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

Jin Guangyao | Mo Dao Zu Shi

[taintedpeony]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST:

[ Today was supposed to be his day to ingratiate himself with the Lanling Jin clan. He was going to host such a wonderful event that no one would be able to question his place among the Jin. But the whole thing went tits up and now he was wandering through the frigid wilderness only the gods knew where. How did he even get here? Jin Guangyao had no idea. He woke up in a pile of snow. The most alarming part was that he couldn't access his core, small as it was there was no thrum of qi circulating within him. He got up, brushed the snow from his robes, and began to walk.

There was a road but it was slippery and the darkness was palpable around him. In the distance, he could see a figure. ]

Hello? Excuse me! Are you lost as well?

[He called out, hopefully the person wasn't hostile but he could deal with that later.]

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE:

[The first thing Jin Guangyao would need was warmer clothing. He was a boy who had grown up in the hot and humid summers of Yunping and was not used to the freezing climates at all. Heijian was bad enough but this was worse. Still, he found a coat that was lined with fur, a bit too big on him, it dragged down to his ankles. It was warm at least and he bundled himself up in it. He picked up a basket and went searching for other things, blankets, supplies to hunt with thread and needles, and a knife, some cooking utensils.

Outside it was obvious what happened to the inhabitants. A family was out dead in the snow and his heart hurt as much as it did when he found such things during the war. He put his supplies down and rolled his sleeves up.]

I'm so sorry, thank you for your supplies. I'll give you a proper burial now. Please don't haunt me.

[He gave the corpses a bow and using a spade he found in the garden began to dig a hole.]

Wildcard

(He's from the Phoenix Mountain event, so still early canon. He's just been brought to the Jin and has something to prove! Feel free to drop a starter if none of these work for you or hit me up at peacockdance Prose or brackets are fine. I'll be happy to match. )

Arrival

[repairing]

The voice isn't familiar, but she turns at the words, just stopping for several moments as she stares at the approaching figure, noting the robes. Another cultivator, which given her luck so far, might not be an advantage, but it was too late to avoid them.

"So you're new to this place as well? "

laurent — captive prince trilogy

[wrists]

— hope nobody needs this anymore.

[ none of the homes are particularly desirable, but laurent still goes through nearly all of them to find one that’s less undesirable than the others — a sturdy little house at the end of a row, its chipped blue paint like little bits of broken sky dotting the outside.

he lets himself in, grateful for the reprieve from the incessant cold. it’s full of things completely foreign to the palace in arles, but it does have both solid and comfortable furniture — a couch with soft pillows, a little table in the kitchen covered in dust, a pair of wooden chairs with faded cushions on the seats. a short set of stairs lead to a pair of bedrooms and a large tub, and laurent throws open the closets to find them full of clothes. dry clothes that aren’t miserably caked with snow.

well. with no one to attend him, he begins the extensive process of unlacing himself of his garments, stripping off his cloak, boots, jacket, shirt, undershirt, and trousers. the first thing he swaths himself in is a large red sweater that hangs to his thighs, and he’s examining a pair of thick socks when he hears the sound of footsteps.

he snatches his sword and strides calmly from the room, holding it almost casually before him as his eyes sharpen. ]

Get out of my house.

— the siren.

[ his sword is lost to the lake, his grip slack, his fingers numb with cold. the woman’s wild eyes and tiny, bone-sharp teeth somehow are not the most frightening things about the situation, her body giving way to his strength and the hot burst of anger that she would attempt to murder him so boldly. he should be used to such things, and yet his ire has never failed him yet.

it’s the pull of the water that truly humbles him — dark, icy, dragging him down like a dozen prying hands. the cold shocks him, water flooding his lungs, his lips tinged a fragile blue. when someone forcibly grabs him, he doesn’t fight, dragged from the depths like a clump of wildflowers pulled from the dirt.

his mind lags in its attempt to race. he knows the sort of men that roam the wilderness. with gritted teeth, his aching fingers loosen the blade at his hip, his long hair clinging wetly to his cheek. ]

Come here, I have to thank you.

[ his words shudder with the cold, but he pushes himself to his knees and plunges his blade into the closest bit of flesh he spots through red-rimmed eyes. ]

— WILDCARD.

[ ooc: will default to brackets. laurent is a character that deals with csa and all the trauma associated with it, so pls proceed with caution if these are triggering subjects for you. ]

wildcard, arrival

[chokuto]

[The wind is furious, the cold is brutal, the dark is a smothering blanket over the world — and all of this would be fine if his body was not sealed like a tomb, useless, unresponsive to the barest necessity of chakra that survival demands of him now. Where he first woke, in a bare black cave somewhere on the outskirts of civilization, Sasuke found himself unprepared for the elements. He had only the clothes on his back, which were gratefully thick but not enough to protect him from the weather before he could reach aid and better supplies.

The odds are dire, a mercenary calculation he does in his mind with whole and realistic awareness. So he walks.

Choosing a direction is a gamble; it only pays off after a grueling period of time, as his eyes — dormant black — pick out the shape of a structure on the horizon, a speck of color in a sea of white. He heads for this. Soon, he can tell it's a manmade shelter, although badly degraded by an onslaught of ice and snow. A battered old shed. Planks of wood are missing in the walls and ceiling, cutting out dark holes, but it's standing. There's no other choice. He'll have to count his life on finding something inside.

... What he does not expect is someone, bundled in what appears to be a pile of threadbare blankets.]

Wake up. [His voice is urgent; all he can see is golden hair, a whole tangle of it, and it makes his throat close around an imperceptible feeling.] You can't stay here. You'll die.

Kara | Detroit: Become Human

[deathroadtocanada]

[A: Arrival]
[Cold. It's so cold. Even with her winter clothes wrapped tightly around her and her tactile sensors turned down to suppress a shiver, Kara is still cold.

And it's little wonder. From a mound of fresh snow, Kara rises. Inhumanly stiff, partially due to being an Android, and partially due to the cold seeping through to her joints. She spits up fresh powder, blinking frozen crystals from her eyes as she tries to get her bearings. Because, just a moment earlier, she had been standing on the Canadian side of the Detroit border, freedom assured. So it's hardly difficult to imagine how disorienting this all is for her.

Even worse, her internal diagnostics are failing her. Systems that so readily activated are.... missing now. Or seemingly on the fritz, jittering before her eyes in a most irritating way. But Kara didn't need much to know that something was very, very wrong here.]

A... [Her voice cracks, almost like static. She tries again.] Alice...? Luthor? What...

[Where did everyone go? Her family wasn't here. Nobody was. She's found herself in an empty field, half-buried in a snow drift. Every second brought more questions, and an anxiety burning in her therium pump.

Kara knew this much: she couldn't stay here. So, she climbs out of her makeshift grave, limbs shaky. How long had she been laying here? Where was here to begin with? All she could manage was to wrap her arms around herself and start walking - trudging, really. Through the snowy waves. The distant cry of wolves spurning her steps. But didn't wolves go extinct some time ago...?

A road, perfect. And... there. A person. Were they friendly? Did Kara really have a choice here?]

Hello...? [She makes for a sorry sight, soaked clothes and all. Hopefully the lack of foggy breath doesn't tip them off...] Please! I... need help!

[B: Methuselah's feast]
[Kara is endlessly grateful for Methuselah's help, even if they don't speak much. She doesn't need as much help as other people, which... in itself could be a sign that something is wrong with her. Not in the same way as the others here, the humans.

Kara does her best to keep quiet then, for her own sake. Keeping out of the way of the less fortunate travelers, letting her self be almost statuesque as she sits by the fire, watching her coat and scarf dry in the neat pile she'd set out.

And something hits her.]

Northern territories... I could still be in Canada. [She looks up into the flames.] I-I could still find Alice.

[C: Hope nobody needs this anymore]
[Kara was deftly familiar with stealing what she needed to survive. She didn't enjoy it, but... what was the human term? "Desperate times" and all that.

It's not long before she ventures into Milton, now more readied than before to face the harsh climate. It doesn't bother her quite as much now as it did - a boon to her - but that doesn't mean she trusts herself to hang out here all night. And it doesn't take her nearly that long to find a car.

Breaking in is the easy part. The hard part was sitting in the driver's seat of this - antique - car and finding out that not only does Kara not know how to start it... It wouldn't start anyway. She tries, again and again and again and again, but the universe refuses her this way out.

For a while, she just... sits there. Resting her head against the steering wheel.]

hope nobody needs this anymore

[acraftygoblin]

[ The cars here are pretty much what Alyson expects from home, but that doesn't mean she's had any more luck with them when she tried. It's what draws her over when she notices Kara through the windshield, looking dejected, and while she's hesitant to bother someone while they're having a moment -- she might as well save her a little trouble, if this is her first shot.

She taps at the driver's side window with a sympathetic smile, waits for Kara to open the door before she tries to talk to her. ] I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it doesn't look like any of them are working. I found keys in a couple of the cars, and still nothing.

McGillis Fareed | MS Gundam: Iron-Blooded Orphans

[wresting]

the Dignity of Lords (none whatsoever)
In a new and extremely hostile environment, the smart thing to do is start a fistfight. Closed to retributing.

( he startles awake, choking on the air, sharp and painful in his lungs. his breath fogs before him.

for several moments, McGillis simply breathes, his gaze unseeing. he wills himself calm, eyes darting left then right, head tilting back then forward. the motion is slow and stiff. McGillis strains against the least amount effort: his back, numb, cold seeping through shrapnel holes. the wet parts of his pilot suit stick to his skin.

he would have thought the battle too far to crash in the northern ice cap.

you are the Interloper — and the world has yet to be shaped by his hands. McGillis wills his body to move, half rolling, half crawling to find his feet. he aches, everywhere and nowhere in particular, a stitch of pain in his left and right. instinctively, he nurses the right. (had he been...?)

his breath catches. the rage surges; his scream, guttural. ) Gaelio! ( McGillis lunges for his gun, strewn on the ground between them. )


distorted thought: arrival _ wilderness
Two idiots in pilot suits fistfight each other. In the snow. Like normal people. Characters will receive tags from both retributing and wresting.

( desolate that the territories are...

two men shouting and brawling in the wilderness is something of a beacon, if not for predators then for a fellow arrival or two.

the affair is bloody seeming: their pilot suits, blood soaked and stained; one, in particular, scorched along the wearer's right. for that man, a webbing of tissue is soon to scar, the wound blossoming out of the scorch marks. for any the blood, burn, and brawl concerns, separating the two is likely to appear a daunting task. they're almost impossibly tall, broad and military bearing, rolling one on top of the other.

weak, body and spirit, the two exhaust themselves in a matter of minutes, their breath quiet but ragged; they sit, disheveled, broken in the snow. the circles beneath their eyes are deep and dark, men teetering on the verge of death: some fool and horrific combination of blood loss, fist inflicted bruising, and impending hypothermia. )


next stage: hope & needs _ Milton (general + paradise farm)
Well, somebody needs that... AKA McGillis and friends scavenge about Milton. It's a normal TL prompt, finally!

( for several days, McGillis is confined to Methuselah's community hall.

whatever miracle lessened the blow, cockpit shrapnel that ought to have rent him in half, a fatigue remains. rest has never come easy to McGillis, but here, uniquely unequipped to survive, he has little choice, alternating between cots and dinner tables, attempts to fit into more appropriate clothes. his suit is built to prevent suffocation, insulating but so much in its torn and ragged state.

sooner than later, McGillis wants to explore. for all the ruckus about his initial arrival — which shows, still, in his bruised face, the side of his body that occasionally catches in pain — he is polite and level headed when he invites a fellow Newcomer to join him, relatively agreeable through any and all scavenging. even from corpses. only the children darken McGillis's expression.

for his part, McGillis [A] scavenges for better fitting clothes and a sewing kit. a normal suit, snug beneath his pilot suit and new winter wear, is a boon equivalent to thermal underwear, but the holes it currently sports present a problem. the second problem... ) Do you sew? ( McGillis asks, presenting a sewing kit. because he surely doesn't!

out of curiosity, the tools that might not yet be (but likely are) scavenged, McGillis [B] walks himself and his companion to the farm along the town outskirts. he snorts, the sign Paradise Farm declaring their arrival. he's beginning to sense a pattern. ) ...it seems the owners had a sense of humor.


