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

kate marsh | life is strange

[castitas]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wishes she could hear it now.

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

Do you think He might listening, even here?

☮ WILDCARD

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

hope nobody needs this | cw: drinking, intoxication

[missionem]

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

No less than He listens anywhere.

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

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

[castitas]

Even in Hell? [ Where else could this be? They all came to be here, in some strange way. A way no one can seem to explain. She lowers her hands to her lap, her fingers unfolding to begin to fret with themselves.

She hears the slosh of liquid and freezes, her body going rigid for a long moment. She still doesn't dare look behind her to him. She doesn't know whether to be frightened or angry, but some part of her heart knows she can't be the latter — not in here. ]

I pray for the dead. [ For comfort it may give them. ] And... for forgiveness.

[missionem]

[ Thomas closes his eyes. He knows this type. The guilt in her quiet voice, the abiding terror that lies beneath it. ]

Even in Hell.

[ He affirms, resting his bottle on his lap. ]

Did Christ not descend after His crucifixion into that realm, proving those gates held no power to bar Him? Did he not rebuke Satan and gather up those good souls consigned to perdition by the Fall before the Resurrection, and lead them to His Father's kingdom?

[ The words have a bitter taste in his throat, but when he speaks them they hang softly in the air. He hangs the back of his head over the lip of the pew and considers the church rafters. ]

Is that where you think we are?

[castitas]

[ Her own eyes close briefly at that. Even in Hell. It should bring her comfort, in some small way it does. And she knows too Harrowing, her eyes filling with tears. She recites the verse in her head: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. It comforts her, but her spirit has never felt so low — it feels as if nothing will rouse it from the depths.

And then, she remembers, questions: ]

He would never give a weight to burden, but I can't help but feel like He's burdened me. [ And it hurts to feel that, to say that out loud: ] I think I'm being punished.

[ Punished more. Punished harder. ]

So... maybe that is where we are, yeah. Maybe my Aunt was right.

[ No Eternal Hellfire, as she'd written to Kate, but the burn of a coldness — far from His light. ]

[missionem]

[ Perhaps she's right. It does smack of Hell that Thomas would wander into a church in a fit of idle spite and stumble across a fragile, desperate parishioner in search of salvation. ]

God gives burdensome weights every day.

[ He drags himself upright and takes another swig from his bottle, the only source of scourging fire he's found in this town. He eyes the cross, mute and insensible, and resents its silence with the comfortable practise of years. ]

What do you think you're being punished for? [ He asks, almost lightly. ] You hardly seem so terrible a sinner to me, and I have some knowledge of sinners.

[castitas]

[ It stings, those words. Cuts deep into her she cringes away from them. ]

I went to a party, and— [ She bites back a sob, her head bows in shame. It makes her skin crawl. She can't bring herself to talk about it, not the details. Not the dizziness, how gross she felt the next day. ] They posted a video online, of me, and it just keeps spreading more and more. Why would it spread if not just to punish me? But no one cares, no one believes me. My life is over.

[ She turns around to look at him, then — the bottle of alcohol in his hand. There's a fierceness then, fury in her despair, tears spilling down her cheeks as she snaps at him. ]

And now to add insult to injury, I have some random guy here, getting drunk in church.

Arrival cw mentions of prostitution

[taintedpeony]

[The tones of the music were so different than what Jin Guangyao was used to, and the instrument looked a bit like a combination of an erhu and a pipa perhaps but he always had a love for stringed instruments. They reminded him of his mother's deft fingers moving expertly along the strings as she entertained clients at the brothel. He sat a respectable distance away and smiled softly.]

That song is beautiful. Your playing is lovely. I've never heard of such a thing. What is it called, Young Maiden?

[castitas]

[ When she finishes, she's still for a few long moments. The room is hushed. Everything is still, save for the crackling fire. Then she's vaguely aware of eyes looking at her, and her vision focuses again and she startles, lowering her violin. She looks sheepish.

