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

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.]

[importance]

Be my guest.

[ he hardly needs her (drolly issued, admittedly) permission, shifting as he is toward the body with the normalcy of a man searching his own pockets. an ordinary occurrence for him, then, yennefer silently concludes. a cant of her hip leads her into a feline lean against an old, dusty desk — almost casually imperious, as a queen surveying a subject enact her orders might be.

only there's a watchful interest in her eyes, were he to look toward them. as content as she is for him to dirty his own hands rather than hers, she's far from nauseous at the grotesque sight. answers are answers; chaos magic has been used for worse interrogations than disrespecting a corpse's right to privacy, and currently — they're severely lacking, both in information and in useful magic.

all of levi's pawing ends in results, at the very least. yennefer's studiousness becomes sharper, a more alert sheen to her eyes, as her shoulders straighten. ]

There. [ folded papers bulge from the man's pockets, threatening to slip out in a flurry. she gestures, pointedly, with the tip of her chin. ] Those. What do they say?

[solitarysoul]

"Its not obvious how he died. Maybe he froze like all the rest." He states nonchalantly while going through pockets.

Honestly he was about to discard the papers since they weren't immediately useful. He unfolds them when she mentions it--they weren't useful right now, but they might give them answers.

I. ARRIVAL

[venato]

[ He's still out in the woods, boots caked in thick snow and face pink from the whipping wind. He doesn't know how long he's been walking but he keeps repeating to himself that he has to keep going, can't stop or he won't start again.

Except the sudden snap of a stern voice and the point of a tree limb a few feet in front of him bring him to a halting stop. He hesitantly raises his arms. He hadn't thought to pick up anything when he'd come out of the cabins so all he has is his own two hands while faced with a woman who seems intent on taking him out. ]

Where is who?

[ If she'd said a name, he hadn't been paying enough to attention to hear it. ]

I don't know what you're talking about.

[importance]

[ the girl, she doesn't say. ciri. there may very well be no soul left that isn't searching for them. no crook or cranny left for ciri to retreat into, hunted as she is, a mouse surrounded by lions. a mouse yennefer had hoped might one day sprout fangs to keep her safe from the same type of man that stands across from yennefer now, playing at oblivious stupidity.

her gaze hardens into glacial ice, unswayed. ]

Enough.

[ an implicit threat lies in the commanding bite of it, darkened by her growing impatience for such a sad excuse for a cheap ploy.

the tree limb never lowers. something in the coil of her body seems as elegant as a venomous serpent, ready to strike, as she slips one step closer. it brings him into greater clarity, eyes skimming quickly down the line of his clothing. nothing noteworthy, as far as her eye can detect. he truly is no great fool, then, to lack any identifiers that might mark him as allegiant to any kingdom.

her sharp stare settles back onto his face, as though her eyes alone could shear the truth from his skin. ]

Who do you serve?

[venato]

I don't serve anyone.

[ Mal knows that's not quite true. He has commanders, people that he works for, people that he trusts. But, for all he knows, they're dead. They've been swallowed up by this place and he's the only one left and now he's being threatened with a tree branch. ]

What are you going to do with that? Stab me? Plant me in the ground and turn me into a tree? I'm not a threat.

[ He's just cold and annoyed. ]

[importance]

Everyone serves someone.

[ themselves. a master. chaos. it's simply a plain truth of the world and its function — but if he wants to feed himself that comfortable lie, so be it. their current circumstances are hardly the time, nor the ideal place, to debate tedious philosophy.

yennefer's expression foils his — unmoved in the face of his annoyance, though something in it suggests she would roll her eyes at his impetuousness if such a bout of childishness from her didn't feel so beneath her. ]

If you were a threat, I would have much more creative solutions for you in mind. [ she says evenly, tossing aside the slim branch in her hand. crystals of snow flurry up in response, a mini-blizzard of confetti disturbed from its resting place. then, with gradually mounting impatience, she sighs out: ] Where are we?

[venato]

I don't know.

[ He says that slowly, enunciating each word sharply. He drops his hands and looks around. ]

I didn't bring you here and I'm not from here. I don't know where this is except some place that I don't want to be.