( ooc | or choose ur own adventure! characters are free to glean that McGillis arrived in very bloody clothes and is therefore not in spectacular health; that he has a loaded gun on his person; and or that he is one of two morons that wrestled around in hypothermia inducing temperatures. 🤡

on a more general note, McGillis comes with some hefty content warnings, so please, help urselves to the opt out! i'm available @ gjallarhorn for anything else! )

literally zero dignity.

[retributing]

[ He has stumbled, numb, half-frozen, wounded, to arrive at the feet of the man that has killed him. He does not know why he has woken up here, nor even where 'here' is. His ears ring, piercing, the flesh of right cheek and neck feel as though they are on fire; the rest of him, precisely the opposite.

To anyone observing, the man that comes to stand before the man on the ground is in no better shape: burns etch into the right side of his face and reach across his nose, blood stains his normal suit, which is torn and burned. Gaelio seems not to notice.

You are the Interloper.

McGillis had said— no, that wasn't McGillis's voice. It might as well have been. All they were, all they had in each other, friends, comrades-in-arms, even intended brothers-in-law... gone. Had it existed in the first place? ] McGillis...!

[ He finds his voice, rising, lifting on the wind, unbridled anguish that cracks and breaks as the smoldering hurt rekindles into rage. His throat aches from screaming, from trying to reach McGillis. His foot swings for the pistol. He kicks it in a small spray of powder snow, the gun lands not far away but out of reach. In so doing, Gaelio, weak as he is, loses his balance. He falls in the snow, a bigger spray, but gives himself not even time to catch on his hands before he is reaching for McGillis, to grip the front of his suit.

It doesn't occur to him to question why McGillis is in similar condition as himself; in the back of his mind, he knows he did little damage. ]

roy kent | ted lasso

[finefurryfella]

( ARRIVAL )

[ Roy's knee hurts like a motherfucker, but that's nothing new. What is new is waking up in the middle of the snowy wilderness with an arse numb and frozen balls. Coming from England, snow is somewhat of a rarity, and when it does come - barely - it's nothing to make a song and dance about. This is the kind of snow Roy has only ever seen in Coca-Cola Christmas adverts.

Sitting up, Roy tries to move his bad knee and immediately feels like someone's stabbed a knife into it. The cold has made the sports injury that finished off his career as a footballer so much worse, and the only thing that stops him from crying out one of his usual F-bombs is an unexpected howling in the distance, distracting him from the pain. He can't be in London if there are fucking wolves about, surely?

He hisses out: ] What the fuck?

[ Then he lies back down, hoping he'll wake up from whatever nightmare this is inspired by The Revenant. ]

( CLOTHING STORE )

[ One could argue Roy has enough body hair to keep him warm, but it's probably worth hunting down more clothes than just the ones on his back. Not to mention, his usual leather jacket isn't really cutting it weather-wise. It feels odd to be taking from a store without paying, but since he has no choice, he's looking through what's left. He can't afford to be fussy, but Roy Kent does have some standards.

He picks up a jumper that's the colour of sunshine - the complete opposite of his brooding personality - and frowns like it personally offends him. Noticing he has company, he catches your attention. ]

Oi. You want this? [ It's not his colour. He only wears black. ]

( LAYING THE DEAD TO REST )

[ Roy has an uncomfortable relationship with death. After losing his grandfather when he was nine years old and spending a year praying for him to come back, he's pretty sure he doesn't react the way a normal person should to death. At the last funeral he went to, he kept making jokes, and not in a charming way to cheer people up. In a this guy needs therapy kind of way.

He's standing over a body he's found, the first dead body he's ever witnessed. The dead woman doesn't look much older than his sister, which is a disturbing thought. ]

Fucking hell. [ He can't just leave this dead woman out in the open. What if it was his sister's body? (Stop fucking thinking about that.)

After locating a shovel, he starts digging. Roy Kent: ex-footballer, ex-football pundit, ex-coach to under 9 girls, current assistant coach to AFC Richmond, and now gravedigger. ]


[ ooc: Roy swears a lot... if you don't like that sort of thing, it's probably for the best you avoid him! ]

( CLOTHING STORE )

[greatwhitehope]

[ iggy's head pops up from where he is running his hands over another rack of clothes. it's more difficult than he is used to because he is used to fang and max picking clothes that would somehow fit their lanky frames. he can't exactly check the sizes.

his face turns to roy but just slightly off, eyes unfocused. he holds up a hand like he is ready to catch whatever "this" is. ]

Sure, toss it over.

[ hopefully it's not, like, a crowbar.

it would be messed up to take out the blind kid on day... something. one? three? whatever, iggy doesn't have a day/night schedule on account of not being a rooster that wakes with the sun. ]

Nate Boyd | original

[soicantlose]

🠚 ARRIVAL

[ Nate has never been this fucking cold or this fucking lost in his entire life. He's a city boy, and he's always run a little warm -- ducking out in the snow in a t-shirt and bare feet is not actually that unusual for him, but it's always been just that, ducking out. This white field of nothing is completely out of his usual experience, and he's been shivering uncontrollably from the moment he woke up in the snow.

There's a gun tucked into his jeans, the one he'd found lying next to him when he woke up, but he doesn't even think about going for it when he realizes he's not alone anymore. His hands are shaking too badly to aim -- and more importantly, he's distracted by the plume of smoke he's just noticed rising up ahead in the distance. He calls out across the snow after a moment with a jerk of his chin towards the sight. ]

Hey -- are you seeing that? [ Is hallucinating a sign of freezing to death? He really has no idea. ]


🠚 LOOTING

[ Nate can, actually, be pretty stealthy when he feels the need -- but there's no point to it right now, is there? They've been actively encouraged to go through other people's things. Why expend the energy to do it sneakily. He'll be pretty easy to spot going along, especially once he's gotten his hands on some decent clothes and shoes and is ducking in and out of most of them, looking for something specific.

He'll stop whenever he finds bodies inside, crouching down to examine them, completely unbothered by the sight of corpses. Mumbles hopefully under his breath when he finally finds someone lying there with a gun, comparing it to his own, and when he finally finds one that's comparable, he'll go to start ransacking the house without bothering to shut the door, keeping up a rambling commentary to himself as he does. ] If I were a box of bullets, where the hell would I be.


🠚 THE SIREN

[ It comes down to a matter of lucky timing. Nate's got 0 experience with anything nonhuman; he would have been an absolute sitting duck for the siren. Instead, he's made his way down to the basin just in time to see someone else drifting into the siren's orbit, and stare in shock at his first ever supernatural creature sighting.

Lucky for whoever it is, instincts kick in pretty quickly. They'll find their attempted drowning interrupted by the sound of a gun, and while he's still baffled when she just straight-up disappears what the absolute fuck -- he manages to pull his attention back to the stranger in the lake quickly enough. ]

Shit, come on-- [ He get down at the edge of the hole, actively ignoring the thought of what happens if the ice cracks further, to offer them a hand out. ]

looting

[infiniteheart]

[Jiang Yanli's been busy looting the houses for quite some time, going in and scavenging what clothing, blankets, cookware, and tools that she can. She happens to be doing the same in this house as well as she comes along the stranger and his mysterious request.]

Bullets? What are those? If you tell me more, I might be able to help you look.

[She's going through all the buildings anyway. And if nothing else, it'll help broaden the horizons of this young womnan from ancient China. Even if at the moment, she's dressed in local winter clothes with her hair in a braid and is utterly indinguishable from other any other human aside from the ancient bell and tassel she's wearing.]

steve harrington. stranger things / dead by daylight.

[babysitters]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

( a. Steve is used to waking up somewhere he wasn't a second ago. sort of old hat now. it isn't even that weird that it isn't particularly recognizable — an empty, echoing cave. sometimes a new realm shows up, and that's just that. a new strange stretch of artificial reality to get murdered in. maybe he's found himself in a new stretch of Ormond, the cold feels about the same.

only the cold isn't the same, and he finds that out real fucking fast. it bites way harder, sinks in to the bones faster. the windbreaker he's got on wasn't meant for this kind of bitter cold, and the fact he's so aware of it is real damn unfortunate. and no matter how he wanders, he doesn't find any artifacts of a trial. no generators, no familiar faces, no chainsaw murderers bolting directly at him in at warp speed. no lingering fog curling around trees, no walls encasing everything. no hints of gates or campfires or really, anything — except snow, and trees, and cold cold cold.

he keeps struggling forward, desperate to find something. turns out, it's less of a something, more of a someone. ) Hey-— h-hey! Hold on! ( he finds the tracks in the snow before he finds who they belong to, and though it could 100% be a murderer he's chasing down, he picks up speed anyway. his odds are much better that it is somebody else trying to survive. he picks his way carefully through somebody elses' footsteps, trying to keep any more snow from collecting in his Nikes, half tumbling into the white and catching himself with bare hands. it barely registers as he jaunts to catch up with the retreating back, one that has hopefully slowed for him to catch up — and when he does, Steve folds over, breathless. ) Hey, where are — wha...what the hell?

( a very, very strange greeting, all things considered. how does he explain there's only 30ish faces he's used to seeing? that all of this is starting to feel more messed up and wrong than usual. Steve looks and feels more shaken than he did not even 15 seconds ago, and that's saying something, because it wasn't like he was feeling great before. this still is for sure worse. ) Are you new? ( Steve asks, still a little breathless, obviously confused. )

( b. eventually, he makes it to town. if this place counts as a "town". empty ass ghost town after empty ass ghost town, they don't really feel like a town. Hawkins was a town, this is... this is just a bunch of abandoned buildings. more people, maybe, though that doesn't feel right either. how unusual this particular trial happens to be is just really, really getting to him. where the hell is everybody? why are all the rules different than they used to be?

so, safe to say... he looks a little shellshocked, under a blanket pile and still openly shivering as he sits on one of the many cots and tries to recover from the long trek required to get to the community hall. he's still too cold for the snow crusted on his jeans to melt, and somewhere distantly Steve knows he needs to do something about that, but does he really? at some point he'll just wake up again and he'll be at the campfire and Nancy and Jonathan will be there and it isn't like he left them behind, ended up somewhere else, and they're still trapped somewhere he's not.

Steve feels himself getting lost in his own head, spiraling thoughts and fears and questions. and he really can't afford to get stuck in there, actually, so he breaks out of his own spiral to pay attention to the room around him. he's surely not the only person fucking freezing, and the first person he spots, he focuses on. ) Y-you w-wanna sh-share? ( there's definitely room in this blanket pile for somebody else. there's a complete absence of eyebrow gymnastics and smarminess that indicates he's not being flirty, he's just freezing fr SHARING BODY HEAT TROPE ANYONE???

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS.

( eventually, Steve braves exploring a little. it takes... it takes awhile. he may pass out in the common space for multiple days before he puts himself together enough to get out there. not even necessarily asleep, some of it is just time spent lost in his head, confused and alone and unhappy and so goddamn cold.

the cold thing kicks his ass eventually. this windbreaker is really not cutting it. he's at least scared up some gloves by the time he drudges through the cold again, eyeing the shops and buildings until he finds the one that seems most promising to increase his warmth. sporting goods store. there's good chances of a coat, gloves, those hideous hunting suits that old men liked to wear to drink coffee in the morning. and hopefully, something hefty and swing-able. he's really missing his trusty baseball bat, and maybe he's finally somewhere he can fight back for a change.

unfortunately, scouting the store isn't as easy as getting into the store. it's locked up good, boarded too. it is easy to find Steve because he's not subtle about his swearing frustration, trying to tug the boards back with just his hands. there's one board on the ground, so it isn't entirely ineffective, just... mostly.

Steve noticeably startles when he realizes he's not alone, with an exaggerated, ) Jesus Christ! ( before he rallies, takes a moment to decide his company is not openly malicious and/or murderous, and tries to recruit them to his cause. ) Any bright ideas? I'm freezing my goddamn ass off.

WILDCARD.
wanna do something else? i kinda dodged the siren prompt for now but i'm down for it, go ahead and hit me with whatever! i'm game for anything. please note: i am playing around with a dead by daylight au. so on top of his stranger things canon, he's been kicking around a foggy murder realm for a hot minute. canonpoint is s3 end, but, it's complicated. if you wanna chat or plot anything, you can catch me via pm or at stalfos on plurk!

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS.

[greatwhitehope]

I get that a lot.

