under the table and resting his head in her lap so she can scratch behind his ears. She's grateful he's here, and grateful that his Shepherd coat will keep him warm in these conditions.

He also serves as a good warning system, giving a low grumble as Thirteen arrives with some terrible coffee. Max murmurs at him that it's alright, and graces Thirteen with a smile.]

It can't be worse than the coffee my ex used to make. [She's a normal person with things like exes. That's a normal person thing to joke about, right?] Thank you.

[It's hot, which counts for pretty much everything right now.]

edward kenway | assassin's creed

[jackdawvision]

ARRIVAL, I.

[Death is bloody cold. That's the first thing that strikes Edward's mind: he's dead. And he died without a damn shirt on either, so he shivers in the cold of the cabin he's woken in, grabbing the moth-eaten blanket off the bed and wrapping it around himself. It's little enough protection, but it's better than walking around with no shirt.

Haytham's not here. Jenny's not here. Tessa's not here, either. That much is a relief, that none of his family has come here. He shudders, and tries, out of habit, to open the Sense he's had as a child.

...nothing.

Well, fuck.

All right. Edward will panic over that later. For now, he needs to get out of this cabin—there's nothing here that he can use, besides the blanket that he's now wrapped around his shoulders, a makeshift cloak to keep the chill off his neck for a little while longer. At least he came here with his trousers and his shoes on, he supposes, although these shoes are not the kind that can stand up to snow for very long. He tugs the blanket up over his head, a sad little facsimile of a hood, and makes his way outside.

It feels like days of wandering, but is really perhaps just an hour or so of wandering and shivering and cursing out the cold, that Edward sees a road, and on it, another lost soul.]

Oi! [He probably looks a sight: a man in a threadbare blanket wearing only pants and a couple of shoes not fit for winter, struggling through the snow to make his way over to this person. Whatever. At least there's another person around.] Tell me you've a map and a spare jacket. Or a shirt. Something.

[A wolf howls in the distance. Edward glances off to the side, and shudders again. Whether that's from the cold or from the fear that seizes his spine just then, he can't quite say.]

At least we know which direction not to go in.

ARRIVAL, II.

[His Assassin robes, a hidden blade, and a pistol. It's not a whole lot, but it's a boon sent from the heavens to someone who has been trudging through the snow in a threadbare blanket. Edward puts on his robes, straps the blade to his forearm, slides the pistol into a holster, and feels more like himself than he has since he woke up in this hell.

The food helps plenty. The information helps even more. It's not much, but it's enough to start with—there is no one in the town but Methuselah and the new arrivals, which makes Edward uneasy.

And there are more coming in by the minute, just as cold and terrified as Edward was when he stumbled through Methuselah's threshold. He does what little he can to help, still recovering from his own trek through the cold, and if someone is willing he'll sit close to them, sharing in the warmth of the fire. He's exhausted, right now, but if someone speaks to him he'll rouse himself for a conversation.]

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE. cw: implication of suicide.

[Edward is no stranger to death, as an Assassin and as a pirate before that. He's made more than his fair share of dead bodies, and before he woke up in a cold cabin, someone had driven a sword through him and left him to bleed out on the floor of his own house, so he likes to think he's old friends with death by now.

Still, it's a hard thing, to find a dead body in the store he's forced his way inside to scavenge for food and supplies. It's a man, little more than twenty, with a gun in hand, dead eyes staring sightlessly out the window. He stands over the dead body for a moment, feeling a strange sort of sorrow for this young man. Then he kneels down, and shuts the boy's eyes.]

May you find a lasting peace, down among the dead.

[With that final respect paid to the dead body, Edward lets his pragmatism take over once more and starts to pry frozen fingers off the gun. It's still useful enough, he reasons, they'll just need to find ammunition and gunpowder. Be a shame to leave this lying around in a corpse's hand. To whoever else he came in here with, as he's looting this poor man's dead body:]

Check and see if there's any food or necessary supplies left. Might be there's still some in the back.

WILD CARD.

[feel free to hmu with a different starter if you're not feeling the ones on offer! or talk to me on mollymauktealeaf so we can work something out.]

Hope no one needs this

[taintedpeony]

[Jin Guangyao was no stranger to bodies or looting corpses. He was a veteran of a war and he knew what needed to be done to survive.]

Of course. But may I ask what that black thing you are picking up is... I've never seen such a device.

[Excuse him he is from ancient China, where guns arent a thing yet.]

sam winchester | supernatural

[coparenting]

ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ

[ Sam's no stranger to abruptly waking up in strange places. Usually he's got some ideas as to exactly how he landed himself in one of those situations, even if it takes a few minutes to shake those recent memories loose, but this is one of those times where he has absolutely no idea. He does remember dragging himself back to his room in the bunker, totally exhausted as usual, and it shouldn't have been possible for some entity to just pluck him right up out of there, right under the nose of several hunters, not to mention Jack, blowing past the best warding that he's ever encountered.

But first things first— he's not in a great situation now. He's in a dusty old cabin, he recognizes the smell of musty wood and the sound of a cold wind whistling through the ragged planks, it seems like it's been abandoned for quite some time. Which wouldn't have been so bad if not for the collapsed pile of broken beams and floorboards from what used to be a second floor that's boxed him in. Prying himself free is easier said than done, and by the time he manages to stumble out of the place he's got a couple of rips in his jacket and jeans and a gash on his arm from his efforts to free himself. He'll just have to deal with that later.

He's picked up his gun on the way out, which makes him feel a little bit less vulnerable. But Cas isn't answering him, so... not great. There's no sign that anyone's been around here at all aside from the smoke he spots drifting from somewhere further down into the forest. That's where he's headed, but he's searching every building he comes across along the way, cautious but hopeful that he'll find either something or someone who can help him figure this out.

When he kicks in the door on a similarly ramshackle cabin to the one that he landed in he definitely hears rustling, but instead of rushing in he calls out, gun in hand though not pointed wildly at the darkness. ]

Hey, anybody in there?

ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ ɪɪ

[ Methuselah isn't as helpful as Sam was hoping that he might be, but he's not going to complain when the old man's offering up shelter and food and assistance and he seems genuinely interested in helping. While he's inherently wary of trusting mysterious people who just happen to be living in an old, clearly troubled and abandoned town, no offense, for now the only rational thing to do is to take the help. He had a bowl of soup thrust into his hands and since he's starving, it feels like he hasn't eaten in days, he does eat it, and he even goes back for coffee. But by the time he's cleaned and wrapped up the worst of his wounds he's already peering back out through the windows at the gloom outside. They've had a steady stream of people trickling in, all of which seem to be just as confused about all of this as he is.