[ But he doesn't know how to get out of here either. ]

hope nobody needs this (a)

[ravkas]

[ it's not that dead bodies make nikolai squeamish. far from it. he's seen his share and more, killed his share and more, and the blood on his hands only grows darker with his shadow presently rattling around inside of his chest as if it's protesting a sudden caging. it's been howling since the moment he woke upon the ice, louder than usual, though nikolai has been in forcibly high spirits since offering yennefer a drink at the feasting tables (unsuccessful) and then prattling on about searching the houses together until she'd walked out and he'd followed (successful). ]

My hands will get cold. [ his protest is accompanied by the reluctant removal of his gloves anyway. his torture story has held up just fine so far. he hands them over, the soft, expensive leather skin-warmed, and doesn't look down at his scarred hands while he does it. ] I could warm them inside of your coat?

[ the words slip out easily, thoughtlessly, but his eyes are trained on the body. he doesn't know why he hasn't picked it up and dragged it outside himself already. his feet seem rooted to the ground, a hunger rising in him that sends a wash of sudden fear through his blood. he half expects the shadow to come bursting forth, but nothing happens. he's perfectly human, perfectly handsome, except for the fact that he has the sudden desire to sink his teeth into the corpse's flesh.

he turns around, stumbling toward the door with a cheery call over his shoulder that he will return shortly. a brutally cold gust of air sweeps into the house as he throws open the door and takes three steps before retching his perfectly good feast into the snow. ]

[importance]

Afraid you'll have to run back to mother dearest for that.

[ she doubts the words even find themselves carried to him on the wind, once cast over her shoulder. nikolai's retching produces too much of a grotesque sort of cacophony for that, all wet gags and sloshing contents of a stomach. a woman of a weaker stomach might find herself inclined to the same sickness, just upon hearing it; a woman of a more nurturing build might coo and dapple the spittle from his chin.

yennefer, noticeably, does neither.

the old man's corpse slumps as deadweight in her arms. if not for the bare stench of decay beneath his frost-covered layers, she would think him asleep, by the peaceful expression that's crossed his face. taken by the cold, no doubt, and nothing that lurks in the darkness. she grapples with him until the burden becomes too much to show the dead any respects; trackmarks show where he's been half-dragged into the shed, curled up and forgotten in a corner, until morning can arrive.

and, with it, the hope of a slightly less bitter temperature.

the shed closes with a creak behind her behind her, like an old dying beast. nikolai himself is, much to her disappointment, where she had initially left him — upon her door, looming like a gargoyle. he likely thinks himself much better decor, comes yennefer's judgement; men who so glibly toss around flirtations often do, in their attempts to compensate for where they lack elsewhere.

in nikolai's case: resilience. she looks entirely unfazed by the green tinge across his face as she flicks her eyes over him. ]

Clean yourself up. I won't be mopping sick from the floorboards.

[ she has no energy, nor the patience, to spare for coddling him. as if to punctuate the point, the tip of her boot primly kicks snow over the pile of vomit he's left at her doorstep, decorated with chunks of stew from the feast. lovely. ]

tw dead babies........

[ravkas]

[ vomiting at the sight of a body is an entirely unnatural reaction for him. then again, so is wanting to savor the taste of blood. it's hard to pinpoint exactly how he's feeling in this moment, so he leaves that part of himself in the snow and treks inside, shutting the cold out with a firm lock of the door. ]

I'm fine. [ the body is gone, though with no help of his. it's fine. he can be useful in other ways, such as being sole the provider of brilliantly entertaining commentary. this place is horribly depressing, so who wouldn't want to hear his voice? ] There's something in the food here. I had a chef back home who could make the most delightful meals out of anything he could fish out of the sea. Have you ever had shark? Maybe we could find some here.

[ if all the waters here have strange women haunting them with terrible songs, it might not be such a bad place after all. nikolai grabs a dishcloth from the kitchen and wipes his mouth, opening cabinets and drawers as he walks about, finding it stocked with old food items as if the people living here did not expect their sudden demise. the thought is chilling in its own right. ]

Accompany me upstairs? Maybe there's only one bed.

[ he flashes a smile as he goes up, unbuttoning his coat despite the chill. he's too warm, his palms uncomfortably clammy, his heartbeat rattling around in his chest. he goes down a short hallway to survey the large bedroom — and stops short in the doorway, his grin vanishing. a small crib sits beside the bed, a tiny, silent bundle wrapped inside.

there's nothing alive in this room, nothing alive in this house except for the two of them. ]

Yennefer. [ his voice is one edge off from contrite, as if sincerity is too high a cost. ] I'll take this one.