[ does he? pale and blond with murky ice blue eyes and blind, iggy doesn't much resemble dj jeez nuts, but he doesn't know that. he does tend to loom and then get cussed out for startling people though so maybe he should think about changing his name.

who would know?

no one would know.

he is jesus now. ]

We could go through the roof. There's gonna be a ventilation system or roof access, for fire safety.

din djarin | the mandalorian

[metaldad]

i. the feast

He wakes up sprawled in the snow, out in the open, and for a long moment, Din doesn't think there's anything unusual about that. He's woken up in stranger places before. But when the cold begins to set in, that's when alarm sets in as well. His environmental controls aren't working. Most of his helmet's functions aren't working, and the only ones that are -- his vocoder, oxygen access, and visor -- are designed to work even with loss of power. Between his flightsuit and the beskar he's not going to freeze to death, at least.

It's a long, slow trek to Milton. His jetpack is dead, so is his blaster. He's still got the spear, at least. The last thing he remembers, he'd given the kid to that Jedi and had gotten a ride from Boba Fett back to Tattooine. He hadn't known what he was going to do. An apostate with few credits to his name and no tribe to go back to.

Milton, he guesses, is as good a place as any.

In the community hall, there's a warm fire and walls to block out the elements, and Din's stomach churns at the thought of eating here. Around others. Technically, it's not against the Creed, for he has none.

He takes a mug of steaming hot tea, and sits at some distance from the gathering, back turned, quickly lifting the bottom edge of his helmet to take a sip. It puts some warmth back in his bones. And there he stays, slowly drinking his tea, until he hears footsteps coming toward him, and hurriedly tips his helmet back down.

"I've seen a lot of things, but being kicked halfway across the universe because of some Flare is a new one," he says, voice rusty where it comes out of his helmet. "You too?"

ii. empty houses

( cw: dead bodies )

He's settled in a little house at the very edge of town at the forest's start, where there's no windows facing the public and there's a good deal of privacy. With not much to do other than survive, he spends his first few days gathering food -- fishing when he can break through the ice, hunting small prey -- and fixing up the place. There's an ancient pre-holo tech device that's broken, a handheld device that doesn't work, and a radio that's got flat batteries.

But there's a bed that's nice and firm, a ceiling that doesn't leak, warm blankets and a fire that he's stocked up with kindling. It's not too bad. It's as good a place as any to stay while he figures things out.

(The problem is, he hasn't seen any sign of... actual technology. Anything that would let him get off this planet. That's a problem he's going to have to solve eventually.)

A couple days past his arrival, he finds a couple of frozen bodies not too far from his house, tucked away near a fence. Both with guns in hand. Din stores the guns away, grabs a shovel, and starts digging a pair of graves at the treeline of the forest, his typical silence marked with a note of solemness. He's digging for some time, his shoulders straining, back aching, before he hears someone else approach.

"There's another shovel if you want to make yourself useful," he says simply.

i

[groza]

[ ooc: please forgive any typos i'm stuck with phone tags for the next few weeks. ]

Zoya still somehow manages to exude confidence despite everything. She seems tall, and not just from the heels in her boots, but it's in the way her spine is straight, the way her chin is always lifted to make it seem like she's looking down at those who have the advantage of height on her. Ruthless general was not a reputation she earned easily, and apparently she intends on keeping it even if there is no army for her to command.

That does not mean she has amy clue about what's going on. Her mask is much more metaphorical, and her search for a private place to drop it is squashed when she finds the metal man by the fire.

She lifts an eyebrow, obvious and critical as she looks him over. She doesn't think she is the first one, so no point in hiding it. She'd feel more at ease knowing what was under the mask, although Zoya's guard is hardly ever down so it doesn't matter in the end.

"I've seen strange things and been to strange places," there's an edge of exhaustion in her voice. Stories she doesn't seem to quite want to recount. "But no. Not like this. And I suspect that's the case for everyone here."

And everyone is staring to seem like a lot. A pocket dimension shouldn't feel so crowded.

Inquisitor Lavellan | Dragon Age: Inquisition

[varhellathen]

    ☙ be certain in need;   (arrival)    

He awakes with a gasp; ragged, raw, a cry of pain that dies in his throat. In quick succession, there are several things that the Inquisitor finds wholly wrong. Blindly he grasps right hand to left arm, and finds it does not pain him so much - it is agonizing, to be sure, but Lasulahn does not think it is like to kill him, now. He cannot see the garish gleam of the Anchor through his glove. Despite the obscene temperatures, almost as though unnoticing, the man - small in frame and stature, a delicate point to his ear - pulls his glove off. He marvels at his palm, the gash that splits it little more than a scar, now. It is red and irritated in the cold, or perhaps freshly closed, but a scar nonetheless. Second, he looks around for his staff, and finds it in the snow within reach. Third, he realizes finally the clime he is in, more akin to the Frostbacks or Emprise du Lion than Halamshiral or the Crossroads. Had he somehow fallen through an eluvian? He can imagine nothing else, the last he remembers, a colorful shimmer in the sky behind Solas as the man reached for his arm—

Finally, finally, Lasulahn's gaze lifts to the person who is likely to thank for him being awake now and not passively freezing to death in the snow.

"Oh," he says, belated. He is dusted with grime and snow, disheveled from combat, and now, beginning to shiver from the cold he is not well-dressed for. "I'm alright, thank you." He leans on his left arm without thinking to reach for his staff with his right, and nearly pitches into the snow when it refuses to oblige. His nerves explode as though with ground glass, and a vein in his temple throbs with the tightness of his jaw. He is not, in fact, 'alright.'

    ☙ and the path will emerge;   (methuselah's feast)    

The Inquisitor, leader of the largest army in Thedas, has sequestered himself into a small corner of the hall. Just enough firelight reaches that he can see. With no small amount of difficulty, given his left arm lays near useless at his side, he has managed to wrest off his outer layers: a robelike garment of burnished and delicately embossed hide, gauntlets, a cinch of woven leather straps, and a thin chainmail vest. The tunic beneath, he has rolled up the left sleeve and sits examining his arm. Angry red marks radiate upward from his palm to nearly past his elbow. They create an intricate web like veins, or perhaps a lightning strike. His palm, still, is equally red, the Mark that has lain across it for two years no longer glowing with the magic of the Fade.

That is, strangely, what bothers him more than even the stiffness in his joints, the pins and needles of near hypothermia slowly thawing his white fingertips: he cannot feel the Fade, here. The world seems greyer for it. Even the cheery crackle of the fire looks faded, strangely out of reach. It reminds him of a Templar's dampening abilities, though it doesn't quite steal the breath from his lungs in the same way. He wonders, was the world like this before he discovered his magic? And, did Solas manage to take the Anchor from him, but in return he has been flung far and his magic taken with it?

It is not until someone stands in his peripheral vision that he looks up, brows raising a little in surprise. "I beg your pardon." His voice is soft, warm, but holds an edge of authority he has had to whet for too long now to lay it easily aside. "Can you repeat what you said? I'm afraid I was distracted."

    ☙ to a home tomorrow;   (hope nobody needs this anymore)    

Once thawed out and given a few days rest, Lasulahn has found that, remarkably, he retains use of his left arm. It aches, always, ranging from dull pain to near agony, but he is used to that, now. He has taken up residence, however temporarily, in a small cottage towards the outskirts of town. He has picked the smallest he could find intentionally, if subconsciously. The wood construction is comforting, but the interior holds a great deal of items entirely foreign to him. Large rectangles of glass and some inflexible material he cannot place that shines like well-oiled leather; machines in what appears to be meant as a kitchen, or maybe just food storage, though the hearth is elsewhere in the home. There is a bed though, and a diary that he leafs through with no small amount of guilt. The year means nothing to him, it is dated nothing like he is used to. That he can read at all is passing strange; he recognizes he should not know the letters that are neither Elvhen nor Common, but it is legible to him all the same.

He ventures out sometimes, like now, hoisting a laundry basket down the street. Any home which he can see smoke from a chimney or the glow of fire from a window, he knocks.

"Pardon the intrustion," he says with a smile when greeted. "There are warm clothes in the home I'm staying in that are too large for me, I thought someone else might make better use of them." And indeed, with his somewhat small height and smaller frame, the elf seems to nearly swim in the knit sweater he has on.

    ☙   ( wildcard )    
{ Choose your own adventure! Las will be up and around later in the evening at the hall helping those worse off than he. He's also going to be attempting to chop firewood which may or may not go well. Feel free to use prose or action/brackets, I'll happily match. If you would like to plot anything, pm this journal or hit me up at ricorori! }

and the path will emerge;

[questioningmermaids]

"I said what's up with your hand?"

It looks angry, and not in a fresh tattoo or terrible burn way, and whatever the stranger's doing seems pensive in a manner March can't put his finger on. He's normally one to live and let live, huge fan of ignoring other people so they'll leave him alone, but this is a different situation and this guy looks so different he has to ask. Sometimes his curiousity gets the better of him, too, but he's a private detective, can you blame him?

He's standing right next to the other, eyes fixed on those pointed ears simply because he hasn't seen anything like it before. March is a stark contrast: he's got a blanket wrapped around him like a cape but he's got an extremely 70s looking vibe going on, though the sunglasses have been put away. It's nothing like the metal and leather and armor, or the facial markings, or...

...Man. Those ears are crazy. March can't stop staring.

Number Five | The Umbrella Academy

[forasecond]

— Arrival —

’You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.’

Five scoffs at that, “I’ve been called worse,” he says with a shrug, pushing himself to his feet and brushing off his clothes. “But, yeah- you’re probably right…” he squints into the sharp bright white of fresh snow. He’s surrounded by a copse of trees, but there are some breaks in the branches letting the dim sunlight through.

He tries to use his spatial jump, but it’s like an engine that refuses to start, not even a sputter, just a deep well of emptiness where that power usually sat, easy to access, second nature and without thought, like breathing. It's a strange feeling, being without it so suddenly, and it makes his skin crawl. Breaking with the realization that it’s somehow the day he disappeared all over again. Stuck in a foreign land, no home to call his own, and just as alone as he was all those years ago...

May as well not sit around and mope about it. That wasn’t going to get him anywhere. So, he takes off and moves through the trees, eventually finding what seems to be a real path to follow–– Maybe he meets you somewhere along the way?

— Methuselah's Feast —

By the time he sees the slow spiral of smoke coming from somewhere not far up ahead, Five’s suit is soaked and he’s colder than he thinks he’s ever been, but then he sees it–– the town sign. Milton. It doesn’t ring any bells immediately, but at least that means there’s someone else out there.

He takes note of buildings that look empty, houses with no lights on and seemingly no activity inside– maybe it's later than he thought and most people are sleeping. Maybe the town is largely abandoned. He'll sort that out later, for now, he's heading to the one place that does have lights on, and a fire going.

Once he’s been ushered inside by the apparent host, Five nods at his introduction, “Very Biblical. Interesting.”

The food looks great, but he’s not sure that he trusts any of this yet. Maybe you’re also suspicious, or you call him out on his own. Otherwise, you might find him coveting his mug of coffee, staring pensively into the fire as he tries to warm up.

— Organizing —

Before everyone starts wandering off into the unknowns to explore the city, Five wants to make a point. So, sometime later during that first evening when it's relatively calm, he decides to do just that.

He drags a chair from the table to the centermost point of the room that he can manage and hauls himself up to stand on it. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "HEY!" Once attention is sufficiently on him, he speaks again, voice clipped and short and fast. Folks might get the idea this isn't his first rodeo, despite how young he looks.

"All right, let's be smart about this shit before we all dive out that door to go sniffing around, all right? I don't know any more than any of you about what the hell's going on, but working together is gonna be our best bet," much as it almost physically pains him to say because he really does prefer working alone, "End of week, I think we should all come back here as a central meeting ground and go over whatever we've found together."

Feel free to question why you should follow the lead of a teenager, folks~

Organizing

[fanoperator]

Huaisang lets other, more determined people go first to talk to this loud and cocky person of a totally reasonable and respectable height, only a finger's width or two shorter than Huaisang himself. He also looks only a year or two younger than Huaisang himself, though Huaisang's age is deceiving--his aging slowed to a crawl in his late teens, though he's still only twenty-five now. Once the attention around him has faded and any discussions have been adequately discussed, Huaisang comes more shyly over to talk.