But a voice lifts from the silence and Kate turns her head, tear-tracks on her face. She wipes at them, looking to the man for a moment. No one's ever called her 'Young Maiden' before. ]

Lacrimosa. It's a movement from Mozart's Requiem, K. 626. [ There's a pause, she grips her violin, her lips pursing briefly. ] It's— it means 'weeping'.

[taintedpeony]

[His heart felt for the young girl. She really did pour her whole heart into the music. He was reminded again of his own mother when she played. She did her best to hide her tears from him back then but he saw everything. He felt a soft pang, missing her terribly but instead Jin Guangyao tried to focus on the girl in front of him.]

Lacrimosa. [The word felt strange on his tongue.]

Music has a way to allow the feelings of one's heart into the world. You play beautifully.

[It wasn't his place to ask her who one would feel like weeping. He knew the world was cold and cruel.]

Have you eaten yet, young Maiden?

[castitas]

That's very kind of you. [ A beat. ] ... Mozart is my favourite.

[ She is not without her politeness, even with her melancholy. Slowly turning to return the instrument to its case, she shakes her head at his question. She hasn't yet, no. In truth, she's not had much of an appetite as of late, little interest in food. The blanket is warming her, as if the fire, but she couldn't stomach food. ]

I'm not feeling very hungry, but thank you. [ There's a weak smile. ] Methuselah did try to encourage me, but I'm— I don't feel like it.

[taintedpeony]

Is that the composer?

I wish I had my guqin with me here, I would have tried to play with you. [He gave her a soft smile.]

I understand that when our feelings are overwhelming it becomes hard to eat. How about something light, like some hot tea? Or a little bit of broth. I would be happy to make you some. [He spoke gently to the girl as he did with Nie Huaisang sometimes when he had to cajole the boy to take care of himself during a fight with his brother.]

It is important to care for ourselves when we do not know what tomorrow brings. I am Jin Guangyao, it is a pleasure to meet you Young Maiden.

[castitas]

It is. [ There's a pause, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. ] A... Guqin?

[ She's not familiar with the instrument. But she wonders if maybe it's some kind of traditional string instrument, something like a violin if it might work in an accompaniment.

The thought of broth makes her stomach churn a little, but there's something in her expression that perks up ever so slightly at the mention of tea. Tea would be nice. She's still chilled from the trek into town, warming from the inside out would probably help her a lot more. ]

Tea would be nice. I'm Kate. [ There's a little pause before she asks: ] ... Is Jin Guangyao your first name? Or your full name?

hope nobody needs this anymore

[alef]

[ As soon as Rei sees the crucifix, she begins to turn and leave. A person, chained. It should be red. She hates the color red.

But then the other girl speaks, and Rei stops in place. She does not look at the girl. She does not look at the prisoner on the wall. But she does speak, because she has been asked a question. ]

Who?

[ Her soft, monotonous voice still echoes in here a little, somehow. ]

[castitas]

[ It's not a question she expects in reply to her own. It gives her pause for a long moment. The answer should be obvious: to sit in His house, who else would she expect to be listening but Him? Kate's stunned for a few long moments before she finally brings herself to speak. ]

God. [ And then, curious. ] Did you think someone else might be listening?

[alef]

[ Oh. That.

The idea that God is a thing who listens is an odd one, but maybe it's comforting for people who talk too much. Rei isn't sure how she feels about that. Unit 02's pilot talks too much, and Rei doesn't like her.

She looks around the room. It's just the two of them, and that terrible sculpture of the trapped person. ]

You didn't say anything.

[ Implying that, if nothing else, Rei was listening. But that's probably not very comforting. ]

[castitas]

[ It's another answer she doesn't expect. Kate looks round then, turning her head to find a blue-haired girl. A younger teen, maybe about the same age as one of her sisters. It surprises her for a moment, still curious of her, her head tilting to one side. ]

You don't always have to speak aloud when you talk to Him. Prayer can be silent, too. [ And then: ] ... You don't pray?

[alef]

[ How are you supposed to talk to anyone without saying anything? Rei, after all, tends to say very little, and that is part of why she is alone. It's a fact about the universe, as basic as gravity. ]

No.

