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

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.

[missionem]

[ The woman speaking to him is quite lovely, her voice and manners delicate. It makes it all the more amusing that she gives such an audacious bit of advice to a stranger, couched in the form of gentle reproach.

He's reminded of the sort of society women who used to make him blush when he was young. The ones who had an air of mystery and intrigue about them, as if they were privy to a secret knowledge that would forever elude him. ]

Forgive me - I forget my manners.

[ He lowers his lashes, obliging as a lamb, and observes her with a sidelong glance and a slight, ironic smile. ]

Is this any better?

[your_harbour]

[Far from a society woman, Max is free now and hides her past well. But her behaviours, her manners, have been practiced and honed until she can present this image of herself as someone important, someone desirable. Her smile only grows as he does as he's told.]

It is a good start, but it is better to observe without announcing the fact. And what are manners if I forget mine to speak with such familiarity with a stranger. Might we oblige polite sakes and exchange our names? I am Max.

[missionem]

[ Thomas' smile quirks further as he dips his head to her in acknowledgement, then tilts it to indicate the rest of the room and its motley congregants. ]

Under the circumstances, I imagine we can be pardoned for not waiting for an introduction from a mutual acquaintance.

[ It's absurd to be sitting here, indecent underneath the shoulder to toe swaddling of his blanket, exchanging polite words with a charming young woman. That makes it a welcome distraction, all things told. ]

My name is Thomas Richardson, recently of no fixed address, currently of this cot. There's no need to stand on ceremony with me, as gracious as the attempt is. I assure you, I've had people be far more familiar with me, and somehow managed to endure.

arrival

[alef]

[ In the distance, standing against the frozen backdrop and wisps of smoke, is an apparition.

As Thomas stares at her, she stares at him, but there's no challenge to her gaze. There's very little at all, in fact, besides a tendency to not blink much. If Thomas is looking to read anything into it, the best he'd be able to do is curiosity.

Rei watches him lean against the tree. She listens to his wheeze, carried by the wind. Then, without saying anything, she turns and begins walking back towards the town.

Every so often, she will stop and turn around, looking for the strange man's sharp gaze, as if making sure he's still following her. ]

[missionem]

[ Thomas stares after the apparition as she travels further away, her form wreathed in the mist of his shuddering breath.

He watches her for seven steps before he pushes himself off the tree and stumbles after her, animated more by will than any fragile life-force still clinging to the wreck he calls a body. He entertains the idea that his corpse might continue onward in the woods like this forever, if he dies here - if that is not, in fact, already what has happened.

It would be a funny sort of thing if the dead still felt pain. He wouldn't put it past the malice of the universe to orchestrate that final joke.

He collides with another tree without quite meaning to and pants, watching the girl-creature continue to draw further ahead. ]

W-

[ Even his lips seem numb, fumbling. He sucks in a rattling breath and pushes his shoulder harder against the tree, sliding up on the rough bark. ]

Wait. [ He entreats her, softly. ] Wait. Please.

[alef]

[ There is a terrible sound when he collides with the tree. Rei has stopped once more, but when he speaks, she turns around to face him again. Then, because he has asked her to, she waits.

And she watches. Now that her back is no longer turned to him, it's easier to see how he moves. Slower than most; clearly hurt. Whenever he steadies himself, it is only with one hand. She does not go to him - he told her to wait - but she does allow him to come close, if he can make it. The advantage to Rei's expressionless demeanor is that she's also quite patient. ]

Can you walk?

[ Rei asks the question only because she does not know the answer. She is not certain what to do in this situation, generally, but it seems neither is he. ]

[missionem]

[ Her voice is so human when she speaks. She couldn't have surprised him more with any devilment or strangeness to her speech.

It makes him doubt himself, as so many things do. Is he certain she is what he imagined she is? Can he act as though he is certain? He blinks hard at her in the dark, and has no answers for himself. ]

I can.

[ To prove it, he does. A shaky, miserable step, then another, his feet so much senseless meat somewhere below his knees. ]

Not...quickly. But I can.