Some of his many silk layers have dried off a little, so he's put on an entire second layer of filmy silk, looking like he's doing a hollywood starlet impression in his floor-length silk robe and ass-length long black hair.

He's come to ask the most important question that none of the other askers specified when it comes to this teenager's plan: "What's a 'week'?"

Jack Russell | Werewolf By Night | OTA

[wereperrito]

I. Arrival

There have been times when Jack's woken up somewhere unfamiliar, but that's normally the night after a full moon. And the full moon is still several nights away, as far as he's aware. He looks around the obviously abandoned cabin he's woken up in, in confusion. It's not even somewhere the werewolf would go.

He pokes around it, hoping for something to jog his memory, then opens the door to peek outside at the snow-- or at the other person standing outside. "Oh, er. Is this your home?"


II. Methuseluh's Feast

By the time Jack makes it to the village and the fire and the food, he's noticed he's different. Scents aren't as strong, sounds aren't as loud, and he cannot tell what phase the moon is. (He's still partially colorblind, which is decidedly unfair, but that's a small thing.)

So as he collects a plate of meat and vegetables and potatoes, he's beaming at people. Sure, he's kidnapped to some strange cold town in the middle of nowhere, but he's not currently a werewolf as far as he can tell, and that's reason to be happy. Ted will probably find him eventually, anyway.

"Is this good?" he asks thoughtfully of the stew, or perhaps the person standing next to him. "It smells pretty good. Ah--" He realizes he is talking to someone next to him, and offers a smile. "I'm Jack, by the way."


III. Hope Nobody Needs This

After finding some suitable clothes and picking out a house to clean out and make somewhat liveable, Jack starts popping around town to check on everyone else. He might show up at someone's door as they're struggling with a piece of broken furniture to grab the other end and steady it. Or he might bring some of the canned goods he found in his cabin around to someone else, or a spare coat. Or maybe he's got a broom and a bucket of melted snow to get something clean.

Either way, he's being a busy-body in a useful fashion today. "Can I help?" he asks.

Only when the living seem settled and safe will he start helping with the dead. Not that he disrespects the dead, Jack has a very healthy respect for those who came before, but they're not exactly going to be impatient. So eventually he'll a shovel and is only somewhat effectively start trying to stab the ground with it.

Jack is not exactly a big, strong guy, but he's trying, okay.

Methuseluh's Feast / cw near-death via space exposure, hypothermia and hypoxia symptoms

[suturama]

Some people seem to have fared alright in the woods, considering. Maybe they have wilderness experience, were fortunate to arrive whole and healthy, or a mix of both. But as long as there is one person who needs medical attention, she's wont to make sure it's provided. And normally, that's exactly what she would do. Long shifts reside in her muscle memory, adapted from academy all-nighters and locked in during the Klingon War. There's plenty of call for them on the Enterprise, where medical anomalies seem to overtake half the crew every few weeks. She's not just good with them. She thrives.

That's why it's so difficult to admit her limits here. Christine isn't in peak condition. The last thing she remembers, besides a hazy vision of Spock, is the void of space spiriting the final vestiges of oxygen from her lungs and her saliva boiling on her tongue. Time must have passed since then, or she wouldn't have had the wherewithal to make it to the hall, or even onto her feet once her eyes opened. But she's damn sure it wasn't enough, and the threat of hypothermia certainly hasn't helped.

They're all exhausted, all hungry and slow and pale. It's the inarticulateness she can't stand. Her thoughts feel excruciatingly sluggish, because even the slightest delay means a wait on treatment for someone who's worse off than her. Her muscles spasm unpredictably and her fingers fail her. Stubbornly, she tries to work through it, but that worsens every symptom along with her mood. Eventually, once she's become more of a hindrance than a help, she relents.

With a blanket draped over her shoulders and a bowl in her hand, she approaches the stew. Christine isn't expecting the man there to strike up a conversation with her, and she's glad of the surprise. The cloud of frustration and helplessness hanging over her dissipates. She smiles easily back at him. That's muscle memory, too. Her bedside manner can be a bit of a crutch but right now she could use something to lean on.

"Christine," she responds. "And you know what they say: Hunger makes the best sauce, so it smells pretty good to me. Would you mind?" She holds her bowl out to him. She's been asking too much of her hands and doesn't want to embarrass herself by fumbling the ladle, now someone's paying attention to her.

yennefer of vengerberg | the witcher

[thesorceress]

ARRIVAL.
Vilgefortz.

[ Yennefer's eyes fly open at once the instant the words fade, the whisper leaving her lips as quickly and heatedly as it had come, chilling as it vanishes. Vilgefortz, for that must be who brought her here -- the lights had been a portal, a trick. Disoriented, the sorceress sits up and feels an immediate bite in her bones.

All around her is desolation. Ice, snow. Not unlike the winter she, Ciri, and Geralt had recently traveled. And yet, this chill is vicelike in its grip. Yennefer's hand flutters to the obsidian star flush about her neck, fingers stiff against the velvet ribbon. She can scarcely feel her own flesh. Pushing away the lingering fear, the uncertainty, the wonder, Yennefer rises to her feet, squinting against the white. All around her are trees, and there isn't a ray of sunlight to be gleaned from the gray sky above. Hell's teeth, but her own are chattering. Too late, she realizes she's been lying here for some time, her body stiff and sore. She takes one cautious step and her leg nearly buckles beneath her own weight. Where is Vilgefortz, Tissaia? Where is her daughter?

The sudden snap of a twig casts her unceremoniously out of her own thoughts, and in an instant, her stiletto knife is in her hand, and she throws it -- quite precisely -- in the direction of her fellow interloper. Fortunately, if they're quick enough to move out of the way, there's a tree to take the hit. ]

THE SIREN.
Stop!

[ The voice, commanding and sharp, crackles through the frigid air like the lightning in Yennefer's violet eyes. She stands at the edge of the hermit's cabin, raven hair wild with snowflakes and wind, breath frosting into the air. In quite a literal sense, she's been saved: Her own reverie has been broken by the sudden shock of watching someone else vanish beneath the ice. Yennefer holds out her hand toward the scene, fingers rigid about her palm. She murmurs in Elder, louder and louder, voice growing more impatient as she watches two dark figures resurface, then go under again -- but her suspicions from before are confirmed: Chaos is gone, in this place, in this frozen hell.

And, real or not, she finds she can't stand idly by and watch a monster-initiated killing. This is business for Geralt, or perhaps even Ciri, but seeing as she can neither hear, see, nor touch one of them at the moment, she's this unfortunate soul's only hope.

The sorceress hurries down toward the lake and takes one step, then another, onto the ice. She had been less than graceful on ice skates before, but this is different. She isn't gliding on blades, and the traction on the boots she's wearing is hardier than something as thin and treacherous as a skate. Hearing no telltale cracking sound, she takes another step, then another, and then she's hurrying, skirt flying behind her, drawing her stiletto blade from the elegant sheath at her waist. The last few steps, and she falls forward onto her knees, skidding toward the hole where the demon vanished with her quarry. She breaks the skid with a sharp, desperate stab of the knife. ]

Hold my hand! [ she demands of ears that may not hear her, gritting her teeth and plunging it into the freezing water, hoping against hope that the fingers that grasp hers belong to the person she means to save. Something grabs her arm, and with all her might, Yennefer pulls. ]

Arrival

[deathroadtocanada]

[Kara is a naturally quiet beast. She doesn't breathe, even if she was designed to approximate the sensation. The appearance of humanity was pumped into her, and for what? To make something that can only just grasp the true thing. Who can walk amongst the dark trees slightly less afraid of attracting the local wolf packs?

Too bad there are much greater threats out there. Call it a cost of her wandering mind that a stray branch ended up beneath her boot. A quiet snap that turns deafening in the muffled snow - and then, there's a knife.

Unlike the other, more advanced Androids, Kara possessed no special abilities unique to her make and model. Time didn't slow down for her. All she can do is reflexively stumble back in the snow as her eyes catch the sudden rush of movement up ahead-

Thunk

And look agape at the knife embedded in the tree that, unfortunately, stood right behind her.]

david rose | schitt's creek

[roseapothecary]

✬ 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐡'𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

𝐚) 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨

[ What.

David isn't good at waking up from naps in general and this one drops him straight into an Airbnb episode of Fear Factor. No heat, mouldy food, dust on everything, he's cataloguing all the problems before the dire one finally hits home. Where the hell is he? What is he doing here? How did he get here? There's no signs to tell him in the little house he's turning upside down so he opens the front door and stalks into the yard, and--

What is this, Siberia?? ]

Patrick? Alexis!? ...Mom?

[ It's only because he's completely alone that he stomps off across the fields wrapped in every blanket on the little bed he'd woken up on. If this is how he's going to be treated he is sure as hell going to rob his abductors. Still, imagined foul plots spinning up his anxieties be damned, he still waves down the first other person he sees without a second thought about who they might be. ]

HELP! I've been KIDNAPPED!

𝐛) 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙣

[ David has never been on such a long and ill-equipped hike in his life and anyone who has accompanied him will have heard about his trials. Every mile a new complaint, he must not even have feet left on his ankles at this point, but he sure has eyes in his head to stare. Everyone that's gathering with him looks like they're out of the cast of Les Mis and David is very relieved he doesn't have a mirror, even as he compulsively smooths down his hair.

But then once they're inside Budget Gandalf's house there's... craft services? Is this all starting to make less sense or more sense?? ]

Do you think they have organic options in this nightmare, or would that be too much to hope for?

And I'd kill for a latte right now.

✬ 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝
( or hit David with something different! pm if we should chat about any big details or pp me @ kaitniss! )

wildcard

[buttonface]

[ Patrick is, annoyingly, a self-motivated, focused morning person. He may have awoken at about the same time as David, or even a few minutes later, but at this point, it's impossible to say for sure. He'd definitely gotten on his way and made it to the town well before David, found the town hall and eaten a hot, filling meal.

And then he'd dressed as warmly as he could, tucked some bread in his pockets and gone back out again. He'd seen the others trickling in as he ate, in various states of distress, cold, and hunger. He can't stand the thought of sitting around doing nothing inside. Not when there are other people still wandering out in the snow, maybe lost, maybe injured.

Not when sitting still means actually facing the reality of what's happening here, and what it means.

So he goes out on his self-appointed rescue mission, careful not to stray too far from the town or lose his bearings, but searching for anyone he can in the frozen landscape. He misses David, busy helping a young woman half-frozen and near tears on the other side of town, and by the time he gives in and comes back inside for good, it's late enough and he's exhausted enough that he crashes immediately, asleep before his head hits the pillow. Lack of pillow. It trly doesn't matter.

It's not until the next morning that he collects his buffet-style breakfast, slides still half-asleep into a chair, and looks up to see David Rose sitting directly across from him.

For a long moment, Patrick just stares stupidly. He's hallucinating. He's still asleep. But he blinks hard and forces himself to see what's really there, to wake up, and David doesn't disappear. ]

Holy shit.

David?

Keith | Voltron | OTA

[marmoron]

ARRIVAL
[ to say keith is out of his element here would be an understatement. he grew up in the arizona desert, and only recently became more acquainted with unlikely cosmological phenomena like faster-than-light travel, sentient war machines, wormholes, and what it's like to be near a supernova on the brink of implosion -- in short? fun shit.

snow is perhaps the most mundane of all his problems, but it's no less taxing. he wakes up shivering and mouthing off expletives as he runs through the chill, following the sign that points to milton. as soon as he spots you looking around, he's quick to shout over: ]

Hey! What happened to the City? Did they change the programming or something?


HUNTING
[ having salvaged a proper winter coat, gloves, and boots for himself, keith takes the time to get acquainted with the town. it isn't long before keith helps himself to a hunting rifle and ammo from the store, then treks towards the outskirts of the forest to get a sense of what lives in there besides the howling wolves.

he's gone hunting before, but that was back in the desert where he'd been familiar with all the wildlife. there's no telling what following tracks left in the snow will lead to, so .. he looks around for any signs of other people venturing into the forest. ]

You know anything about hunting winter game?