It feels a too eerily similar to what he went through with Azazel, but he keeps those thoughts to himself. It might just mean that he's a little more careful about not turning his back on anyone until he gets a better feel for what's going on around here.

So he does notice that someone's followed him to the door, curious or concerned or maybe they just have the same thought that he does. He turns as he's zipping his jacket up, which isn't the best wear for a cold night like this, but it'll do. ]

I'm going back. There could be more people trapped or lost out there.

[ Living ones. And maybe he'll find a few more clues about Milton while he's at it. ]

ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ/ᴏᴏᴄ

[ ooc: I'm totally open to tweaking these prompts or doing a whole new one, just lmk if you want to plot! Sam here is from early season 13 but don't feel like you have to know anything about Supernatural to hop in, I'm happy to explain any relevant details c: apologizes in advance for slow tags, I'm in the middle of my work week but I wanted to get this up asap lol ]

arrival ii —; (also lmk if spoilers are ok or not and i'll keep it general!)

[birkenstock]

You can't possibly be thinking of going out there again on your own.

[ It's cold, it's dark (and it's only going to get darker, she thinks; it's just a feeling she has), and she's pretty sure there are things lurking out there that should not be faced head on. Certainly not by oneself.

Not that this very tall man probably couldn't handle himself, but she's still going to be concerned. ]

Isn't that what a buddy system's for?

[ Wait. Did she just volunteer herself?

Oh, well. ]

Nie Huaisang | The Untamed

[fanoperator]

Arrival

[When Huaisang awakens in the snow, he feels a jolt of sheer terror from the stupidity of it. He comes from a mountain region. He knows better than to take a nap in the snow. People die that way.

But as he straightens up, dressed in multiple layers of flowing, expensively embroidered silk, Huaisang becomes aware that he doesn't recognize these woods. The last that he remembers, it was late summer. Definitely not this late.

Obviously he's confused. He's misremembered. That makes sense, if he's fallen asleep in the snow. Or this is some kind of spell. Hugging his arms around himself for warmth, Huaisang looks around to determine downhill and then sets off that way. The sight of someone else is an immense relief, even if he is trapped in some kind of weird illusion spell (but why? who would want to trap him? is it a demon feeding on him?). Waving one of his long, flowing sleeves (which is large enough to be a flag, but it's a silvery gray that doesn't stand out at all against the snow), Huaisang starts running (trudging faster, really, since the snow is too deep to properly run and he feels so much heavier than he should).] Hello? Hello! Please!


The Feast

[This is all deeply strange and unnerving, but at least it's warm here. All his layers of silk are sopping wet, so he's taken off more of them than is decent and hung them up where he can, so he looks like he's surrounded by a soggy gray tent as he sits on the floor with a bowl of stew, wearing light gray silks that look like pajama pants and a wrap top. The thin cloth is see-through, since it's supposed to have multiple layers over it, so he sits with his knees bent up, legs pressed tight together, and face flaming. Everything about this place is unfamiliar to him, and that's terrifying. He's desperate for help or protection, so he turns full-strength puppy eyes on anyone who looks his way.] Are you lost here, too?


Someone Else's Home

[Once he's been fed and he's slightly less soggy, Huaisang goes out as Methuselah encourages, exploring the town for answers or supplies. But there aren't answers to be found, and everything he discovers only makes him feel more confused.

Letting himself into one of the houses as he wanders aimlessly, Huaisang stops short and blinks as he encounters a living stranger among these houses of the dead.] Oh! Hello. I'm so sorry. Do you live here?

[Here, in this town, but also possibly here in this house. Huaisang is going to have to find somewhere to stay, after all. It's already dark and he's already exhausted. Whether he can stay here or not, he desperately doesn't want to go back into the street among the frozen dead.]


The Bird Hunter

[Huaisang isn't exactly a survival skills kind of person. He's a spoiled nobleman's younger son kind of person. But he has grown up in the mountains, and he has made a hobby of hunting birds. Usually that's been for pleasure, tracking and carefully capturing songbirds, but he does know how to hunt wild game birds, as well. Knowing how to do something in this terrifying and unfamiliar place makes him feel better, at least, so he's out in the woods with a bag, a knife, and some twine, plus a little bit of birdseed he found in one of the shops.

His layers of impractical long robes are tied up now, secured tight around his shins so that it looks like he's wearing harem pants, but at least his boots are more sensible than the rest of his attire, and now his outfit isn't dragging in the snow.

Perched on a low tree branch, Huaisang whittles twigs into the slim stakes he needs to set his next trap. When he sees someone else headed his way, he hops up at once, worried that they're walking too close to one of his traps and might crash through it without noticing.] Wait wait wait wait wait careful!


You Scream, I Scream, we all Scream for the Ice

[Maybe he should have known better than to follow that siren's call, but everything here is unfamiliar to him, and he's never seen--or heard--anything like her. A queen, or probably a goddess. She looks like Guanyin, or perhaps one of the other bodhisattvas, and she's calling to him. Perhaps she knows the way home, and she can help.

But everything goes wrong very suddenly, as she warps into a monster. He starts screaming at the sight, screaming as she crashes into him, screaming as the ice fractures and the icy water claims him. His panicked thrashing knocks her off easily enough, but he doesn't know how to swim and he doesn't have the sense to stop screaming once he hits the water, so he takes a breath of water and chokes on it as he continues thrashing, blind with panic and desperate for help.]


Wildcard

[Playing Huaisang from relatively early canon, while he's got plenty of grief but doesn't yet Know Things. I prefer prose tags but can match whatever! Feel free to ping me at marlovingian for plotting.]

the bird hunter

[infiniteheart]

[Jiang Yanli isn't much of a survival skills person either but she knows that every pair of hands in situations like this can be of use. And she's been around her brothers enough to have some basic idea of what goes on with hunting so she stops immediately.

As for herself, she's completely traded her robes in favor of a full set of winter-gear: over-sized parka, fur hat, thick gloves, boots, and scaf. She's barely recognizable as herself aside from the long black hair that's been gathered into a practical braid and her light ember eyes.]

Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone else was out here.

[At the moment, she's carrying a large basket for foraging. Honestly, she's not even sure what she's hoping to find out here in such an unfamiliar climate but much like this fellow, she wants to be able to do something that's useful.]

Jiang Yanli | Mo Dao Zu Shi

[infiniteheart]

A. Arrival

[Jiang Yanli is unacccustomed to the cold, being from a much warmer and temperate region of the world. As the daughter of aristocrats in ancient China, she's also not used to setting foot outside her home without an escort, whether they be disciples of her sect or her protective younger brothers. The fine hanfu of violet silk is just as ill-suited to the climate as she is. It doesn't take long for her matching shoes to become soaked in the snow or for her to start struggling through it. She's shivering and her teeth are chattering violently but she keeps walking through it regardless, jaw set stubbornly and chin held high in a way that'd make even her critical mother proud.

The trek's hard going. The longer she goes on, the harder it becomes to focus or even remember anything but the harsh, relentless cold exhausting her and wearing her down. She stil has enough strength and mental capacity in the face of rapidly approaching hypothermia to understand that she needs to find shelter and fast or she's going to die out here, alone and separated from everyone she knows and loves.

Fortunately, her stubborn efforts are rewarded in time. Spotting a nearby cave to take shelter in, she makes a beeline for it, stumbling through the entrance and collapsing immediately. The impact hurts, honestly more than falls usually hurt her, but she's too exhausted to think about that now. She simply picks herself up as best as she can, dragging herself deeper into the cave, oblivious to anyone or anything else that might be currently residing there. After Jiang Yanli rests for a bit, she'll have to look around for wood and build a fire. The situation could be worse; at least, she has a lighter on her. She is a cook, after all.]

B. Hope Nobody Needs This Anymore

[After she's somehow managed to find her way into town, been fed, and obtained some new clothing that's a little more suitable than what she'd been wearing before, Jiang Yanli sets about exploring the ruined town. This might have to be her new home for a while until she can eventually make her way back to Lotus Pier where she belongs and it'd be best for her to get know it, at least a little. She doesn't know where she is or how she got here but it's clear it's the wake of a some kind of disaster. The situation is dire and she knows from personal experience that those require every able person to do their part.

And it's very clear to Jiang Yanli from the moment she gets her bearings in town that there is a lot for her to do. She immediately gets busy, systematically going into each and every building, regardless of the bodies inside or out. She barely seems to pay the corpses any mind and certainly shows none of the visible shock or horror one might expect from a young woman of her breeding. All that's visible is a calm, placid expression but it's not hard make out a stubborn glint of determination in her eyes. She simply sets out the task of gathering whatever useful supplies she can find and starts efficiently organizing them into several large piles in one of the buildings: one for clothing, one for blankets, one for tools, and other for cookware.

Before getting to work, she doesn't really think to inform anyone about what she's doing or even ask for help. Her demeanor seems friendly and approachable enough and that sure is a rather large amount of vital supplies she's apparently hoarding without any clear intention on what she plans to do with it.]

C. The Siren of Milton Basin

[Normally, Jiang Yanli isn't one to venture far from home but once she's built up enough of a solid foundation on other tasks, she takes it upon herself to investigate the surrounding area a little bit. While living in frigid temperatures is very new to her, she's used to living near the water and feels naturally drawn to it. If she closes her eyes and imagines hard enough, maybe this foreign land might start to feel a little more like home to her with time. After all, she's stuck here for the time being whether she likes it or not.

She's been quiet for the most part since her arrival, only really speaking if spoken to and maintaining a low key presence. It's simply the way she is until she has more time to adjust and warm up to people However, when the siren starts singing, she speaks without prompting, with a quiet edge of authority to her voice.]

Be careful. Not every spirit that dwells near water is friendly.

[Even if the song truly is beautiful and she herself feels a pull to investigate it further herself.]

D. Wildcard

[Choose your own adventure!]

[OOC: I'm a bit rusty with Yanli and completely undecided on canonpoint other than at some point before she hooks back up with Jin Zixuan. Yanli's novel timeline with supplementary canon from the donghua.]

[taintedpeony]

[Jin Guangyao was having a very bad day, or he was before he woke up to wherever he was now. He was left in charge of making certain the Phoenix Mountain event went without a hitch. Maybe then he could prove his worth and his father would see that he was a worthy son But between Nie Mingjue and Wei Wuxian, eliminating two-thirds of the prey and being put down by his stepmother in front of everyone...It was terrible.

He must have passed out. He had no idea where Er-ge or Wangji went. They were right next to him, everyone was there... It was cold. Colder than Heijan ever was. Colder than Qinghe, It was a good thing that he had found a cave and was in the process of making a fire, with dry grass and wood he had gathered.

His eyes widened at the newcomer. He scurries to his feet to give her a formal bow.]

Maiden Jiang. Please have a seat and I'll get this fire going as soon as I am able to.

ken ✰ barbie

[blondfragility]

FEAST

---

( Ken is rapidly experiencing a lot of Firsts in a very short time. For example, he has never really seen snow. Not like this, anyway, and his only experience with the stuff all together was remarkably fleeting and ... Well. It wasn't real snow, and the cold he felt then was a strange sort of make-believe type chill. After all, he was a toy, and was unable to feel temperature in any real sort of capacity. So the bone-deep chill is also new as well as being incredibly shocking to the system. The brightly coloured, tie-dyed sweater he arrived in does little to keep out the biting cold (though thankfully he can adjust his bandana down over his ears to help keep them from feeling like they're about to fall off).

Continuing on the list of This Has Never Happened To Me, Ken feels distinctly less doll-like. Which is to say, there are some curious physical changes that he'll have to look into eventually. Even he can assume that the human-ness is also the cause for him feeling so cold. It must also be the reason why his stomach grumbles at the smell and the sight of the food. He watches the people around him, copying the way they eat (another first for him to check off the list). The tea takes him by surprise. He's not expecting it to be quite so hot, and as if it wasn't already strange for him to try and drink it without spilling, the heat of it makes him yelp a bit as he burns his tongue. )

Why would anyone drink this?