[ But if she is a girl, lost in the woods as he is, what kind of girl is she? She shows no fear of a broken stranger stumbling his way toward her in the dark - no compassion, either, but he doesn't expect it. ]

Where are you...where are we going?

arrival / cw risk of hypothermia, former hypoxia and associated recovery symptoms

[suturama]

[ One foot in front of the other. That's all she can think, all she can do, wrapped in a threadbare blanket scrounged from the cabin she woke up in.

Sounds easy. Moving forward. So did getting to her feet. Then you break it down into every individual step: Figure out which way is up. Roll onto your side. Push yourself onto your palms. Fail. Rally and try again. Stay up. Accept the fact that you're still sitting on your ass, and now the real work begins. All this through the haze of recent cerebral hypoxia and the abrupt discontinuation of sedatives that were easing her recovery. But she did it, and it felt like an accomplishment.

Seems so obviously hollow, looking back on it. For all that hard work, she's on track to die out here.

One foot in front of the other. She spends longer and longer periods with her eyes on the ground, confirming progress that seems increasingly imaginary as the numbness grows. Then, out of nowhere, she'll remind herself to look up, make sure she's still headed in the right direction. Forgetting to do so gets easier and easier. It might be the last time she's going to remember, when she spots him by miraculous incident.

The relief that blooms in her chest is immense. Someone to help. Something to keep her brain working. A lifeline. ] H-hey. [ her voice crackles. She's been in a medically-induced coma. Her usual confidence has gone brittle from disuse. Painfully, she clears her throat, then bellows as best she can, ] Hey! [ Christine doesn't look down again. One foot in front of the other, towards him this time. ]

[missionem]

[ Thomas waits for her. He hardly has much choice, although he might be able to muster a mildly diverting and utterly doomed attempt to flee if the urge possessed him.

The urge does not possess him. The woman approaching him seems only marginally better off than he is, and therefore no especial danger. Even if she were, well - there's not much he could do about that in his present condition, is there? ]

Hello.

[ His own voice is a croak fit to match hers. He manages a gallows smile as he flattens his palm against the tree and pushes himself to stand upright on unsteady feet. ]

Whatever brings you out to the woods at this hour?

[suturama]

[ Christine takes him in without hesitation or subterfuge. Like it's her profession or something. Exhaustion. Soaked clothes. Colorless lips. But he's got some wits about him, going by his remark, and that's good. Tenacity seems to be all he's got in his favor right now, and that may just get him where they're going. ]

Screwed if I know. [ She gains an edge on speaking with every particularly hard consonant. Stutters on one of the softer ones. Christine reaches for him, places a hand on his upper arm, though it's all the same if he rebuffs it or flinches away. She's guiding him back into motion, imploring him to continue on beside her. They've got to keep moving. As much as she envies him the moment of rest. ] I'm Christine. [ Lots of helpful consonants in there. It's like she's steadying herself on her own name. ]

What's your name?

cw: finger trauma

[missionem]

[ Thomas is biddable enough under her touch. There's a purposefulness to her actions that seems to extend beyond mere compassion and into the steadiness of someone who knows what they're about, and he sees no reason to buck at it.

She's also quite direct, which he appreciates in these circumstances. He falls into clumsy step beside her as best he can, which isn't a very good showing at all.

Once out of the deep shadow of the tree, his body no longer angled to hide the worst of it, the dried blood on his side stands out. He hasn't cared to examine the injuries yet, or to look at his swaddled hand. If he keeps his index finger folded down he hopes it might seem as though all of his fingers are folded underneath the bandage, a ruse that will last until the first time anyone - let alone a trained eye - takes a second look. ]

Thomas. [ He won't think about it. Not his stab wounds, not his mangled, truncated hand. ] Funny. I don't know why I'm here either.

Do you know what's up ahead? The smoke?

the siren of milton basin!

