methuselah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
singmod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillppl2023-08-10 12:13 am
singmod) wrote in singillppl2023-08-10 12:13 am
Entry tags:
August 2023 Test Drive Meme
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
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.
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.
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.
Matt Murdock | Marvel 616ish
methuselah's cot conundrum —;
Of course by the time the night gets just a little too late, and the embers burning in the fireplace slowly begin to dim and cool, the number of cots has dwindled remarkably.
And yet Barbie, who was never the selfish sort (she simply wasn't made that way), will continue to protest against taking any of the last of the few that remain.
"Oh — no, that's all right." She shakes her head. "Where would you sleep?"
ooc: also! i got so excited i completely forgot to ask: are you okay with spoilers? if so, cool (and i'll mark 'em for others); if not that's totally cool and i can keep it general!
no subject
"I don't think I'm going to sleep, if I'm honest." The least he can do is scoot over so the woman can sit down next to him as they talk. Matt pats the cot frame welcomingly. "You think there's enough wood to keep that fire going all night?"
[OOC: Aaa I appreciate you asking, but I have totally already seen the Barbie movie and I am very much good to go!]
no subject
Anyway.
She will not let her anxieties (because she has those now; yep, cool, love that) shake her resolve to be as helpful as she can be under the circumstances. The circumstances being that this place is a little scary.
"I think so," is her response as she settles next to him on the cot and looks towards the fireplace still burning and filling this room with much needed warmth. "I hope so. The last time I was at a chalet, we never ran out of wood."
Barbieland fireplaces simply didn't work like that.
"It was also very pink."
What.
[ ooc: fantastic! c: ]
hope nobody needs this;
"Whew, that was a close one."
Ken smiles, and somehow even his voice manages to sound smiley, too, like he's pleased he could help.
"These, um ..." He looks down at the corpse, trying to find the word for it. "... People are everywhere."
His voice doesn't sound so smiley anymore.
no subject
"I'm fine! Thanks." He doesn't sound fine and he doesn't sound thankful, but Matt regains his balance, tugs at the layers of clothing he's wrapped himself in, and tries again. "Thank you."
There's really no mistaking the lump he's tripped over, but realization washes over him and he makes a face. "That's not normal, right? None of this is normal, is it?" It's possible there's a more elegant way to ask that question, but Matt has to know. Are other people finding this whole thing ordinary?
no subject
Granted, Ken's idea of normal is likely vastly different from the general public's idea of it, but he gets the vague feeling that this sort of thing isn't really considered "normal" anywhere. And it's weird. The concept of being dead is also freshly new to him, so at least he's fortunate enough to be moderately desensitized due to ignorance.
"It's always summer where I'm from. And no ... People like this."
methuselah's feast
Though a moment later words do seem to manifest.
"It's fine. Nothing I can't handle."
Even if he's a little more shaken than he'd like to admit to - perhaps something Matt could pick up on in Bigby's voice, paying closer attention to that.
(Because this isn't supposed to happen. He isn't supposed to bleed this easily, and he doesn't know what's going on, other than that it's got to be bad.)
"Just way too many damn things to trip over out there."
no subject
He'll back off, but he's not going to leave the man entirely alone. It doesn't take superhuman senses to smell all that blood. "Yeah, I'd noticed some of that myself. Do you know what it was that got you?"
no subject
There's a pause. An obvious pause. It's not even that Bigby is trying to ignore the other, it's just him deciding he can't tell the truth here. Because Matt definitely sounds like he expects there to have been some actual fight or something, whereas the truth is just that Bigby got so annoyed he punched a tree a little bit too hard..
And he's not ready to look so pathetic among a group of (seemingly) mundies just yet.
"I just hurt my hand," he instead says. Which is the truth, even if it's leaving out all the circumstances surrounding it that he'd rather not talk about. "I've had worse."
Also the truth.
Though maybe a little less so when he seems to get hurt here way easier than he's supposed to, and he's still not sure what's up with that yet. But how can he just talk about that with anyone when he's got a cover to keep up?
"This should probably close itself back up soon enough, right?"
no subject
An overnight stay in a blessedly placed cabin brought him a hat, a pair of socks, a dusty bed, and shelter enough to not freeze to death. And the following morning he found an abandoned car with a scarf and a jar of peanut butter that helped tremendously with the last of the descent the next morning. Still, nature graces Foggy with a twisted wrist and an incredible thirst that he doesn't resolve until he crawls his way through Methusela's door.
He's fed and tended to before Foggy can search the area, hoping to find...
"Matt!"
Foggy would recognize him anywhere: Long hair, short hair, no hair; cane or no cane; comfortably egotistical or tragic and mournful — he's familiar in a way rivaled only by Foggy's own sense of self. Best friend, partner, family.
"Matty, oh my god—"
He won't see Foggy coming, but the arms that wrap around Matt are as familiar as ever. Holding tight, Foggy practically sobs, a sense of relief flooding him after two whole days of misery and upset and concern.
no subject
He needs to get it together. Find some supplies, figure out a game plan, and get the hell back to where he belongs. But Matt's not looking forward to stepping outside in that bitter cold. Even his endurance for the weather seems filed down to nothing when he feels like the connection between his mind and his body's been snapped like a guitar string. It's possible that he's just sulking; that he's sinking into a private self-pity that makes any action feel like wading through mud. But he tells himself that maybe it's just temporary. Maybe tomorrow he won't feel so outside his own body.
Sleep would probably help, but Matt's reassigned cots until he's sure everyone else has one. Without one of his own he's stuck mostly in the shadows near the fire, listening intently to the quiet conversations, shuffling of footsteps, and errant coughs and sneezes. He's trying to listen more deeply -- concentrating so hard he's perhaps not concentrating at all -- when a set of arms wrap around him and Matt feels himself gathered up into one of the most familiar sensations in the world.
"Foggy?" His arms wind around the man instinctively. "Foggy, you're here?" Matt claps him between the shoulder blades. "Are you all right?"
no subject
"Are you kidding? I'm great," he says, his voice filled with soft wonder. He's glad to be alive. He's happy to find other people. He's ecstatic to eat and drink. But finding Matt alive and in one piece? It's the best thing he's felt in a very long time. Probably since the last time he'd been left to worry that wouldn't be the case.
As Foggy pulls back, he fusses at Matt's hair and face. "You must be freezing," he chastises because it's easier than crying. The hat pulled from his own head — a toque — gets tugged awkwardly over that fiery hair with one good hand, still warm with Foggy's body heat. "Are you okay? Have you eaten? I don't want to hear your stomach growling. Here, I've got—" He's twisting away to look for the small tote bag he'd confiscated from the world, intent on finding his peanut butter stash. Aha. "-snacks."
METHUSELAH'S FEAST