SIREN
[ keith's goal is simple. milton isn't where he's supposed to be, and that being the case, he needs to gather enough supplies so he can get the hell away from this place. find the others, find voltron. for now, that means making sure he has enough food and water for traveling at least for a few days. initially, this all started with keith following the deer down to the basin, being sure to take cover behind a tree as he aims a shot.

but then ... he hears her.

it doesn't matter that keith can't place her voice, her sweet song tugs every heartstring, resonates with his very core, and suddenly he begins to walk out onto the ice. the deer scatter and run, but keith only has eyes for the ephemeral beauty with long black hair standing at the center of the frozen water. he's never seen anyone like her, and panic sets in at the thought that if he doesn't get to her quickly enough, he might never see someone like her again.

hurrying now, he slips once on the ice and picks himself back up. ]

I'm coming, I'm coming! Please, don't go! Tell me who you are!

[ but the mysterious beauty doesn't answer. instead she waits, arms spreading wider in welcome.

come help a dude out? or get involved in some dumb simp fight before all hell breaks loose... ]

WILDCARD
[ Feel free to hit me up with some other prompt if you want! PM this journal if you'd like to plot something specific. I prefer brackets, but I don't mind if we don't match styles! ]

Siren

[deathroadtocanada]

[Kara didn't expect she'd be heading out onto a frozen lake today. She didn't imagine she'd get stuck in an icy hellscape, either. But these days were becoming full of surprises.

She wasn't drawn here, so to speak. The singing in the air? So melodic and resonating? Some part of it grated on her. She couldn't describe it. Feedback in the air. Pulsing in her blood.

But it was drawing someone else out onto the ice, which couldn't be good for any number of reasons. So, it seems she had to do something very stupid.]

Hey! [She calls, half-crouched on the ice, some meters away from Keith.] Don't go that way! It's not safe!

Zoey Westen | Original Character (CRAU)

[pythianwoman]

ARRIVAL.
’You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.’

“You say that as though it’s a bad thing,” Zoey Westen answers aloud to the words, a smirk playing across her lips as she rises gracefully to her feet from where she’d laid sprawled in the snow, shaking it out of her dark hair. It’s not the strangest thing that’s happened to her, nor the first time she’s found her way to a strange world against her will. However, it’s the first time she’s arrived with her powers having been stolen from her. The moment she wakes, she knows something is wrong. The silence in her head is deafening, and it feels as though she’s half-blinded, or suddenly lost a limb. She’s been a seer for nearly two decades.

To suddenly be WITHOUT that integral part of herself… well, mostly it just pisses her right the fuck off. Better to be furious than flailing and lost. Well, more lost than she already is, anyway.

“Looks like I’m still the multiverse’s plaything,” she mutters irritably. At least she’s dressed for the weather. For the most part. Warm jacket, hoodie, fingerless gloves, and sturdy boots. Could be better. But it could be worse, too. “At least they didn’t bring me here when I was in the fucking shower.” There’d be no avoiding frostbite, then.

She misses those she’d left behind, though, as she always does.

There’s nothing else for her to do but start tromping through the snow, to try and figure out where the hell she is now and what’s going on. There’s a trail of smoke, rising into the air. And that’s as good a thing to head towards as anything. She eventually finds her way to a path, which is something. She wonders if she’s going to encounter anyone else. If she’s here, it’s like that there are others. That’s how this shit usually works.


METHUSELAH'S FEAST.
Following the plume of smoke leads her to somewhere called Milton. Not somewhere she’s ever heard of before, but that doesn’t mean anything. She struggles a little, because she should KNOW more, there should be flickers of SOMEthing if not outright portents, visions… but there’s just… silence.

And she hates it.

Zoey’s an adaptable woman who knows how to survive, and the loss of her powers doesn’t change that. She’s just… been brought down to normal. Something she used to DREAM of, as a child. She’s regretting that dream, right now.

She’s welcomed to the source of the smoke, which looks to be something like a school house, by someone who introduces himself as Methuselah. It’s warm, and there’s food, which she’s immensely grateful for. And he lets her ask a few questions. Even answers them. More mysterious bullshit. And more questions remain.

There’s something else, though, that she finds later, after she’s found herself a corner to sit and drink warm cups of tea and coffee. A familiar satchel, along with the throwing knives that had been a gift from her father, and the matched short swords she’d picked up somewhere in her travels through the multiverse. Well. At least she’s armed, now.

That’s something.

She just wishes she knew how they got here. They’d been on her, before. But they hadn’t been, when she arrived. She sighs, and takes another sip of coffee. More multiversal bullshit. She searches the room with keen ice blue eyes. Watching. Listening. And looking for familiar faces. Even though she knows better, after all this time.


HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE.
Zoey’s pragmatic, and they’re going to need supplies to survive, here. Which means it’s time to start rummaging through the abandoned houses. And maybe there’s something there that will give a clue as to what’s going on. And she needs to find somewhere to hole up. In no particular order.

The place to stay happens first; there’s a sturdy two story building in good shape in a cul-de-sac out of the way. There’s canned goods in the cupboards, no broken windows, and plenty of blankets and clothes. The tech is… dated, which is interesting, and she files that away for future pondering. There’s a backpack, too, which she grabs before heading out to continue exploring. She’ll be gathering supplies as she goes. Canned goods, warm clothes and socks (especially socks), hats and scarves and gloves, pens and pencils, notebooks. There are other things, too. Diaries and journals, written by whoever had been here before. She gathers those, too. Maybe there's something in them that will TELL her something. Give her clues as to what happened. What's going on.

It’s the third building she’s searching when she finds the first body.

“Oh, fuck. You poor bastard.” It’s the body of a woman, and she’d put up a fight, whatever had happened (and not knowing WHAT happened is… vexing, to say the least), but she’d come out on the losing side. She kneels down beside her, reaching out to shut her eyes. “May you find peace,” she murmurs softly. She doesn’t have a proper token, but she pulls a piece of gold from her pocket (she forgets where and when she picked it up, but it apparently made the journey with her), and places it on the woman’s mouth. “If Charon doesn’t like the currency tell him to take it up with me.” It’s soft, and spoken for the ears of a dead woman. But she says it all the same.

Then she’s exhaling softly and rising to her feet. She’s done what she can, but for now, survival is more important.


WILCARD!
[Choose your own adventure!]

arrival;

[forasecond]

Five has lost track of how long he’s been walking; long enough his clothes are starting to get soaked through with snow, at least. The cold bites at every nerve he has, and he hates it. More than once through his journey, he tries to make a spacial jump, but to no avail.

Someone nearby might hear the loud shout of frustration culminating in a sharp snap of a single swear, “Goddammit!” somewhere in the short distance.

Líadan "Lía" Hawke | Dragon Age 2

[taleofthe]

[Her canon point is Act 1, right before going to the Deep Roads.]

ARRIVAL.
“This isn’t Kirkwall.” Last thing she remembered was NOT lying on her back in the snow with someone making EXTREMELY judgemental comments about her. But here she is. “And that was rude.” Hawke climbs to her feet, shaking the snow out of her red hair. “Fenris? Varric?” She calls out, searching her surroundings for someone. ANYone. But particularly her friends. Not that she’ll be happy about them ending up here TOO, but having someone she trusts at her back would… be more than welcome. “If you’re here, Isabela, we’re going to have to find you some trousers. Otherwise you’re going to be getting frostbite in some very unpleasant places.”

No answer. Just the silence of snow. Shit. She sighs. “Well then. Let’s see what I can find.” Hopefully some people. And some buildings. She’s almost missing Gamlen’s place right now. It might be a little crowded but it was a roof over their heads.

So she sets off, trudging through the snow. There’s a plume of smoke rising into the air, and she hopes that it’s a fireplace. And not a building. It’s something to heads toward, though.


METHUSELAH'S FEAST.
It was NOT, in fact, a building on fire, and Hawke is immensely relieved. It’s a relief to get out of the cold, too, and she can start drying off a little. Methuselah can’t tell her why she’s here, which is frustrating. But the fact that there are others here is something she’s glad of. Even if none of them are familiar, so far. And all of them, aside from the man who greeted them, seem to have been brought here. Which is interesting.

But there’s food, and hot tea and coffee, and she takes advantage of all of it as she sits curled up by the fire and tries to warm up a little. She'll scoot over a little to make sure there's room if someone decides to pull up a seat and warm up and dry off.

Otherwise she's just... listening. And thinking.


HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE.
She has no answers, beyond the few that Methuselah answered (and they only brought more questions she wanted to ask), but there are things that need to be done. So Hawke goes and starts doing it. She’s not used to staying still, exactly. Kirkwall keeps her busy. There’s a lot to do there, getting ready for the journey to the Deep Roads, and she’s used to doing jobs for Athenril, or just generally helping people out.

So. Exploring.

It’s a good thing Hawke doesn’t have a lot of issues about theft. Does it count as theft if its been abandoned? She thinks it might be a bit of a grey area. But it’s a matter of survival. So she investigates buildings, picking locks when she needs to. Because locks do not stop Líadan "Lía" Hawke. Most of the time.

There are some very strange things inside some of these buildings. The likes of which she’s never seen before. So she ignores them, for the most part, searching for something useful. She finds clothing, some of it strange, and some of it warm, so she takes it. She finds another backpack, and stuffs what she finds into it. There’s food, too, in the cupboards. It’s a strange way of storing it, but if it’s edible that’s all that matters.

House to house, she goes, trying to gather supplies.

Hawke isn’t a stranger to dead bodies. The Blight had made sure of that. So had Kirkwall. Granted, sometimes she’s the reason they’re dead, but only if they try to make her dead first. She’s not expecting to find a body just… lying sprawled against the wall of the living room of the home she’s picked the lock of. “Andraste’s TITS,” she swears sharply under her breath. There’s an unfamiliar weapon lying by their hand, and a horribly bloody wound in their chest. She doesn’t know what happened here… but it’s not good.


THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN.
Hawke sometimes makes very bad decisions. Trekking down a dangerous mountain path in a strange place was probably one of those bad decisions. But it seemed like a good idea at the time. And a better one when, once she finds her way to the lake, she watches in horror as someone was dragged by some creature beneath the ice into the water.

“Shit!” And she’s taking off, sliding wildly across the ice until she’s near the hole in the ice they’d vanished into. One dagger is driven into the ice and she hooks her foot around its hilt so as to not fall into the water. The others is in one hand in case she needs to stab something, and she thrusts the other into the water. “Grab on!”

Shit shit shit! She doesn’t even know if they can hear her. Taking a deep breath and bracing herself against the cold, she half dives into the water, reaching for them.

She has a hold of them, she thinks she has a hold of them (she hopes she has a hold of them), and she grabs them tightly and pulls, dragging them upward as she hauls herself backwards, out of the water and back onto the ice.


WILDCARD.

Siren

[solitarysoul]

He'd fought off the beast, but he didn't have the strength to get his head back above water. For a brief second, Levi accepts that his journey will end here. But then there's a hand gripping his arm and he remembers that he'd prefer to stay alive.

He grabs onto the arm and kicks trying--but likely doing very little--to help her drag him out.

Once he's out of the water he takes a few moments to catch his breath before looking for his savior.

"...thanks."

malyen oretsev — grishaverse

[venato]

ARRIVAL

[ Something isn't right.

Mal's very familiar with the whipping pain of freezing cold but this cold feels different. Not the kind of sting that he's used to. He opens his eyes and finds himself staring up at the tattered ceiling of...something. Mal stays very still, not wanting to move in case he'd been captured. But, he can't remember that. The last things he remembers are words that don't make sense from a voice he doesn't recognize.

Eventually, his curiosity becomes too much and he sits up. The cabin that he's in is empty. He can hear wind whipping hard outside. Getting to his feet, he peers out the window and into a snow covered landscape. No one is around.

A creeping feeling of unease starts crawling up his back but Mal does his best to ignore it. Instead, he focuses on pulling his jacket tight around him and stepping out of the cabin.

All he can see is just snow and trees, the occasional shrub and rock. There's nothing else. The unease grows and he starts walking, boots leaving behind footprints that he doesn't even try and cover.

He needs to find people, find somewhere warm, find something. So, he walks, head down and shoulder pushing into the driving wind. ]

SETTLING

[ The fact that he's still here bothers him, makes him restless. But, he's not alone, at least. There's plenty of other people that have found their way here. While Mal's talked to some of them, he's mostly kept his distance, observing, watching, making silent judgments about people.

Today, he's sitting outside of the small home he's been bunking in, a journal on his knee from the home's previous owner. He's skimming through it, brow furrowing more and more as he gets deeper into it.