[ it seems only fair. she dealt with the first body, so he'll stash the baby — where? in the shed? saints. he strides inside and looms over the crib, his throat tight as he pulls the blankets over the cold body. ]

continued tw

[importance]

[ a chef. the casual airs in which he details his luxury are hardly surprising; nikolai's stature reeks of royal inbreeding and edges softened by wealth — a golden boy with a gilded head of hair who has spent his time decorating banquet halls and soirees, a perfect doll on a shelf. he won't find the same comforts here, she muses to herself. in fact, the only consolation he may come to find is the cold embrace of the ground, once he's buried six feet deep. another corpse on a growing burial mound of those that had faltered in their survival.

it's the most painless end a boy like him could hope to achieve. yennefer entertains the thought to keep attention away from the weariness suffocating her bones, sinking down into her marrow, to find herself back at her so humble beginnings: following some preening arse around to clean up his inevitable messes, like the human version of a mop.

the stairs creak and groan beneath her feet like a pained wraith, like the house itself has faced the same death and decay of the bodies inside of it. nikolai's warning barely carries over it once she reaches the top of the steps, but the apology melded within it needs no deciphering. with how little life is left in this tomb of a town, she can only make one guess as to what he's found.

her eyes roll, instinctively. he must think himself a gentleman to offer to coddle her. but as her feet pause in the doorway, she draws to a stop, a lump bubbling in her throat. it isn't the first child a world has taken before their time, but something slices between her ribs all the same. a reminder. death by a thousand cuts, in remembrance of what she cannot produce. (of ciri; of imagining strangers finding her nestled within her bed, cold to the touch.) ]

No.

[ it's nearly convincingly even. only the slight roughness to her voice's texture betrays her. she stalks forward on confident treading, steadier than she truly feels, and looms like a sentinel just behind his shoulder. ]

This one deserves a proper burial.

[ravkas]

[ her presence is assuring somehow, something familiar in it. something that reminds him of how he loathes being alone. one misstep and she'll disappear, he's sure of it. he doesn't know her the way he knows zoya, can't needle at her and expect her loyalty to be stronger than her irritation.

and yet. he pilfers a toy from the cradle, a little stuffed duckling with quaint blue fur, and slips it into his pocket. ] You don't strike me as such a woman.

[ she strikes him as the sort of woman who would slice his head off if they weren't tenuously on the same side (and maybe even then). nikolai turns for the door. ]

A proper burial? The ground's frozen. [ but he shrugs as he disappears down the stairs. ] Give me some time to come up with something.

[ there are tools in the shed, though he has to sidestep the bodies to get to them. some time turns out to be an hour or two, in which he fells a reasonably sized tree away from the house and chops it into logs. it feels good to expel some of his nervous tension into the crack of the ax biting into wood, his peculiar cravings fading as a satisfying ache settles into his muscles. it isn't until he's carefully tested the stability of the base of his pyre that he realizes his hands are cracked and bleeding, and that he might've had the foresight to ask for his gloves back before he began.

he nestles a thick bed of kindling atop, then decides the entire thing looks horrifically depressing and collects sprigs of evergreen to dot throughout. when he stomps back inside, tracking in snow and bits of bark, he's equal parts chilled to the bone and flushed with sweat, his clothes clinging damply to his skin beneath his coat. his fingertips leave red smudges behind when he throws open the closet and pulls out an old shirt that he proceeds to tear into pieces, ready to soak with the gasoline he found in the shed. ]

Bring the baby. I'm going to start the fire. [ thank the saints he found matches in the kitchen, or else he'd be off searching for flint. ] Do you want to say a few words or should I?

[ it's never easy to preside over a funeral but at least he has the experience. he keeps himself from thinking about it by kneeling in the snow and focusing on stuffing the wet scraps of cloth amongst the wood. ]

arrival oopsie

[marynka]

( with great effort, marynka sits up from where she was very rudely interrupted in her creation of the perfect snow angel and blinks at the intruder. angel. ha! )

Huh?