( This is gonna be a long learning curve. )

MOVING IN

---

( The houses in Milton are as removed from a Dreamhouse as anything can get, but, for Ken, there's a novelty to the idea that he has his own home. Maybe it's not pretty and perfect and it gives him the heebie-jeebies, but it's his. More or less. It'll take some redecorating, and he's going to have to learn how to make a fire in the fireplace to fight away the cold. One of those things he can do without help. In the closets he finds a parka and some clothes that are a bit too big. Strange, he's never had clothes that didn't just fit him. The extra room in the parka means he can shove a couple sweaters underneath it, bundling himself up to brave the outside.

He can be found by other Newcomers at the clothing store. Nothing there is really his style, lacking a lot of brightness and fringe and flair. He also has no idea what size he is. His choices are educated guesses at best. Anyone paying attention might notice he's favouring fashion over function.

You can also catch him, perhaps, in the little grocery store. Pickings are slim and he has no idea what's even good, so, much like clothes, he grabs what seems to be all right. Arms full of non-perishable items, he walks up to the first person he sees. )

Hey, do you know what I do with these?

PRETTY WOMAN

---

( Ken waddles around Milton, bundled up in his slightly-too-big parka and various sweaters and scarves he's found. He's trying to redecorate his chosen home, which is a lot more work than he thought, but his cleaning attempts at least keep him warm. Attempts, because he doesn't know what the different products are, but he knows in theory how a person cleans and there's something oddly satisfying when he sweeps away the dust.

Cleaning isn't redecorating, though. That's why Ken ventures into the little town, looking for things to use as decor in the various shops and the homes that aren't claimed. His wandering takes him down by the basin because he saw a little bunny rabbit hopping around. Naturally, he finds that delightful, so he follows it to see if maybe there are more. Sadly, there aren't, but he's about to poke around the cabin when he hears the singing.

It's the most beautiful singing he's ever heard, which is saying a lot, because in Barbieland there are great singers. He looks out to the frozen waters and sees her, a blonde vision in pink with a dazzling smile, arms held out to him. )

Barbie! Thank Goodness you're here!

( Ken starts running towards her, feet slipping underneath him as he teeters along the slippery ice.

Someone might want to stop him. )

WILDCARD

---

Dealer's choice! Ken can be found all over, trying to figure out how to live life as Not A Doll in Fake Malibu. Peep him at the farm looking for horse stuff to put in his house or maybe he's trying to build a snowman. Go crazy, or you can PM or hit up blackspire if you wanna discuss things.

pretty woman (obvs) —;

[birkenstock]

Um — Ken? [ Oh, she's here all right, but she isn't where Ken's looking out to. ] Stop!

[ Standing a safe enough distance away from the frigid Basin water which seems to have a thick enough sheet of ice over it is a very cold, currently frightened blonde. Compared to the siren calling to him, her countenance must look immediately dimmed and even a little tarnished by the way the cold has both made her lips a little bluer, and her cheeks and nose almost too flushed.

That (apparently) is what it means to be human, though. All of those wonderful perfections, the flawless skin and immaculate make-up is nowhere to be seen on Barbie right now, and her eyes are wide with fear when she very nearly dives forward to pull Ken back from the grasp of a ... well, a very, very beautiful woman currently calling out to her as well.

(We are ... not going to entertain what that means at this precise moment.) ]

Ken, that's not me! I'm me!

Eddie Munson | Stranger Things

[satanicpanics]

1. Arrival

[ It’s an incredibly odd feeling, being snatched back from the very brink of death. Sounds, sights, scents—they all sort of melt away into a general feeling of pleasant nothingness, and then it all comes rushing back at breakneck speed, like the drop in a rollercoaster.

He doesn’t ask why or how. The why’s don’t really matter, and how’s—well, he’s seen plenty of shit that he can’t explain in the last week alone. How doesn’t always have an explanation. It’s the where that’s a little more concerning, because Eddie remembers where he was last, and it didn’t look a thing like the snowy woods he’s found himself in right now.

Find the trailer, find the gate, his foggy mind urges him, but as struggles to upright himself from a snowdrift, it becomes abundantly clear that he’s not going anywhere. He’s injured, he’s freezing, and he’s alone. There’s blood smeared on his face, on his neck, on his hands, soaking through his shirt and freezing in the open air, and none of that bodes particularly well. ]

Shit—

[ He gasps out a haggard breath (who would have thought he’d be taking another one of those?) and looks around, searching desperately for anything that could be helpful in the slightest, but there’s nothing. Only bare trees and his own blood on the snow. There is, however, the telltale sound of snow crunching beneath someone’s feet.

Normally, his fight or flight would kick in and he’d make a run for it, but that really isn’t an option right now. It doesn’t really matter; his nerves are already frayed to threads and if he’s not going to die from his wounds, he’s going to die from frostbite. Whatever’s coming towards him could not make the situation much worse. ]

Hey—a little help here? Please?

2. Arrival, II

[ It takes some time, but someone with the skill to do so stitches and bandages him up, and he could not be more grateful. The wounds are gnarly, some of them bone-deep, and the cold only serves to make them ache all the more, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that, not only is he alive, but those scars are going to be pretty damn cool.

There had been nothing strewn about Eddie when he arrived, but in the community hall, one very special and very familiar item catches his eye almost immediately: a red and black electric guitar. He makes a mad dash for it—“dash” being used loosely here; rather, he limps in its direction as quickly as he can with someone shouting after him that he needs to sit back down before he rips his stitches. He doesn’t listen. He cradles the guitar in his arms and runs his fingers over the strings. ]

Oh, sweetheart, I never should have left you back there. What was I thinking? You fought so bravely out there, you know?

[ Yeah, just…it’s fine. Give him a moment. There’s no amp and no electricity to run an amp, but hey, that doesn’t matter. He’ll figure it out later. ]

3. Hope Nobody Needs This Anymore

[ Weeks in, Eddie’s wounds are still healing and he’s still moving slowly. Maybe he’ll always move slowly now—sort of like that time his uncle broke a leg at the plant and never moved quite the same way again. Winters were always the worst for him, and although he never said anything, Eddie could tell that the cold pained him. And this place is so cold, it may as well be locked in a permanent winter.