That unease continues to grow and grow. ]

DROWNING

[ And then one day that ease explodes.

Mal remembers the woman's face, remembers thinking it someone else, someone lost to him right now and being drawn to that person, that face. The next thing he knows, he's being pushed underwater. He tries to gasp for breath but swallows water and it's all he can do to splash and flail, trying to stay as close to the surface as he can.

The woman is strong and he sees black spots popping up in front of his eyes. He doesn't know how he does it but he manages to get an arm up and disturb her hold on him long enough that he surfaces, coughing and spitting.

The woman is gone.

And he's left to pull his shivering, choking body out of the water and onto the ground. He pants, staying there despite the freeze that seeps into his bones. ]

drowning

[ravkas]

[ the ice is hardly the safest place to be, but mal isn't moving and the woman is far from dead. the pull of her song still rings in his ears, pressing him to move faster as he skids to his knees by mal's side. ]

Up go you, Oretsev. [ nikolai looks a little worse for wear, but nowhere close to the bedraggled rat vibes that mal is currently giving. he's concerned the man will go into shock from his spill into the icy waters, but he doesn't have time to fret. or at least he will fret and move at the same time. ] I'm sure we can find a more comfortable bed for you, maybe one that doesn't come with a homicidal girlfriend. Rather lovely voice on her, though.

[ he takes a moment to take mal's sputtering face in his gloved hands, patting his cheeks. ]

You're okay, Mal. Look at me and tell me I'm handsome.

uchiha sasuke | naruto

[chokuto]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

[The lights and warmth of Milton are overwhelming after the endless dark and cold beyond its limits. By the time Sasuke reaches the building — the only one visibly populated — he's exhausted, strength worn to the barest threads. It shows when he enters silently, tracking a route around the perimeter of the community hall, observant, a presence that would go missed except by the sharpest eyes. No one tries to speak to him right away. It's preferred, so he has time to gather his composure and... possibly, eat.

He should eat. Logically he's aware of this, because even without the extent of his chakra he can feel the poor condition of his body. He is perhaps more fragile now than he has been in his life, even before, even when he was dying. It's discomfiting. There is nothing he can do about it.

If you've noticed this pale-faced, dark-eyed young man — just a teenager, really, no matter his adult bearing — you'll find him struggling at the end of one of the food tables. There are too many plates, and he only has one hand.

Of course, a cup of hot cider gets dropped. Sasuke stares at the puddle slowly oozing around his feet as if he's outside his own body. Very normal behavior.]

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

[Once Sasuke has collected himself, and narrowly avoided any more embarrassing incidents around strangers, he works toward a new goal. The bodies in the street are not only a distraction but a hazard. While it's difficult to tell what ultimately caused their deaths, aside from the extreme elements and a few more grizzlier outcomes of contention, what remains clear is they shouldn't be left where they have fallen. And this town lacks the manpower necessary to resolve the problem.

So, after selecting a small cabin to start, Sasuke begins hauling and gathering bodies in a more remote area out of sight of the street. The ground is too frigid for a proper burial, and he doubts there are enough resources to waste burning them. This seems to be the only option. And the way he handles them, it's clear he's seen enough of the dead to be desensitized.

If Sasuke spots anyone loitering close enough, he'll call out.] This one is too bulky for me to lift on my own. [One-handed, especially.] Are you in good condition?

THE SIREN

[So far, his lack of ability — while a hindrance and sour shock — had not been lethal. That changes on the Basin.

He should not have come out this far, but he hadn't been able to sleep without first completing a survey of the surrounding area, and he's not yet used to his own physical limits. Unfortunately, this creates the perfect formula for danger, as he discovers once he's trekked south to the shore of a frozen lake. And that feminine voice slips into his ears, melodious, an almost androgynous quality to its tone, sinking past any mental barrier of self-defense he might have had. There's nothing to protect him from it.

As Sasuke's feet carry him onto the ice, he's aware enough to know what he's doing is reckless, stupid, and will probably get him killed. And yet he can't stop. The lack of autonomy is blindly terrifying. It's a fear he has not felt in a long time.

Then the woman is upon him, cracking the ice, dragging him down into the depths. He manages only a scream—] stop! [—before he's taken down, where he will be drowned without outside intervention.]

WILDCARD

[ooc: open to other prompt ideas! PM or magisterium. as a side note, sasuke is a CRAU from another game, but he was only there for like two months so it's not significant. given that he can be more of a slow burn in terms of development, this makes it a bit easier for me to integrate him into the setting. he has NO POWERS, which means completely black eyes, so some of my icons won't be totally accurate. also he is missing his LEFT ARM. pls help.]

hope nobody needs this anymore

[ravkas]

[ nikolai has similarly seen enough of the dead to last him several long lifetimes, but the desensitization only persists in the heat of battle. without a rifle in hand or the bleak clamor of war ringing in his ears, this sight weighs as heavily on him as any blood-soaked battlefield or fallen friend he's had to send off into the dark. it's as heavy as any of the countless people he's killed.

maybe that's why this bothers him so much. that he doesn't know these people died, that no one seems to know, and that's become his new normal. his mind spirals into one fantastical story after another, filling in the gaps of no knowledge with tales more gruesome than the last because he can't stand not knowing.

in one story, he is responsible for all of this. well, his shadow. his fun little monster. maribel, he should name it. why not? there is so much blood on his hands he will never be able to account for, he might as well shovel on a bit more.

a voice snaps him out of his spinning thoughts. ]

Am I? [ nikolai holds out his gloved hands and does a little twirl, his coat flaring out in a completely ridiculous gesture for a place like this, then strides over. ] Don't I look in good condition? I would say I'm in exceptional condition.

[ it becomes apparent why he was called over when he looks at the hefty body at his feet, then at the man with only one arm. ah, he's like adrik, only he hopes this one didn't get his arm eaten by a very hungry shadow monster. ]

Do you want shoulders or legs?

Thomas Richardson | Apostle

[missionem]

i. arrival
[ cw: risk of hypothermia, severe injury, finger trauma, drug use referenced, apathy towards death ]

[ He lies in the green. He wakes in the snow.

A kinder cold might offer him some succour. A numbing cold, as obliviating as laudanum, to chill both mind and body to inert insensibility. A cold to sap the last stubborn strength from his limbs and carry him gently through whatever dying dream this might be.

This cold has teeth. This cold sinks them into his wounds and worries them like a hungry dog worries the last scraps from a bone. A bitter, rattling noise interrupts the wheeze of his breath, and no one would call it laughter.

He sits up. He regrets it deeply. He stands, and regrets it more.

Now that he's standing, it seems a waste of effort to lie back down and die. He collects the few objects scattered around him with one hand, the other held close to his chest, and with little else to do he begins to trudge in what seems the least forbidding direction. His borrowed clothes are fit for warding off chill sea winds, not insurance against a winter such as this. Even if they were suited for purpose they'd be ruined by their sodden state. So be it. He can still walk in them, which is all that matters.

So it might be that in the woods you may encounter a staggering, snow-dampened man wheezing his way towards the wisps of smoke on the horizon. From time to time he leans against a tree, and every rest is longer than the one before. If he catches sight of another human being, he stops short, staring blankly at the stranger until they speak or move first. ]

ii. methuselah's feast
[ cw: finger trauma, severe injury ]

[ There was a time that Thomas might have called his survival a miracle. He knows better now.

He stripped down to his long underwear with shaking hand once inside the hall and submitted to the care of the man who calls himself Methuselah, a name that provoked a twitch of his mouth, but no more than that. He was surprised, once the damage was revealed, to discover it less than he recalled it having been.

Perhaps that is a miracle, but he does not care to wonder at its source. He's alive. For now, that seems sufficient.

Thomas hunkers on a cot wrapped in a blanket like a weathered gargoyle brooding over a church eave. He is somewhat cleaned. His wounds are bandaged. His belly is full. His hand is warmed by the drink he holds and sometimes sips.

And his eyes glitter like chips of ice as they follow the back and forth of the other new arrivals, the only living thing in his haggard demeanour. He is shameless in his staring, even when caught, meeting any pair of eyes turned back on him as if in challenge. ]

iii. hope nobody needs these anymore
[ cw: frozen bodies ]

[ It takes some time before Thomas considers himself well enough to be out and about in this place. It is a briefer time than he imagines any doctor would prescribe. The stitches in his side protest vociferously at every movement, but he has some small skill at tolerating pain.

He's in need of supplies. Warm clothing, tools, weapons - all the necessities of survival the other scavengers have had a headstart on acquiring that he cannot afford to do without. His impaired condition must be set aside for the time being.

Finding a suitable coat and boots is the first step. He finds them in a house that he deems as reasonable shelter as any other house, a small dwelling that was once inhabited by a single man of about Thomas' height. He drags the frozen corpse to the house's backyard and secures it inside the shed, which seems the courteous thing to do as he awaits the old man making his burial rounds.

After that, Thomas makes his way through the town street by street with a hatchet tucked into a rope wound about his waist. Both of his hands are swaddled in mittens, which conceal the missing digits on the left. It's still his right hand he raises in greeting to anyone he sees. ]

How goes it?

[ He inquires, friendly enough, as if they meet on a bustling city street and not in this frozen waste. ]

iv. the siren of milton basin
[ cw: drowning, risk of hypothermia, violence ]

[ As the woman lunges, Thomas wonders at the absurdity of it all.

Does each remote place in the world host such hunger? Or is it a misfortune unique to him to come across two examples of the type?

Or does she know him, somehow? Does she recognize, in the rot and ruin of him, something of her kin?

His shoulders strike the ice and he thinks no more of it. The lake opens up as a frigid throat and swallows him, and all there is for it is to struggle against the monster that fights to force him under the inky black.

Thomas doesn't know about the rictus grin that bares his own teeth as he kicks fiercely at the siren and fumbles for his hatchet. It wouldn't surprise him to know about it, if he manages to survive this. ]

v. wildcard / ooc notes
[ Feel free to PM this journal or contact me at terriblepurpose to discuss alternate starters or threads in progress! Also, for observation purposes, Thomas here is missing the outer three fingers on his left hand and is visibly unwell due to having been stabbed quite a bit recently. ]

methuselah's feast

[your_harbour]

Have you never been told it is rude to stare?

[Max's tone is light, friendly. She sits on the bed next to his, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She glances at the strangers that Thomas had been observing.]

You must lower your eyes. Learn to look through your lashes, or from the very corner of your eye. Then it will not appear as if you are listening at all.

Max - Black Sails

[your_harbour]

Arrival

[Max has never seen snow. She's never felt that icy bite of frost on bare skin, never heard the squeak of snow crunching beneath boots, never felt that shiver running through your body as the cold seeps through your clothes.
She wakes up and she gasps.

She peers through the mouth of the cave and is dazzled by the sheer, bright white all around. It's a white she's never seen either; cleaner than the palest sand or the most bleached of cottons. She touches it, poking it with her finger, and is surprised when it doesn't act as sand does and holds its shape.

She realises, quickly, that she's going to have to venture into the wilderness if she is to survive. It vexes her, not knowing where she is or how she came to be here, or indeed not being able to give name to this freezing cold. She shivers as she trudges, skirts gathered clumsily in her arms and snow finding it's way above her heeled boots to gnaw at her ankles. She slithers and slides and at some point loses her footing and ends up falling head over heels to sprawl in the snow. When she hears footsteps, she groans.]

You know it is not polite to laugh at me, don't you?

Feast

[Max listens to the old man's explanations, questions him again, wheedling to get just a little bit more information from him. But her efforts are in vain and she returns, disappointed, to the table to nibble at the food she's been given. She doesn't say much, but listens intently to the conversations around her, gleaning what information she can from her fellow diners. Eventually, she looks up from her bowl, catching someone's eye.]

They must have planned it, you know? For us to come here. It must be part of their plan.

The Town

[Max is quick to explore, finding more adequate clothes quickly, though she stubbornly refuses to lose her corset and gown beneath the wool jumper and thick coat. It's the businesses that catch her eye though, and she begins to eye them as possibilities. If she is to start a new life again in this place, she is going to be successful. Buying and selling goods, as Eleanor had done, is probably feasible, or perhaps managing some sort of tavern, though how many visitors this place gets puts both of those into question. Musing, she leans back on a car as she surveys the building in front of her. It creaks and she starts, looking at it properly.]