[ Should she? ]

Why do you?

feast!

[infiniteheart]

[Jiang Yanli's kept largely to herself at this feast, too strained and worn down from the ordeals of the day. So far, she's focused mainly on taking care of herself and trying to regain her strength before facing the surely trying times ahead.

Then she spots the girl with a look about her that she immediately recognizes. It's a look similar to ones she's seen on the face of wounded soldiers returning from the battlefield and the clear suffering behind it pains her to see. She doesn't know the girl but she doesn't need to, the obvious pain she's in calls out to her and demands attention just the same.

Jiang Yanli listens to the girl play her sorrorful tune on a strange, unfamiliar instrument she's never seen before though the sound it produces immediately puts her in mind of an erhu. After a moment, she walks over and simply sits down next to her. She doesn't say word , at least not until she's observed her long enough to assess whether speech or a safe, silent presence is what the girl needs.]

[castitas]

[ Once she finishes playing, the room is hushed. She'd not paid attention to the eyes on her, the startling sound of music through the sounds of chatter, fire and eating. But once the song is done, she's frozen on the spot for a long moment, stood as if in a daze and she slowly lowers the instrument once more.

Then with a flutter she realises there's people watching her, and she quickly looks away, sitting back down on the cot. She's vaguely aware of someone approaching, sitting down next to her, and Kate doesn't speak up to tell her to leave her be. She doesn't mind.

The silence is nice, for a while. She is.. kinda over humanity, generally speaking. It's nice to not have to talk for a little bit. But eventually, she does speak, her eyes fixed on her violin once more. ]

... I don't get how this is here. It shouldn't be. It should still be in my room.

arrival

[buriedpast]

(The disorientation had been viciously unwelcome. His comms didn't even hiss a radio typical static. He was alone. And typically, Ghost prided himself in working alone, but he didn't know what that meant for his team, and that's what was working under his skin. The town he found himself in reminded him of too many war-torn cities he had patrolled. Hollowed out and void of whatever warmth and people that had once thrived there. This was no different except some civilians still seemed to be around...Or perhaps survivors was a better word.

Ghost stood about idly watching the other Lopers moving nearby. He stood in full tactile gear, hardly looking inviting, as per usual. He was never the guy who showed up to save the day or to try and bond with civilians in the area to try and make them feel safe. It was an empty promise and Ghost had never cared for the sentiment.

It's the music he is drawn to. It curls through the air over the soft mumblings of conversation and his eyes drift to the musician. Just a young woman. Almost too young to be as deft as she was with the instrument, but then again, with enough training and the right personality, anyone could become a masterclass. Then he notices the tears and he's no stranger to sorrow either. Nor is he a man who charitably offers comfort.

He tells himself it is because there is an easy conversation to start with. He tells himself that he merely wants to inform the girl that she isn't half bad. Instead, he winds up silently slipping toward her, only to wait until the very end of her song before he speaks from behind the faint muffle of his mask:)

Something bothering you, lass?

[castitas]

[ It is a rare song, she plays. Lacrimosa is too sorrowful for her spirit other days, as much as Mozart is very much an artist that brings her joy. But here, she's lost in it, lost in the playing of it. A distant stare into nothing as she continues, the edges of the world around her still so faint — a room of shivering survivors blurred away.

When the music ends, and everything falls into hush, she pulls the instrument away and stands as if in a daze — slowly wilting downwards as she stands. Her chest feels too full and too empty all at once.

The sound of a voice makes her turn around, startled slightly as she looks up to find a masked figure — the white skull shocking contrast amongst the black. She takes a half-step back, eyes wide briefly before she recollects herself. A man. Not death, not the pale rider. ]

Bothering me—? [ Her words are small, repeating them as if to make sure she'd heard them right. The heaviness presses down a little more firmly in her. No one believes her, no one wants to listen to her. Not her teachers, not her fellow students. Not her parents. Why would a stranger be any different? She shakes her head. ]

It... doesn't matter. It isn't something anyone can help me with. It's already over.