Milton is eerie, quiet and abandoned and frozen in time. It’s so much like the Upside Down, and it does nothing for his nerves, but exploring the houses and picking up little trinkets and tools like a magpie helps to soothe him just a little bit. The houses he’s picked through thus far have all been empty, but as he ventures into the next one and tries the cracked television set, hoping that this may be the one to turn on with the sweet, buzzing sound of static…well, there’s the corpse of an old man settled in a nearby armchair, like he fell asleep there one night and never woke again. ]

Jesus Christ!

[ Eddie scrambles backwards towards the door, but backs right into another person and sends them both tumbling backwards. Sorry, whoever you are.]

4. Wildcard

[ Whatever you like! Surprise me or grab me at muttonchops if you want to plan something! ]

3

[jackdawvision]

[Edward has been ransacking the houses with a kind of pragmatic determination that says he’s done something like this before: picked a place clean of everything but the bodies (and picked the bodies clean of everything on them). Right now he’s found a way inside and is stuffing what few winter clothes he can find into a scavenged bag, and is more surprised at the presence of another living person in the house than, you know. The dead body.

He’s seen dead bodies before. A lot of them he made himself. This one is…still unsettling to him, but he rallies quickly.]

If you check his pockets he might have something useful on his person.

iggy | maximum ride

[greatwhitehope]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

I could have told you that, [ iggy groans as he remains lying on the ground. listening to the sounds around him, it doesn't sound like a lab, whatever told him he was unnatural (duh, dude,) isn't here. wherever here is. aside from the feeling of cold, it smells like ice, clean and sharp and natural, unlike the antiseptic smell of the labs.

eventually, he sits up, stands up, unfolding to his full height. his shoulders are outrageously broad, but the rest of him is pure string bean, long and lanky. it smells of cold and snow, but the clear presence of snow and ice does little to help him orient himself. he sniffs the air again and follows his nose to the scent of fire, stumbling and tripping his way out of the forest (?)

eventually he makes it to the road and he pauses, putting his hands on his hips. ]

Well, fellas, this looks great to me!

[ a glance at the boy would reveal that his pale blue eyes are not seeing anything at all. he's blind. ]

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

[ iggy's bag is filled with canned goods and his stomach is filled with canned goods, minus the cans, and the teenager is calmly ripping pages from a book. he can't read them so if they're going to be useful then they're going to be used to keep him warm and keep the fire roaring.

the fire is visible through the open door as is the blond boy sitting next to it. when he hears someone outside, he pipes up: ]

You can come in, it's pretty warm now. [ he flings the remains of the book into the fire and seems to watch the book spark and pop as it ignites. ] Zero stars, would not read again.

THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

[ should a blind kid be traversing a path built for grand canyon burros? no. is he traversing a path built for grand canyon burros? yes. the path is full of berries he can't identify so he manfully refrains from eating on the spot and maybe he has the silly idea of fishing. usually if something is against white, say the top of a frozen lake, iggy can see semi-see, white vision. penguins are excellent for this reason alone.

unfortunately, his white vision is about as effective as the rest of his vision (read: not) so he will not be catching any fish this time. the singing probably scared them all away anyway.

his blindness is a benefit this time, he can't see the siren and the effect is somewhat lost on him, enough that he can will himself to stay put. but this is some shady shit and his fight or flight response has always been... well.

he shrugs his jacket off despite the cold and a huge pair of wings unfurl from his back. his wingspan is massive, fourteen feet across, feathers white and ivory and cream, pinions speckled palest grey like an eggshell. he looks like a teen angel. those huge wings flap once, twice, and he attempts to lift off but goes literally no where. his wings no longer have the strength to heft him off the ground. ]

Oh geez, this is embarrassing. I really hope you're not a super pretty girl.

[ he's got his priorities on point. ]

WILDCARD

( go where you're heart takes you or pm me if you want to hash something out. iggy is blind, but he's a teenager so he's nosy as fuck and will get in people's business and then feign innocence xoxo )

nobody needs this;

[questioningmermaids]

Oh thank God. [ Blind teen, meet smell-less man. Holland March was going to enter into the warm looking building anyway but he'll do it with even more vigor at the invitation: he'd been hoping there's less corpses and generally unsettling shit here, and he's fairly sure a fire and company means there's a lesser chance of anything too gross or spooky. Despite his thought process he seems perfectly at home with the fact that he's in this current situation, and seeing a teenager around doesn't strike him as weird at all--He's still fairly certain this is an incredibly vivid dream and he's passed out somewhere. Denial's a powerful tool. ]

Hey. You find any cigarettes? Beer?

Holland March | The Nice Guys (general cw for alcoholism)

[questioningmermaids]

i. arrival - in the cold;
[ March isn't unfamiliar with the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, nor is he unused waking up in strange places. On a good day he'll startle upright in his house, but he's not above passing out in an alley from time to time.

The experience he's undergoing now, however, is vastly different. The constants aren't there: usually, Holly will inevitably pick him up from wherever he's passed out and usually, he's still in Los Angeles. Now neither things are happening. It's worse.

March is probably lucky to wake up, because he's in a cotton suit more suited for the Californian summer and the temperature currently surrounding him is absolutely not that. It's ice cold, and to top it off the blonde has found himself not just in a snow drift but also completely covered in the falling flakes. He rises like a newly awakened vampire, albeit with an incredibly high pitched, frightened gasp as the cold actually sets in with a shock. ]

Oh, fuck--oh---shit--

[ He's scrambling upwards, clawing his way out of the bank with a flail of his arms. For a moment it looks like he's trying to swim but he manages to get upright, shivering and swearing and generally making a big scene.

March barely has time to look around: he takes one step out of the little snow bank and his woefully traction and gripless shoes betray him, causing him to slam right back onto the ice square on his onto his back. His tailbone stings. March groans and considers just staying there and freezing to death. ]


ii. arrival - feast;
[ March isn't ready to explore yet. Instead he's got multiple blankets around him and he's pulled up a chair almost directly by the fire, staring into the embers, a lit cigarette in his hand and his jaw clenched.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't like anything here--nothing is adding up, and as incompetent as he can be he's still a fairly good detective. He may be dumb but he's smart, and he doesn't like things that just don't make sense. It drives him crazy.