( snow dusts her the way powdered sugar might dust an unnaturally red piece of cake, if it was unclever enough to get caught in a place where someone (marynka) might feast. truly, there is nothing quite so awful as the cold, but on the other hand, snow is greatly fun. hardly paying attention to yennefer, marynka turns in her imprint, poking two little devil horns at the top of its head, and a squiggle of jagged lines into the hard dirt for teeth. not so angelic, is it? much, much better.

that sorted out, marynka turns her focus to the lady, her head tilted, eyes curiously lit on the stick in her hand. luckily, marynka is about as subtle as a punch to the face. a brow lifts. )

Are you going to thwack me with that? ( pfft — it's not even big enough to hurt. she's been thwacked enough by red jaga to know what beatings to cower away from. ) I don't know where your girlfriend is, Miss Lady. ( a little under her breath, ) Not that I know anything about that. ( and LOUDER, ) Not that I would say no if someone just happened to try and rival this very impressive snow demon! Do you cower?!

[importance]

[ her first immediate, unkind thought is simple: of course she's come across a stranger that's touched in the head. the girl's voice seems to carry the same childlike challenge of infants tussling over a game of make-believe, which is all to say — marynka is as useful as a hole in a bucket.

yennefer's stare is a pinning, dissecting thing. it takes her no longer than a record thirty seconds to deduce the frigid temperatures are a greater threat to her survival than some odd girl traipsing through the forest, with only her imaginary companions as protection. she's either a girl still in the throes of innocent naivety — a theory becoming more plausible by the second — or an utter fool. the next thirty seconds will determine that.

the tree limb goes thunking down into the snow where yennefer tosses it, little fractals of snow showering up from the impact. an unimpressed, tired sigh joins it. every prim line of her face creases with droll impatience, one mere step from exasperation. ]

Are you done drawing the attention of whatever lurks in this forest, or did you want to shout some more?

[ more pressingly — ]

Point me in the direction of your village.

[ maybe there's one use this girl can provide, in hindsight. ]

[marynka]

( for some reason, and it is truly impossible to know why, marynka finds the idea of exhausting people absolutely delightful. at least — some of the time. when it suits her. like right now. with the kind of grace that everyone would agree she absolutely embodies, she comes up with the perfect response, something to the tune of the deadliest thing that lurks in this forest is me, but she's pretty heartbroken about not being able to say it out loud, lest she scare the poor, simple human. girls aren't for eating, anyway. so, she says it internally, in her big beautiful head, and outwardly smiles very triumphantly at her own joke, being that she is the funniest monster to have ever lived, and she is so greatly strong, and so smart too, and also so brave.

that's not to mention — it's a very zosia response. she probably wouldn't make snow demons either, which winds marynka into a constant cycle of thinking. zosia isn't immediately beside her to play with which is annoying, and then marynka is thinking about her which is annoying, and she can't even play with her which is annoying, and she's thinking about her. )

Oh sure, Miss Lady. It's over there. ( she extends one arm in a point, deeper into the forest. ) Or maybe over there. ( her other arm goes behind her pointing in the opposite direction. and then she twists her torso, arms still extended, as if to say or over there, or over there. ) Wait! I know.

( a great plan — she can make this lady find out a place for them to stay. hopping up, marynka doesn't bother dusting the thick coat off snow off herself as she skips over to yennefer, grinning at her. it's very toothy. possibly how a lion smiles at an antelope. )

We can look together. I don't know where I am either. We can help each other out.

( grabbily, marynka puts her freezing little hand in yennefer's, and swings the hold back and forth. she looks extremely guileless, like a harmless little girl lost in the woods.

ha! )

hope nobody needs this (a)

[respectively]

( poor bastard, nico thinks, and then has the distinct impulse to dig through his pockets. like — in a video game, there would definitely be something important in there. or maybe it's just the intrusive thought of wondering what a dead guy might have in his pockets at the moment of. letters from his grandkids? condoms? a hundred dollars? he could probably guess for ages. )

Oh well.

( he says at the same time yen says place him in the shed. which, fair, is probably a nicer thing to say. nico isn't sure when he became quite so jaded at the prospect of painful, horrible, slow death. but he knows killing people in the society was actually a lot of fun, and they had it coming, and he'd kill anyone to protect gideon, so ??? lives are pretty insignificant when compared to otherworldly, overwhelming power. not that he has any of that right now. bummer.

anyway. he shares a glance with yen, and a glance with the body. back to yen, back to mister. when it goes back to yen, it's incredulous. )

What — really? ( he throws his head back, groaning. very mom, but i don't want to go to bed. ) Fine, okay. C'mere Stewart. ( his hands go on the legs of the rocking chair, giving a hard yank to break the ice. it's hard work. it's also gross. ) Do you think he looks like a Stewart? Or maybe — maybe — ( the chair squeeeeeaks on the floor. ) Fernando. Or Old Man Georgie. Hey, can you get the doors for me? Thanks.