[fidior]

[ It is no woman that stands out there on the ice, calling. Edward caught only a glimpse of The Thing before it was upon someone — like a wild beast, a flurry of long hair and bone fingers. Fear and horror (and a deep ache that keens like a wail within him) leave him stagnant for just a few seconds that stretch too long, before he's capable of moving into action, heavy boots thudding against the ice, lifting his shotgun.

The lieutenant's hands shake, and even in this harrowing moment, he feels ashamed for it. His vision shakes too, blurry around the edges; his mind feels rotted. It isn't real (but of course it is; he knows such things are real, such impossible things.) He's so afraid he thinks he might die.

He cannot let this man have such a fate.

He aims, and shoots. It only grazes the side of the creature, but it's enough to catch her attention, and to turn her awful head towards him, flashing those tiny needle teeth. She belongs to the deepest part of the waters, he thinks, something fishlike, sucking. He stands there staring at her, frozen. In that moment, he falters (again, damnably, again.) It may give the poor soul beneath an opportunity to strike her, at least. ]

cw: violence, facial damage

[missionem]

[ The man in the water surges up behind the creature like a monstrosity himself. His left arm wraps around its throat as the hatchet in his right hand comes up, and he brings it down at a awkward angle with all the reckless force he can manage. He's lucky not to bury the edge in his own flesh, but instead it bites shallowly into the siren's chest and releases a dark bloom down her front.

She shrieks in even greater affront, a terrible noise that floods Thomas' ears and drowns his thoughts in blind fury. He wrests the hatchet from her chest and shifts his grip on it to just below the head.

With that, he makes of it a crude, edged bludgeon, slamming it into the side of the creature's face with a snarl. She wails and thrashes, then twists her head down to latch onto the thick sleeve of his coat.

Thomas flings his arm wide, a motion that spirals the two of them apart in the water. The siren gnaws, her teeth working their way down towards his flesh, and Thomas turns his wild, blazing eyes on the stranger with a gun. ]

Shoot!

[ He orders, heedless of the risk it poses if the man misses. ]

cw: some description of gore, dissociation

[fidior]

[ The display is a nightmare, and no matter how much gore Little has seen these past three years of his own Hell, there is no becoming used to it. No, not to this — skin cracked and broken and bleeding. No matter that it belongs to a demon; it's difficult to separate her from a human for a horrible moment that lasts too long, from the sight of a body struggling and screaming. (He thinks of his men, thrown. Skin torn and shredded; he'd not known skin could look so much like ribbons.)

He falters, again, mouth tugged back in a grieved grimace, gun moving along with the scramble, aiming, pointing, unsure. The violence he witnesses, from the man, makes something too familiar writhe in his stomach — then the hatchet cracks, sickly, against the thing's head. Little's eyelids flutter, and he's dizzy as he stands there on the ice. It isn't happening, not to him. This sight is someone else's. He's numb, he's—

'Shoot!'

He does. The blast goes off, loud, and he thinks, seconds too late, that perhaps he has killed this man. But even if part of it may be luck, there's something to be said of Little's training and skill; it does come through. He did not miss, he's shot her — her body jerks violently backwards like a ragdoll's. Then, snarling still, she slithers downwards into that hole in the ice, beneath the man and down further still. Not dead, Edward thinks. Can a thing like this even be killed?

But it's gotten her off of her victim and away, slinking back down into the depths until.... she may emerge again. Little wastes no time now, heading to the man, kneeling and thrusting out gloved hands, one grabbing for the back of drenched clothing to haul him up, the other held out for his hand, arm, anything. ]

Here! Take hold of me!

cw: hypothermia risk

[missionem]

[ The hatchet clatters across the ice, trailing dark ichor of indeterminate colour under the thin moonlight. Only then does Thomas grasp Little's offered hand and help pull himself from the frigid lake, his face already seemingly frozen in a grim mask as he levers his elbow, then his knees, against the edge of the ice to drive himself up.

He doesn't know if they killed the thing. He doubts they'd be so fortunate. That means he can only take a moment, at most, to gasp at the cutting icy air as he sags at Little's side.