What is this? Where is the horse to be harnessed?

Lady of the Lake

[Max wanders down to the lake out of pure curiosity to see what is there. She's less than impressed with the fishing huts, but the ice itself catches her attention. She's never seen anything like it: she crouches down to poke it, before pressing on it to make sure it's safe. That's when she notices the beautiful woman and decides it must be safe enough to walk on. Slipping and sliding, she hurries to the woman, suddenly madly intent with talking to her. But as she reaches her, the woman seems to shift and change before Max's eyes. Max shrieks and scrambles back, but it is too late. She falls and crashes through the ice, back first. She thrashes madly, screaming when she's able to get her head above the water and swallowing a mouthful of water when she's pushed back down. Arms and legs kick and flail and gasping a breath is all Max can do before she's shoved beneath the water again. She can feel herself growing weaker, her heavy gown weighing her down, her corset not allowing her lungs to expand and she begins to think it might be easier to give up.

With one last desperate effort, she tries to force her head above the waterline for a moment and she screams,]

HELP!

feast

[deathroadtocanada]

[Her eyes meet another woman, seemingly around the same age. Oddly, she has no food of her own, just an empty bowl cupped in her hands as though it had nowhere else to go. She returns the look in kind once it becomes clear she's being spoken to. Such clothes weren't common in Kara's time. Chuck that oddity onto the pile.]

"They"? They who? [Her voice dips into what could be a whisper.] The old man?

vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original — historical/(secret) revenant

[m1895]

[ vasiliy was born in russia in 1910, the son of two first-wave bolsheviks, and came up a genuine and devout believer in marxism-leninism. his career in the communist party eventually led to him being transferred to the NKVD (stalinist secret police) when the head of the personnel department where he worked was appointed NKVD chief. he spent four years, including those at the height of the yezhovshchina, as an interrogator tasked with posing as a friendly figure and emotionally manipulating hundreds prisoners into signing false confessions. when the man who brought him in was executed in 1940 because he fell out of stalin's favor, so too were vasiliy and his cadre, poisoned by association; he experienced the very same arrest, interrogation, and execution everyone who passed through his hands did.

but his story didn't end there. for reasons unknown, he awoke in the middle of nowhere in 2015, alive, well, and carrying the documents of a man by the very same name born in 1985. he fled to america as soon as he was able to learn english and train in a desirable skill, fearing that he'd be discovered and executed if he remained in russia; over the past three years, he's been an EMT in chicago, gradually coming to terms with what happened to him, (still) unlearning stalinist programming while trying to be a better person in general, and trying to balance out some of the cosmic harm he did over his four years in stalin's regime in an attempt to find some respite from the overwhelming guilt. he defaults to english, which he's mostly but not entirely fluent in, because his patterns of speech/tone/inflection in his own language are 'old timey' in the sort of way old voice recordings are.

at his best, he's generous, communal-minded, brave, compassionate, and self-sacrificial. at his worst? he's a follower highly susceptible to cults of personality, he's deeply paranoid and closed-off, and views everything through a lens of ideology and greater meaning that tends to make him attribute motives and underlying traits to actions that simply... aren't there. ]

I. I've been told I was born to endure this kinda weather
METHUSELAH'S FEAST.

For the second time in his lives, Vasiliy awakes on his back in the snow, squinting up at a wet gray sky. For a moment he simply lies there, taking stock: he can feel all of his limbs. He doesn't feel like he's been injured in any way. With one shaking, pink-flushed hand, he feels along the front of his body, fingers brushing over the familiar pockets and buttons and rough fabric of a Chicago municipal EMT's dark navy winter uniform. He's not sure what he expected, exactly. Last time it had been the prison clothes he died in. He's still dressed as he was in his last waking—living?—memory here, too. And the gun's still tucked into the front of his waistband, beneath his belt.

’You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.’ They knew. Whoever they might be, they knew—that he didn't belong, that something went awry. He should be dead in the ground, and maybe this is his punishment.

Vasiliy unsteadily rises to his feet, grateful for the thickness and traction of his work boots. His surroundings don't look unlike Russia in the winter, like the landscape that whisked past the windows on the rail line from Petrograd to Moscow, when he'd first been transferred to the NKVD. His chest twists and aches as he stares at the treeline of tall snow-dusted conifers, some immaterial longing that leaves him almost nauseous even after three years of getting used to not living in Russia.

He follows other human footprints, revolver drawn, until at last he comes to a sign and the fleeting mixture of hope and anxiety evaporates. Milton's American or Canadian, not Russian. He's safer here, but he's not sure he wanted to be. Three years is a long time to spend a stranger in a strange land that embodies everything you despise.

There's smoke coming from one of the chimneys, so he tucks the gun back into the front of his pants, zips his jacket over it, and heads in that direction.

After the man calling himself Methuselah has given his speech and answered what questions he can, Vasiliy takes a few things to eat, but he doesn't sit down to do so, not when there are so many people cold (some on the verge of frostbite) and injured. He joins the old man in walking among the people sitting on the floor as he eats, strap of his kit bag slung over one shoulder, eyes quickly scanning exposed digits and comparing their color against a background of experience—medical and as a Russian.

A.

[ When he sees fingertips that are far too flushed or pale, dangerously so, he approaches, regarding the owner with a degree of grimness. It's clear, no matter the language characters hear his words in, that he's deliberately speaking a language that he's not completely fluent in. ]

You have frost-nip. You need to warm your hands or you could lose fingers.

B.

[ Or it's possible that the chief complaint is more egregious. To most of those from the 21st or late 20th century, Vasiliy will probably stand out as an island of (medical) authority, a part of the establishment to come to for help—he's standing upright and confident, wearing a heavy navy jacket emblazoned with EMS in seven-inch reflective letters across the back and embroidered with a silver-dollar sized star of life on the front, trimmed with reflective tape for good measure. Maybe your character's the one wounded, or maybe they came and grabbed him to tend someone with wounds. Either way, he's dropping his kit bag on the ground and crouching down, voice firm and reassuring. ]

It's alright. You're okay. Can you tell me what's going on?

II. Heavenly shades of night are falling
HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANY MORE.

[ Something shuts off.

Vasiliy doesn't remember when he developed the ability to split his mind and emotions so thoroughly, probably some time after he learned to interrogate. Maybe much earlier, when his mother ushered him away from a frozen body outside of a Petrograd liquor store on their walk to the factory he worked in when he was seven years old. Maybe when he saw fresh bodies crumple after the Tsar's bullets pierced them, or twenty years later, when his friends' did the same.

Regardless of when he learned it, the disconnection had come naturally, by the time he was riding in the back of ambulances, declaring deaths on the scene, watching other human bodies hemorrhage blood, mutilated in horrible, unnatural ways.

It is, if one were to ask Vasiliy, a quintessentially Soviet urge: Survive. No matter how unhappy you are, or how much better it might be to die, survive.

So he does so here. He volunteers to help with the corpse disposal; despite being shorter than most of these people at 5'7", he's stronger by virtue of a lot of exercise, most of it with the intention of being able to lift bodies heavier than his own. He's also better able to handle it, emotionally, than most of the people here; he gets the sense that for the most part the new population is a civilian one.

Fellow volunteers may note that Vasiliy works without stopping, without complaint, without request for food or water—like a mule that's spent the entirety of its life canalside, he simply settles into the rhythm of it and doesn't surface.

At least until he needs to smoke. He pauses after he and the other person carrying the latest body—a man's—lower it into the ground and fumbles for a cigarette in his breast pocket. With an unlit smoke held in his lips he taps another out of the pack and holds it out in their direction. ]

You smoke?

III. Out of the mist your voice is calling
THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN.

[ All at once, the desperate thrashing in the icy waters jolts Vasiliy from the trace that brought him here. He sees it then: there's blood staining the choppy black waters, bubbles floating to the surface as it churns like a shark is devouring a seal beneath the ice. Briefly, a human head surfaces, gasping for air like a carp before the woman shoves it under again; arms fly out, clawing at her, pulling her hair.

A.

He fumbles for the gun in his waistband and extends his arm, cocking the hammer as he waits for her to emerge again. ]

Get away from it! Don't fight, get away!

[ With a spray of icy water, she bursts from the surface again, sending shards of ice skittering across the lake's cover. He fires once, twice into the center of the woman's chest—but she doesn't drop dead, or even bleed. She does, however, let out an unholy, reptilian screech and momentarily let go of her victim, creating an opening. ]

B.

[ As soon as the thing's gone, he gets as close to the edge as he trusts he can without breaking the ice, crawling on his belly and extending a hand for the frantic victim to grab. ]

Take my hand. You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay.

III. You're a drifter, a shapeshifter
WILDCARD.

[ vasiliy will mostly be trying to contribute where he can - putting in a lot of physical labor and medical work. it's possible to catch him ice skating prior to the appearance of the siren - if your character's doing similar and looks like they could use some instruction, he's your guy. if you'd like to plot something out or have an idea that's not on here shoot me a pm or pp bluehellgazette! ]

IA

[solitarysoul]

[Levi sat on the floor near a wall, figuring someone else could use a table or a chair more than him. He's placed his rifle on the floor next to him while he picks at a plate of meat. He's not sure what kind of meat, but he doesn't care. It was free and warm.]

Hm?

[He looks up at the man, taking a moment to register than someone said something to him.]

Frost-nip?

[He's heard of frost bite, a slow death to ones fingers and toes as the cold seeped in, perhaps it was something like that? Levi had been lucky enough to never get it, but he's seen it. He frowns and looks at his hand.]

Can-can it be treated?

[Back where he came from, it usually wasn't.]

yennefer of vengerberg / the witcher

[importance]

I. ARRIVAL

[ ciri.

the one syllable pounds in her gut like an animal instinct. a warning that prickles the hair at the nape of her neck. a looming urgency of wrongness. her eyes fly open on a sharp, bursting breath that plumes up frozen air. a mother's nature, perhaps — a sort of poetic irony she might stew in otherwise.

poor yennefer of vengerberg, only caring for the girl once she's so near to losing her, as though it takes losing a vital organ to appreciate your lifespan. she spills out a shaky exhale, disgusted at the self-pity that threatens to roil through her.

her fingers stretch, claw-like, in the vast snow. it's nearly blinding — the pure white blankets that stretch on and on as far as the eye can detect, seemingly limitless. barren, moreover; yennefer grows keenly aware of its lifelessness as her eyes hunt for a familiar glimpse of ashen hair in the breeze.

no such luck. powdery white spills from the vivid purple of her cloak as she hefts herself to her feet. ciri's absence sits as numbly in her chest as chaos' pulse dying, unreachable — but she knows which to prioritize, this time. her second chance at making the right choice. ]

— Ciri?

[ she stumbles forward on uneven footing, taking a direct path to a wayward stig strewn in the snow, severed from the rest of a looming tree's limbs. her fingers clutch its heft the way one might wield a sword, though there's indications it isn't her natural choice of weapon; her arm droops with its weight. her breath heaves. but she seems undeterred once she comes across a nearing shadow in the woods, aiming it toward them. ]

Where is she?

[ the question sits low, dark. a fanged warning, if there ever was one. ]

II. HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS (A) ( cw: dead bodies, death-related imagery, etc )

[ she doesn't linger at the edges of the feast for long. but if she'd found their immediate acceptance of strange faces worrying, the empty lines of homes loom like catacombs. every step past the threshold feels like disturbing the dead — if not the decaying dreams she'd held, once, of a house not unlike this one. a quiet little alcove to raise a family within.

its homey walls only serve as stinging reminder of what she is without, now. of the impossible chasm of distance stretching between herself and geralt. it's a death by a thousand cuts, despite the almost casual grace in which yennefer inspects its decor. an elegant finger passes over a doorframe, collecting dust on its tip.

when she reaches the living room, she pauses. a body lays nestled within a rocking chair, still and silent. the peace carved into him makes him look almost peaceful, a statue frozen in its final moments of serenity. if her scouting partner looks particularly squeamish with the discovery, yennefer expels a long-suffering breath, and holds out an expectant hand. ]

Hand me your gloves.

[ mother will take care of it, you child.

if they look unfazed, she lingers in place, letting her eyes slide sidelong toward them. ]

We'll place him in the shed until morning.