He also may or may not be a little worried about his daughter. If someone joins him--or even if someone doesn't--he'll mutter to himself the one question that's sticking with him the most. The hard hitting question. The one fact that itches the most and is twisting around in his gut. ]

Why are we in Canada?


iii. the siren;
[ March insists it's because he's curious about what's out there but if he looks deep down inside himself (he won't) it's just that he's going a little stir crazy staying in one place. He grabs the most layers he can possibly find including a very fetching trapper hat and decides in a fit of stir craziness that he'll go exploring, maybe try to find some answers to the questions he has and maybe--hopefully--find a six pack or some scotch somewhere, just for him. The path down to the basin sucks but he's got proper shoes now, big ol' stomping boots to make it easier.

He's managed to carefully traverse his way towards the lake when he hears it. Singing. Beautiful singing, too, and after he gets closer he can make out a person. A very pretty person.

A very very pretty person. ]

Hey.

[ There's a huge part of him that still thinks he's still drunk and passed out in LA somewhere, or even in some sort of coma or something, because no way this is real. So he's decided to just go for it. Not question it. Yeah, hell yeah, pretty, sexy lady. He'll move towards the siren without a single ounce of hesitation.

Someone should probably intervene. ]


iv. wildcard;
[ Feel free to message me if you'd like a different starter or just to plot! ]

arrival — feast;

[birkenstock]

Hi Ken!

[ The greeting slips out past her lips before she can temper herself, the way his face immediately seems so familiar — even if the rest of him doesn't quite add up. He's a little more harried than usual, for one thing, and his hair (which is usually far more immaculate and blond) is darker and sticks up in strange places like he hasn't seen a comb in over twenty-four hours. (It's ... very un-Ken-like.)

She's already well aware that she isn't in Barbieland anymore, but this also absolutely isn't California either. And while she's familiar with Canada from Canada Barbie (Dolls of the World Edition®), she never really realized how cold it is, if Canada is where they are. Or (otherwise) how lost she is. Or how awful it feels to be a real human person in these conditions.

She frowns at the man, this not-Ken, and unceremoniously flops down to join him.

At least the fire is nice. ]

Oh. [ She exhales. ] I'm sorry, you're not like any Ken I've seen in Barbieland. You're probably not even a Ken at all, are you?

[ Barbie, you can't just ask that — ]

Clayton Epps | Original

[dr_unconscious]

1. Methuselah's Feast

[Never mind how he got here, the strange voice, the strange place, the lack of his powers, or the bitter journey to this decrepit town in the middle of it all. Clayton has had a few hours to be anxious about all of this and slowly start to come to terms with it. Focusing on the biting cold sinking into snowmelt-soaked socks, one step in front of the other, helps. Doing his job gets him the rest of the way.]

Alright - easy does it. I'm not going anywhere.

[The man - tall-ish and broad, thirty-something, curly black hair and a salt-and-pepper beard that looks like he had time to trim it this morning, which he did - keeps his voice low and steady as he pulls another blanket over the shoulders of the person aggressively trembling on the cot. There aren't many to go around and plenty of cold people that could use one, but triage demands that this particular person needs them more, based on the gaping wound in their side. Clayton has one hand pressed firmly over the bloodied cloth as he fumbles with a sewing kit with the other. A frown creases his brow.

[Movement from someone passing behind him catches his eye. Clayton twists slightly, raising his voice to draw their attention.]

Hey--can I borrow you for a sec?

II. Hope nobody needs this anymore

[Clayton finds an easy rhythm staying in the community center, at least at first. There's never a shortage of people to treat after all. But that also means their limited medical supplies, already pulled thin, start to run out quickly. Soon it becomes obvious that Clayton won't be able to continue helping people unless he leaves to find more of them.

[His hands are forced. Clayton buddies up, obviously, because going alone sounds like a recipe for disaster, and begins the unenviable task of rooting through people's homes. Inevitably, there's a body.]

Shit.

[Autopsies are definitely not Clayton's specialty, but he doesn't need much more than a passive understanding of medicine and a pair of eyes to see that this person probably died of exposure. They're wrapped in a thin blanket, huddled in the corner of a decrepit house on the edge of town.

Clayton kneels down next to them with a knot in his throat. Just because death isn't a stranger to him doesn't mean he's comfortable with seeing it, and he probably never will be.]

Caught in a blizzard, probably. [Clayton reaches out to close their eyes, winces at how difficult it is, like their eyelids are frozen in place.] Poor bastard. Think the soil's soft enough to bury 'em?

[lightningruins]

You gonna dig one grave per person? [Lewin asks, crouching beside the body, on the opposite side as Clayton. He tugs the sheet back a bit more, a quick check for anything unusual, with the practiced air of someone who looks over a lot of corpses.]

I figured a mass grave would be better for the town, unless we're planning on reenacting the Donner Party. [As he brings up that cheerful bit of comparison, he slides a hand into one of the corpse's pockets, feeling for any contents.]

hanna skarpsvärd | original character

[neither]

methuselah's feast.

[ Hanna remembers:—

—the snow. Trudging through it. How bitterly, painfully cold it was, and how everything became an endless void of white. She remembers things in fragments: an arm around her, barely warm, helping her put one foot in front of the other; the blurry glimpse of a church steeple in the distance, so very far away; snow, blowing in through the cracks in the wooden walls, and a gasp as her legs gave way.

She thinks, maybe, some part of her is still in that church. That this is a dream. That this is the only dream she will ever have now, a wight with no need for sleep, all because her body is in that church, with Lee. Forever, until the end of time.

How funny, then, that this is life now. Another world, not so far from Småland, still surrounded by the long rule of winter. ]

It doesn't feel very real, being here.

[ Her words come out without warning, quiet and hesitant. Blue eyes blink slowly, once, twice, and slowly seem to come to awareness. She looks around her — she is at a table, she is with others in a hall, drinking from a mug she does not remember how she obtained — and she allows these things to settle inside of her as the truth. Anchors. Handholds, back into a world with shelter, and fire, and warm tea in her hands.

Hanna does not smile at her new companion. But she does focus a little more, seems genuinely curious as she adds, softly, ]

Does it, to you?

hope nobody needs this anymore.

[ Bodies. More and more of them reveal themselves over time. Hanna finds things that seem like they will become useful: a can-opener, a small knife, a dead man's gloves, some incomprehensible (shopping?) list he kept in the inside pocket of his coat. A backpack, where she begins to collect the things she struggles to not think of as evidence. Perhaps it is evidence, in a way. Old photographs, creased with half and quarter-folds. Drivers licenses, and faded sunflower keychains, and keys that must have opened the things all these people thought of as valuable.