Thomas is soaked to the bone, and it's no exaggeration to say he can feel his vital strength being sapped moment by moment from him. This is an unendurable cold, the sort to see him dead in minutes without shelter, and he'll be damned a second time if he escapes the lake's horror only to perish from exposure. His rolling eyes fix on a distant shack he marked when he first began to explore the edges of the lake. It will do. ]

There. [ He jerks his chin at it, breathless. ] Get me up. We need to move.

[ An order worked the first time, so he'll apply it again. Momentum is what he needs to carry him as much as the aid of another. ]

iii (oh my god i love this movie i'm so glad to see someone playing from it)

[residues]

Oh, it's going.

[ Jules has been doing her own scavenging, though if it ain't broke, she's not going to fix it, and a lot of her things have really stood up to the problems this place has thrown at her. She'd been lucky enough to be wearing reasonably stout shoes when she showed up here, and they haven't fallen apart on her yet; what's more, she's quite heavily layered, so all she needed to find for herself was a good coat. She has one, now, but it's almost violently yellow and is making her stand out much more than she'd like. But – you can't be picky in these circumstances. ]

Are you shopping too?

(i don't know why i'm surprised more people have seen this movie than just me but GOOD)

[missionem]

[ The coat certainly does stand out. Compared to the dull black of Thomas', it might as well be a signal flare.

That's a good thing, of course. If she gets lost, it'll make her much easier to find. There's nothing here to fear that hunts by colour except human beings - and who would have such dark suspicions about their fellow lost souls?

He tugs down the scarf he had wrapped over his mouth and smiles at her, affable and guileless. ]

I am. I seem to have misplaced my bags en route, you see. [ He starts to approach her, mindful of how she reacts. ] I don't believe we've met.

ii.

[patchwork]

[ Grace has noticed him staring. It would be hard not to, because being stared at is like having fingernails scratching gently at the back of your neck. It is impossible to ignore. She tries, as she moves around this space trying to make herself useful – she has no medical knowledge, but she can clean, or otherwise perform simple tasks where a spare pair of hands are needed.

For her part, Grace has stalwartly avoided returning that cold, intense gaze. Part of her is doubtful that she could match it, because there is something worn-out about him that she, only worn, cannot reach. But eventually she can put it off no longer. He frightens her a little, but only a little, so once she has put aside the empty plates she's been collecting, she approaches him slowly, her now-empty hands clasped in front of her. At the last moment she diverts, to sit down on the empty cot nearest his. ]

I once read a phrase, sir, that came into my mind just now when I looked at you, if you'll permit me to accuse you of something. [ Her voice is light, her accent Irish. ] The phrase was reading the room. I wonder if you'd tell me what you've read.

alias grace!!

[missionem]

[ As the woman makes her way towards him Thomas raises his brows, the ghost of a wry smirk passing over his lips for a fleeting moment. Her manner of approach makes him feel something like a wounded dog discovered in the street, pitiable yet prone to bite. It seems she has some sense. He does tend to snap at outstretched fingers. ]

Since you ask so politely.

[ He wonders what she'll make of his accent, the polish not all scrubbed from his coddled proper English upbringing. He wonders further what she'll make of the over-tight, wearied sharpness of his voice. Perhaps she'll take it for a growl, and scurry off back to her helpful drudging. ]

Relief. Bewilderment. Gratitude. An air of fellowship between survivors of a shared ordeal. [ He lifts his canister of tea to his lips and sips, turning his gaze back out to the crowd. ] A passage to lift the spirits of anyone who reads it.

[ There's not a hint of sincerity to a word of it, not even a poor effort at the pretense. ]

Does that answer agree with you?

INDEED and also i am so sorry for how long this tag is whoops

[patchwork]

[ English accents are not a complete rarity for Grace, who has spent the majority of her life in Canada, but his specifically does give her pause. There's a biting tone to it that speaks of sharp edges, like a mouth full of razorblades. She does her due diligence all the same, though, even if she can tell by his voice that he might not care about her diligence one way or the other, and considers his words well as she takes her own stock – not of the people at large, but of herself.