[ he can't possibly grow more dead overnight. but by 'we', she clearly means you; she shifts no muscle forward to even attempt to drag the deadweight of a corpse. ]

III. HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS (B)

[ a stranger in her sheets is no unusual sight, with one slight difference: generally, they're invited. a scavenger's claim must mean so little, in the grand scheme; to call it her own would be infinitely childish in a manner yennefer has long outgrown, chipped away by weary decades. but there's a scent clinging to her pillow that matches the woman standing, unimpressed, at the bedside like a shadow. lilac and gooseberries cling to the threads, cling to her hair, cling to the sheets as if suffused —

until she gives them said sheets a firm pull, taking the body in her bed along for the ride. thunk they go, right onto the creaky floorboards at her feet. should they look up, they'll find the imperious arch of her brow, unapologetic. the calm command in her look could only mean either one of two things: explain yourself or get out. ]

IV. WILDCARD

[ canon point is very early season 3! please lmk if you'd like me to avoid any spoilers. if you'd like to discuss threads or a starter idea, feel free to hit me up via PM. i default to present prose brackets, but happy to match styles. ♥ ]

II

[solitarysoul]

[Levi hadn't stayed at the feast for long either. Just enough to eat and warm up a bit before heading back out. All those people...it felt unnatural to be with so many people in this place.
A smaller group was comfortable, though, so he found himself traveling with (following after, really) Yennefer.

He has absolutely no reaction to the body, as if such a thing was normal to him.]

We should search it first. It might have something useful.

[Since she wasn't moving he steps forward, puts his rifle down and starts checking the body for loot. It had become a familiar act over the last three days. Seemed like it'd continue in this place too.]

kate marsh | life is strange

[castitas]

☮ ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
cw: symptoms of disassociation; religious themes

[ This must be Hell. It must be some kind of punishment. The video is all over the internet, it's how she'll always be remembered. Her name forever blackened: Kate Marsh, doing those disgusting things for the world to see. So "high and mighty" reduced to this, everything she stood for — her morals and principles, her faith — reduced to ash with one video. And worse: to be cut out by everyone, the bullying intensified. And she can still hear her mother's words, her Aunt's her whole family disappointed with her. Even her father's words of hope feel distant, now. The loneliness is a cold, terrible place. That is Hell.

And now— another cold and terrible place. Another Hell.

She sits on one of the cots in the Hall, wrapped in a warm blanket following her trek into town. Her fingers and nose still red, but she's warming up at least. Still, she looks despondent as she sits — staring into nothing with glossy eyes. There's fear, too. Too much fear. One can almost taste it in the air. For the longest time, she sits there — the edges of her world are blurred, almost dreamlike.

In her lap, a violin case. Her violin case. It shouldn't be here. It's not possible for it be here, but here it is. Some of her belongings are with her. But the violin case is the one she clutches to, currently. She doesn't remember the last time she played. Every morning she played, but now?

In time, she slowly opens the case and carefully retrieves the instrument within. She moves herself to stand. Her fingers ache, but she readies herself: tucking the violin under her chin and lifting her bow. From the din of hushed voices of conversation, cutlery clacking as the people around her eat and fire crackling down one end of the room, there is the sound of music: slow, mournful. Mozart.

She's not looking at anyone, her eyes still distant and glazed. There are tears running down her cheeks. ]

☮ HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE
cw: religious themes; faith-related conversations

[ It seems that Milton Church has come out largely unscathed from whatever happened to this place. Neat and tidy, the small church-hall a hushed place, as if it is simply waiting for its congregation to return. It will be waiting for some time.

So much of this place is unknown, unfamiliar. The church is the one thing that feels familiar to her, some source of comfort. It reminders her of her father's sermons, of the peace it gave her. Wrapped up in warmer clothes, Kate sits in once of the many pews. The wood creaks and groans around her. She imagines her father stood at the lectern, glasses slipping down his nose slightly as he preaches. A warm, rich voice.

She wishes she could hear it now.

Instead, she sits in silence to pray. Head bowed, hands clasped, her mouth moves, but no sounds come from her. For the longest time, she's deeply lost in the action — seemingly deaf to the sound of anyone else entering the church. It's only when she's finished, does her head finally lift. She doesn't turn to look at the newcomer, her eyes fixed upon the crucifix upon the wall before them. ]

Do you think He might listening, even here?

☮ WILDCARD

[ Still v much voicetesting, but open to wildcards! ]

hope nobody needs this | cw: drinking, intoxication

[missionem]

[ The other soul who enters the church does so quietly, feet falling on the boards with care not to make them speak overmuch. The rustle and creak of him settling into a pew across the aisle and a row back from Kate is as minimal as he can make it. The clearest noise he produces is the slosh of some liquid in a glass bottle being raised. ]

No less than He listens anywhere.

[ Thomas stretches his legs out underneath the pew ahead of him and slides down where he sits, studying the crucifix as Kate does. The gin he pilfered from a cupboard is doing excellent work warming his belly, but still he feels cold. ]

Do you pray for our deliverance, or for the unfortunates who came before us?

Levi - Fear & Hunger 2: Termina

[solitarysoul]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

Waking up somewhere new was an experience he hadn't exactly had before. Was this a dream? It wasn't the moon tower, which was the only place he dreamed of lately, but it certainly wasn't where he'd gone to sleep. Well, passed out, after all that noise became too much to bear.

Thankfully, at least, he awoke in an empty cabin. Empty of monsters and traps, of people and of anything useful (he'd checked). It didn't look like the buildings or bunkers in Prehevil, which to him just opened them up to a whole new set of problems. Were there people here? Were they normal or something else*? He didn't know, which made him very, very nervous. Thankfully he'd woken up with his rifle. No bullets, but the thing was practically as security blanket. He gripped onto it tightly as he left the house. Maybe just having it there would dissuade any attacks. Not that it had done any good before, but he wanted to try to have some semblance of hope.


Later, the boy--well, he was 18, but still looked young--in the army coveralls with the rifle stayed near the edge of the room. He'd helped himself to the food immediately, even pocketed a few items, but he hadn't eaten that much. Just enough to keep him going to the next house. Or until he found a pie in the trash.

He had spoken, briefly, with Methuselah but it didn't help. But because it seemed safe in here--and not COLD--he remained inside. Obviously watching the old man. He doesn't trust this, but he trusts that man least of all.


HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

Going through empty houses and finding bodies had become normal for him. (How? It had only been three days. But it had, somehow.) What was odd was that these bodies were, well, normal. No mutations, no parts crudely sawn off, just...there. Dead, mostly frozen. He'd only seen a few, but was currently stopped to examine one, one that thankfully lay next to the open door of a shop of some sort (at least he thought it was a shop). His short sleeves meant he couldn't stay outside too long, but for the moment he was standing over the body of a dead woman, gently and carefully poking it with the muzzle of his rifle.

The sound of snow crunching underfoot caught he attention though, and he looks up towards it. He'd seen people here, NORMAL, non murderous people, and he really hopes that,s what this was. His gun was empty and his knife hadn't seemed to make the trip with him, so he has no good way to defend himself except to run.


THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

She had been so beautiful, and somewhat familiar. He couldn't place who she looked like, perhaps even a few people, but he hadn't cared. He just wanted to get closer to her, not even say anything (he was bad at that) but just be there. It had seemed like a dream, but in moments it revealed itself to be more of a nightmare. The woman--the THING--distorted cruelly, opening a mouth too wide. His training kicked in and the rifle was raised and fired before he noticed it...but there was no shot. The gun was empty, though it still worked to defend him. He scrambled backwards, swinging it at the monster like a club. The ice groaned and cracked under his weight as he backed up, still pursued by the monster until the ice itself gave out. As he was trying to process this, to get back above the water, she came again, pushing him down. But a good solid hit to the head and she was gone, but he was in no less danger. Even after he'd managed to pull himself, and his weapon, out of the water and onto shore he was still in trouble. Soaked through the bone, in clothes not at all made for this climate.

hope!

[infiniteheart]

Jiang Yanli's been on the move all over the town, moving with quiet determination through the streets. Someone needs to start gathering all the available resources on hand, do an inventory of it, and so they can figure the next steps should be as a community. She's on her way into another abandoned building to strip it of anything useful for providing for basic needs when she spots the inapproriately dressed stranger poking one of the one dead.

"I haven't seen any walking corpses roaming around. I'm not sure if the dead do that here," she offers helpfully with a shy but friendly smile. "You should come inside with me, young master. I'm sure we can find you something a little more suited to the conditions to wear."

As for herself, she's long since folded up her beautiful silk hanfu and put it aside in favo of a more practical set of winter clothing."

takashi shirogane | voltron: legendary defender

[earthshine]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH’S FEAST
i: feasting

[ for the town being, supposedly, abandoned, with only one true resident left, there is an abundance of food. it’d odd enough that shiro hesitates. not before grabbing a plate and filling it with food, though. no, no. he has various types of game meat on his plate, as well as a small mountain of mashed potatoes. soup is in front of him, too. it’s there, though, sitting at a table and staring at everything laid out that his brain outpaces the whims of his stomach.

he’s not alone at the table. there’s only so much space in the hall, especially when it comes to seating. spoon in hand and frown upon his face, he speaks to no one in particular. ]

Does anyone else find it odd that Methuselah just happened to have all of this ready?

[ this would have taken hours to prepare. and even then, how would he have even known to make it all? that the town would be overflowing with newcomers? ]

ii: trading

[ food and clothing are the ticket items to be… uh, shopping for. he keeps everything methuselah hands off to him in terms of clothing, but he makes sure to pick up any other items he finds while exploring the town. namely? the abandoned houses. he’s pretty set on that front, with many pieces to layer from pants to shirts to coats to socks to gloves to –

he’d really like that beanie you’re wearing, though. ]

What would it take for you to trade me that?

[ cue a clarifying gesture. ]

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE
iii: housing

[ well. anything is an improvement from imprisonment by an alien species intent on conquering the universe. this is his cue to say his luck is turning around, right? it is, he will concede, but he does wish his luck could have taken him somewhere with sunshine. heat. not piles of snow.

it is nice, he supposes, to be surrounded by organic things, though. from the cold innards of a space cruiser to the brick and mortar of an empty city, shiro is overdue for a reintroduction with living, breathing, flourishing nature.

… he’s pretty sure that tree is dead, though.

standing outside a small framed cottage, shiro drags his gaze from the bare tree kitty-corner to the porch, turning his attention to the sound of snow crunching. ]

This yours?

[ he inclines his head toward the house. methuselah said the houses were up for grabs, but with everyone grabbling for shelter, it’s a guessing game of what is even available. ]

iv. trapping

[ shiro needs help.

clearly, he isn’t going to trap any animals in the midst of town, especially in the heated, bustling community hall. he’s practicing, though. he found some wire in one of the cabins and is now twisting it around, making a double loop that he then feeds the other end through to make an even bigger loop.

that’s as far as he’s gotten.

this is the easy part. constructing the snare at the basic level takes a matter of a minute or two, but figuring out where to place the snare, as well as anchor it… those are the difficult aspects of trapping. so if you come cruising by to see what he’s doing, expect a glance up and a blunt: ]

What do you know about trapping game?

v. “grave” robbing

[ shiro’s sins are many. he’s killed and pilfered weapons off his opponents before, all in hopes of securing his survival for another day. somehow, this seems worse, though. coming across a body half buried in snow, with no idea how or why this fate befell them… it hits differently to look upon them and immediately assess what can be taken from them.

survival, he reminds himself. all of this is about survival. a moral code and common decency are luxuries reserved for moments when supplies aren’t low.

the clothing shiro won’t bother with. he does draw the line somewhere. so walking by you may find him rifling through a pack for ammo. or working the pack off the body entirely. or he may be struggling to work frozen fingers free from a gun locked into place. feel free to help him or judge him; either way, it’s doubtful he’ll share. ]

WILDCARD

[ feel free to PM me with questions or ideas! i tend to use present tense and brackets, but i’m okay with us not matching if you’d like to use a different format! :D ]

arrival i

[solitarysoul]

Yes!

[Oops, that was louder than he wanted. Levi clears his throat and starts again in a softer, voice. A voice that sounds like its trying not to be overheard, probably by that weird old guy.]

There's no way he's not lying to us. Or he has some sort of...I don't know...magic. Or both.