[importance]

I think he looks like a dead man, personally.

[ comes her laconic drawl, in sharp counterpoint to the flood of words that spill from him — rushing, overwhelming, and incessant. the calm grace of her movements suggests a certain numbness to her that has nothing to do with the frostbitten cold, and everything to do with life's tendency to disenchant. a weariness her soul holds, even if her appearance remains unmarked by time and gravity.

it's always harder to look death in the face when you attach names to unknown corpses. perhaps he's softer than his oh well would imply. unfortunate for her, yen thinks, but as she studies the bunching of muscle as he sets to unloading their unlucky friend, she decides — well, at least he's skilled for something. and all without getting sick on her shoes, too.

her boots click on the floor, creaking with every step, and — unhurried. he's quite dead, after all; waiting a moment longer can't kill him. when she flings open the door, it's to a cold shriek of wind that has her teeth set on edge, clamping down like a steel trap against her next breath. leaning back into the wood has it hanging open on its hinge, wood groaning and shifting as cold trickles into the house's foundation. ]

Pity. I'd thought you would be stronger.

[ she arches a prim brow in his direction as nico's yanking and shifting makes little progress. tried and true methods of getting what you want yennefer has learned over decades of practice: goading men will always achieve results. ]

[respectively]

What!

( no, nico is not above the obvious ploy to incense him. yes, it works like a charm.

it wouldn't be so difficult if he had physics on his side. a splattering of french expletives follows that thought, annoyed that he can't manage to be impressive when grandiose ability usually pours out of his ears like wax. he is used to being the best — well, tied for being the best, if he's perfectly honest, which he rarely is. he is not used to struggling to lift an eggo waffle freezer-burned grandpa, who he imagines must've really been packing on the pounds in his later years, although nico would love to know from where, and if he can get in on any of that nosh. if all of his organs are frozen, that probably adds weight too, right? does water get denser as it freezes? not his area of expertise, and altogether pretty unhelpful to know when he usually weighs things to benefit him at any given time, except for right now, when it would make him feel a solid 10% better.

he knows what he has to do. he thinks he's quite a gentleman for doing it, although he doesn't expect yennefer to praise him for it, even if it would feel very nice. ) Okay, abuelo. Sorry about this. ( forgetting the chair, nico moves to wrap his arms around grandpa's middle, forcing himself not to let go as the cold seeps in. ) Merde, it's like cuddling an ice cube. Who is dead. I better not see you laughing, Yennefer.

( actually, he would pay pretty good money to see her laugh, because he's gotten exactly 0 out of her since they've met. and he's usually — well, not usually as in lately, but he's made a girl laugh before. probably. not parisa or libby or reina though, obviously. gracelessly, he clambers out of the house, bumping grandpa's head on the doorframe as he makes his way to the shed. )

arrival (1)

[kletva]

[ the string of thoughts that sprint through wanda's mind are nearly nonsensical. she shouldn't be alive tumbles over she shouldn't be here before becoming where is here until finally, treacherously they settle on the cold absence of her magic at the very first effort of trying to will reality to shift.

it is no longer a snowy peak that she finds herself on — no stone or rubble or cursed books and dead promises of universes not meant for her.

scarlet sheen of hair, and the scarlet of her coat and the soot dipped fingers stand in stark contrast to her blinding surroundings. for a moment, she is alone with nothing but her breath clouding in front of her and wanda isn't sure whether to scream or laugh at the echoed whisper still ringing in her ears you are part of nature's design. a lasting slap, all things that she's done considered.

wanda's uncertain spiral breaks at the sound of footfall, at the demand that snaps the sharp silence like a twig and the once-witch looks up from her palms &mdash& so absent of the red tendrils she still expects — to the new arrival.

brows pinch — evident confusion, dropping to the wielded branch, and then back to lilac eyes. ] Who? [ a tired question; she does not care to fight, doesn't think to levy much defense — what was the point? ] I haven't seen anyone else around.