[ She's already in Hell. Maybe he is the pale rider, after all. ]

[buriedpast]

(He may as well be the pale rider with the number of bodies he has left in his wake. If not that then certainly a devoted servant to the pale rider. Yet right now he wasn't thinking about the next life he would end. It's a rarity, but even with the highjacking of his body to some weird place, he can recognize when there's no immediate threat in the area.

Except for the mental threats, apparently. He gazes down at her, not exactly warm, but not frigid either. A blank, speculative look as his eyes drift from her tear-stained cheeks back up to her eyes. Even with his mask, it's obvious when he raises a brow, his mask shifting ever so slightly with the motion.)

Unless Mozart moves you that much, I s'pose.

(The brow only raises higher. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.)

Hm. (He looks away then, staring at the other Lopers, considering her response.)

You're likely right about all that. (Mistakes are rarely reversed. Still. He shrugs his shoulders and leans back against the wall, trying to look somewhat less imposing.)

Might help to talk about it anyway. Get it out of your system. Then you can focus on the situation here. (It's practical advice, he thinks. Sometimes honesty was necessary for survival. Until he found his men, he would just have to take this all in stride and try to keep an eye on the obvious civilians here.)

cw: references to gaslighting

[castitas]

... Mozart is my favourite. It makes me happy, but— [ Not this time. Still, there is weight in the choice of song regardless: a rite to ask God to accept a human soul into heaven. And here they are, surrounded by so much death. She hasn't seen them herself, but she's heard whispers amongst those here about finding... bodies.

She's... not quite sure what to make of him, cautiously glancing up at him even as he leans against the wall. You're likely right about all that. Her own shoulders sink, weary, until he offers the suggestion of talking about it. Her mouth opens and then promptly shuts again.

Mr Jefferson's words have never rung so clearly in her head: Knock off this martyr crap... stop acting so brittle... maybe this is your way of getting attention... Her knuckles turn white as she grips onto her violin tightly, her expression shifting — betrayal, pain, despondency. ]

... I tried. No one believes me. If the people I thought were my friends, if my teachers— [ She takes a breath, her voice is rising in her upset. She has to stop herself. ] If the ones who are supposed to believe me don't, why would anyone else?

[ Why would a stranger? ]

Instead I'm being punished for it, and I don't know why.

[ Why is God so angry with her? Why is she in Hell? ]

Re: cw: references to gaslighting

[buriedpast]

(Ghost had absolutely no training or experience in dealing with a teenage girl's life problems. However, he didn't look down on the idea. He had never bit into the idea that civies couldn't have their own share of godawful life experiences. Tommy had been plenty proof of that. Problems came in all shapes and sizes and they didn't cling exclusively to people who died in war.

So he gazes silently at her and while he might not be familiar with teenage girls, he was familiar with the people who rotated under his lead and had a sense of responsibility over. No one else was approaching this lass, so he would simply have to step up. Easy as that. He'd seen enough anguish to last him a lifetime and it didn't look so different in this girl's eyes than it did a soldier's.

He notices everything about people. Most of those skills had developed out of necessity. Survival. Knowing when a man was about to strike you down. When someone was about to grab a gun. He observes her white knuckles.

He looks back up to her face. Though his eyes were as blank as a shark's, there was something relaxed in his posture and when he spoke up, his voice was as soft as he knew how to make it. Granted, it wasn't much, but it would have to do.)

The people we know often are the people who hurt us the most, lass. (Hardly words of comfort, he knows, but...)

I've no reason to not believe you. Don't even know you. (He shrugs.) No reason for you to lie to me about something that's wreckin' your mind like this.

(In other words...Why wouldn't a stranger believe her?

The punishment thing though. That gets an eyebrow raised, an obvious gesture even with the mask in place. If anyone knew about what it felt like to be deserving of punishment, of going through the motions of retribution, it was Simon Riley.

Which is precisely why it feels ten times stranger to hear it coming from a simple girl.)

Punished? (Unless the lass was a covert serial killer in disguise, which he highly doubted.)

What makes you think you're being punished?