And, of course. Bodies. This is the third house Hanna has been to, and her plan is the same as the rest. She finds sheets. She wraps the bodies as best she can. She brings them, one at a time, into the backyard, and lines them up neatly, as if it would be easy to dig through frozen earth.

For most of the day, Hanna has worked quietly alongside the people she's encountered. Now, for only a moment, she's still, quietly frowning down at an open diary in the second-floor bedroom.

She doesn't look up when she hears floorboards creak. Just says, quietly, ]

They wrote about what happened here.

wildcard.

[ throw anything her way! hanna is an original character from a scandinoir-inspired verse, so there is likely to be discussion of murder and bodies and some light gore going forward, as is genre-appropriate. feel free to jump into anything, or pm me if you'd like to plot! ]

hope nobody needs this anymore.

[worn]

[ The first day they arrive, Levi poses a single thought: Perhaps we are dead.

This place, Milton — it's not a place for the living. It's a place that death has passed through, a place where death lingers, like a coat of dust. But needs must, and the idea of succumbing to a second death isn't quite one he's willing to entertain for much longer than a moment. (But still, for a moment—)

They go through three houses together, almost entirely in silence. He puts fallen belongings back where he imagines they'd once been — books back on shelves, kitchen utensils back in drawers — even though there's no one the gestures really benefit. The bodies get wrapped up and placed out in the yard, awaiting a burial that will likely never happen, not in this cold. A pyre, perhaps. But that is not his place to suggest.

It's mid-afternoon when he finishes up on the first floor. He lingers a moment in the kitchen, moving a couple of chairs so they align with the tiles on the floor.

(He thinks about Julia, about the children. He had made sure, years ago, that they would be taken care of if anything ever happened to him. It had felt natural, an obligatory part of his particular line of work. But he still worries. Well, not worries, but just— thinks. He hadn't meant to leave them, after all. Would they have found his body by now? Would anyone pick up the investigation they'd left behind?)

He looks down at the wedding band he still wears as he goes up the stairs. ]

What does it say?

[ (His hand has already fallen back to his side.) ]

Bucky Barnes AKA the asset | MCU | OTA

[worthallthis]

I. Arrival

The asset knows about waking up in the cold. He always wake up in the cold. Or in pain. One of the two. Finding himself curled up in the snow with the metal arm practically frozen in place is a little strange, but the cold... the cold is familiar. So is not knowing how he got here. That happens a lot, too.

He's alone. That's not right. There should be techs, guards, handlers...

... except no, he didn't go back to the safehouse. To the bank. To the handlers. So being alone is appropriate. He picks himself up, ignoring the aches and the unusual heaviness of the arm, staggers a little, and starts walking. There should at least be a building or a cave or something out of the wind. He's... pretty sure he knows how to start a fire. Pretty sure.


II. Feast

The asset is not supposed to ask questions, but he is... very confused. He huddles in a corner of the schoolhouse building sipping at a bowl of soup, the only food that seemed familiar from the kinds of things HYDRA would feed him (and it's warm, oh god it's warm). He watches people warily, uncertainly, flinching back when anyone gets too close. Normally he'd have that under control, he's not supposed to react when people approach, but he's pretty overwhelmed right now.

No one looks like a tech or a handler. They all look like civilians. He knows how to pretend with civilians, he does, he can blend in when he needs to. But that's on a mission, when he has a goal and a time limit. This is-- not that.

So he watches, trying to put some kind of familiar name to this gathering of apparently equally confused people, and drinks soup. He won't speak unless spoken to, but he'll respond if someone does make an attempt.


III. Exploring

With no mission and no goal, the asset sets about at least mapping out the surroundings. And scrounging up better clothes than the ratty shirt he'd thrown over the tac vest and the metal arm, because wearing the tac vest all the time is kind of exhausting and uncomfortable-- unusual but a lot of things are unusual, so he just deals with it like all the rest.

He can be found prowling the mostly-empty village in orderly patterns, like an actual patrol, and checking in each abandoned building, eventually layering up in multiple shirts and a couple pairs of pants, needing to be warm if he can't be completely frozen in his copious downtime.

He avoids the lake, though he does go down into the basin once or twice to check the buildings there. Once he retraces his steps back the way he came, but can't find the same patch of snow and trees where he woke up.


IV. Hunting

There had been two of his guns on the feasting table, which he'd retrieved immediately. Clearly supplies are limited, so he's using them sparingly rather than wildly as is his wont on missions when HYDRA can just resupply him at any time. But this is still something he knows, and once he has the town and near surroundings mapped out, he still has... a lot of downtime on his hands.

So between scavenging for warm clothes, blankets, and any other useful items, the asset goes hunting. He prowls through the snow and woods, gun out, stalking deer and wolves and anything else big enough to skin and eat. He remembers how to set snares for rabbits, for some reason, and checks them obsessively.

If he finds you've set one of those snares off on accident (or on purpose) he'll glare at you and wait pointedly for you to step aside so he can fix it.

II

[forasecond]

Number Five is perched near the flames, his clothes are mostly dry now, and the coffee in his mug nearly drained. He’ll have to get another cup soon, but… he’s people-watching at the moment. There are plenty of them bustling all about, some people still trickling in, some getting wounds tended to, others still eating or drinking.

But it’s the quiet guy who’s all but fully isolated himself in a corner that catches Five’s attention at the moment. He’s a little twitchy, even if it’s in a subtle way most people might miss, Five can see it. He feels the same itch under his own skin, so maybe it’s a matter of like knowing like.

He gets up from the chair he’s been sitting in and wanders off to fill up his mug with another round of coffee, and grabs a second cup that he uses as a peace offering of sorts when he approaches the guy, “Coffee,” he explains, holding it out to him. “Not the best, but it does the trick.”

castiel | supernatural

[dirtytrenchcoat]

ONE █ ARRIVAL

[Sheets of white, laid out tidily under a dreary gray sky are the first thing Castiel pinpoints when he comes to. Then, abruptly, the sting of cold seeping through the fabric of his trenchcoat, and the damp discomfort of melting ice at his ankles. Things he shouldn't feel, in a place he can't register, burden him with uncertainty and so he leans toward caution. What he knows of frigid weather and vast terrain aren't comforting thoughts.