If he has been reading the room, then to him, she is simply but one face of many. Bewilderment, certainly, is at the height of her feelings at present. Not so long ago she had been an inmate, a prisoner, her whole world squeezed into a minuscule space. Now, it seems, there is far too much space for her to take stock of. It's a little like those stories you hear about wild animals who are caught and caged, and when their doors are finally opened they choose to stay where they are, but Grace isn't sure if that's a real story she read somewhere, or simply a tall tale, a metaphor that feels apt in the moment.

Perhaps it is unwise to align herself with caged animals. She ought not to imagine herself as a feral thing, even just in her own mind.

So, bewilderment is a fair assessment. Relief and gratitude share a home, if not a name: gratitude is simply the natural expression of relief, unless the relieved person is also morally vacuous. Grace is certainly relieved that she's no longer out in the cold, and more so that she is no longer inside Kingston Penitentiary, with no effort on her own part to leave. She wonders what the guards will do when they find her cell empty, with no presumptive evidence of escape. Perhaps they will think she transformed into a rat and scurried out under the lip of her cell door. And she is most certainly filled with gratitude for this man, Methuselah, and the food he has laid out, and the warmth of this building, and even a little for the strange fashions and informal bearing of the other stranded people who have come to find refuge here. It is all so strange that Grace has not had much time to worry herself sick over any one thing in particular. Fellowship, though, is something she does not feel. She knows the value in staying here and not making her way out on her own, but she trusts no one here, and would not lightly call any of them fellows of hers.

She thinks all this, but does not say any of it. Her expression is thoughtful, but lightly so. ]

Answers are not meant to agree with us; we're meant to agree with them. Wouldn't you say, sir?

iii

[bigbaddy]

[ Honestly, Bigby is so used to cleaning up messes that he's not even too surprised by the semi-casual greeting, like this is a totally normal situation. If it wasn't for the fact he was suddenly displaced, this would be kind of a normal situation. Mostly. (Less bodies would be nice though. He's already had enough of those back home to deal with.)

There is definitely one of said frozen corpses lying at Bigby's feet though by the time Thomas greets him, making the greeting probably even a little more absurd to any third party watching. The man was staring down at the corpse as if contemplating what specifically to do with it, but then turns his head to actually look at Thomas when the other greets him. ]

Like shit.

[ .. clearly the most polite and best answer to that question, right.

At least Bigby is honest. Sure, sure, he's been in worse situations, but he really is not appreciation the whole 'suddenly finding themselves here without notice' deal. Really irks a guy. ]

His bushy eyebrows draw together. ]

I don't think anyone's exactly happy with this situation.

[missionem]

[ Thomas' mouth slants into a sharply amused smile, his eyes glittering in the thin winter light. The stranger is not a man who stands on formality, then. It would an overreach to call that a relief, when so little is, but it does free Thomas of certain chafing shackles. ]

It troubles some more than others.

[ Not a statement about where either of them fall regarding their attitudes on the situation, although Thomas could well make the observation aloud that Bigby seems serene enough around a frozen corpse that it isn't the first topic of conversation he broaches.

Thomas isn't speaking of it either, so that would seem to leave them at parity. ]

I don't believe we've met. [ He inclines his head. ] Thomas.

[bigbaddy]

.. Bigby.

[ Sure, the guy is still guarded as all hell. He will be until he's absolutely certain of what's going on here. He's just a little bit too much of a control freak - even when things always, nearly inevitably, go way out of control around him all the same - to feel any other way.

But giving out that name surely can't hurt him here. Especially when it's just his first name, not even the one he was born with, more like a necessity for a changing world. (Perhaps a desire to leave certain things behind.)

With the way Thomas is talking, it almost sounds like this sort of thing might devolve into small talk, but Bigby's gaze does lower back to the corpse again before he looks over at Thomas. ]

You heard anything about what people are planning to do with them?

[ Them being the frozen corpses all over, of course.

No matter what Bigby may try to present as or claim about himself, he sure isn't cruel enough to just ditch this body like it's nothing. ]