The joints of his vessel pop in protest as Castiel finds his way to his feet, and he snatches up the familiar glint of his sword in the snow beside him. Grace diminished, his endurance remains unstifled and so he stomps through the thick masses of snow, to find a clearing or a vantage point that can give him a better look at the expanse of land in front of him.

He knows this isn't right, worry etched into his face and in the lines of his forehead. The longer he stays out in the harsh weather, the more and more he can feel it. The stinging at his eyes and lips, and the ache in his limbs. He looks like a drowned dog, thick mats of black hair protruding from his scalp and pasted down from melted snow all at odd angles. There's a certain desperation to his movements, overtrained and hyper-focused, he's determined to find civilization and then a way home. Wherever he was now, he didn't have time to be an interloper.

The more he treads through the snow, the more his attire weighs him down from the moisture. It's enough to keep him warm, but the layers and the many facets also get in his way and on his way down the hill toward the source of the smoke rising into the atmosphere he stumbles, tangled in his coat, and lands with a heavy slam of his blade in the snow to save himself from the fall.]

TWO █ NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

[Castiel's never needed to shop, or search for provisions before. He's either not had the same needs or what was necessary had already been provided by the bunker or Sam and Dean. Now, alone in this strange place, he knows he needs some commodities.

The bell on the general goods store chimes when he walks in and Castiel takes a moment to marvel at that small detail as he scans the empty spots on shelves. He thumbs at one of the sweaters hanging off of a rack, it's heavy and woolen knit, maybe made by hand. The wool is coarse, but not too rough that it would bother him specifically. He folds it over his forearm and ducks into an aisle that has fishing lures and baits, the array of colors feels out of place even in the shop. He knows he's not alone, it's a knowledge that goes hand in hand with the acknowledgment that he's not particularly good at talking to people. There were a certain few that he could communicate with, but overall he lacked a certain social rectitude necessary to maintain ease in these kinds of situations.]

Have you seen any magnesium blocks?

THREE █ WILDCARD !

[feel free to give me a new prompt, or a hot take on any of the above-listed prompts. I'm open to siren prompts just didn't want to write a starter this time! I'm good with any/all of it so don't be afraid to throw a curveball my way. can be found at doggos on plurk or newdlle at disco.]

Nobody;

[questioningmermaids]

I don't know what that is.

[ Hey, he's being completely 100% honest. He doesn't look apologetic, not exactly, but he does twist his lips into a flash of a half-smile, looking a bit like a bashful kid. 'Better luck next time, hopefully someone else knows what to spot.'

March is on the other side of the relatively small store, bundled in so many layers its hard to tell his actual height or weight: there's a trapper hat on his head, several layers of clothes that he will no doubt sweat in and instantly regret once he steps back outside and into the cold. Things that people that aren't born and raised in Los Angeles think about. ]

Nice sweater.

[ It's an earnest compliment from his spot by the shelves, although he's also from 1973 so modern fashion isn't exactly his strong suit. He's currently scrutinizing a back shelf, picking up an errant can and blowing the dust off. This doesn't work as well as he expected, and he winds up coughing loudly as a result. ]

joel miller | hbo tlou

[kidproof]

ONE █ ARRIVAL

[It's some speech, and even though this Methuselah guy seems generous and warm Joel still doesn't trust him. He only picks his own bowl to eat once he's seen that other people have had their fill without keeling over. It's not beanie weenie but after the hike here that soaked through his boots, it's about as good as it's gonna get.

Joel has a rifle over one shoulder and a duffle bag to his right, he's resting his knees on top of it and has gone out of his way to occupy a space alone but close to the fire so he can warm his toes. He busies himself by tying the laces of his boots together so he can hang them to dry for a little while.

It was cold back home too, but not like this, this was the kind of cold that could turn deadly in seconds and he's in no hurry to find his way back outside yet. He'll wait for first light or something like it.

Joel pays attention to the comings and goings but doesn't really rest or go out of his way to talk. If someone comes too close his hand curls around the strap of the rifle at his shoulder. He's not looking for a fight, but he's prepared for one.

With Methusulah taking the role of the hospitable old man Joel doesn't see any reason to be more charitable than he has to be.]

TWO █ NOBODY NEEDS THIS

[The sheer amount of bodies would send anyone else running for the hills but for Joel, it's just one more thing he has to do to make sure he doesn't get sick while squatting in this hellscape. He hasn't seen any signs of cordyceps yet but a lot of the things here are too familiar for comfort so he stays on guard.

It's not what he'd consider good sense to bury bodies in the snow, but if they did mass graves they could move the dead and burn the bodies later or at least dispose of them somewhere safer. The snow sloughing off makes it harder to discern depth so Joel goes out of his way to make a huge pit, deep enough that he needs to climb out of it and wide enough to fit more than a few corpses. It's more practiced than it needs to be, marked with a self-made wooden-staked cross so he can keep track and a notch in the nearby tree.

Joel wraps the bodies in fabric, to make them easier to haul and uses that momentum to
throw them into the pit once he gets them from point A to point B. It's not the churchyard but it's close by off to the side of the main drag of the town but viewable from the street. Working with the shovel and the haul keeps him warm, and it gives him something to do besides look for answers to questions that don't have any.]

THREE █ CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

[feel free to give me a new prompt, or a hot take on any of the above-listed prompts. I'm open to siren prompts just didn't want to write a starter this time! I'm good with any/all of it so don't be afraid to throw a curveball my way just don't fall into his body pit, or do??? i can be found at doggos on plurk or newdlle at disco.]

arrival

[burying]

[ He gets it. He gets wanting to be left alone. Kieren's mostly been hanging around the edges of the room, for the most part — trying to stay out the way whilst he dries off. He's trying to just... look normal, like he's not really here. He probably sticks out like a sore thumb: he hasn't eaten the entire time he's been here, nor has he drank anything.

But he notices the man, his boots specifically. Kieren's already been trying to dry his own boots off, too. Soon enough, he decides to go over. He holds an old newspaper in his hands. Some of the sheets have been taken for it. ]

Uhm. Hey. [ His eyes widen a little as the man's hand moves for his rifle. ... Please don't be trigger happy, at least. He really doesn't want to end up shot and make everything awkward when he just... stands there with a bullet hole in his chest, like nothing even happened.

He holds out the newspaper. ]

I just... wanted to give you this.