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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.
cw: hypothermia risk
He doesn't know if they killed the thing. He doubts they'd be so fortunate. That means he can only take a moment, at most, to gasp at the cutting icy air as he sags at Little's side.
Thomas is soaked to the bone, and it's no exaggeration to say he can feel his vital strength being sapped moment by moment from him. This is an unendurable cold, the sort to see him dead in minutes without shelter, and he'll be damned a second time if he escapes the lake's horror only to perish from exposure. His rolling eyes fix on a distant shack he marked when he first began to explore the edges of the lake. It will do. ]
There. [ He jerks his chin at it, breathless. ] Get me up. We need to move.
[ An order worked the first time, so he'll apply it again. Momentum is what he needs to carry him as much as the aid of another. ]
cw: mention of death by hypothermia
But of course, he's no complete stranger to what the unfrozen water can do. Memory is strange and dull but it's there — Orren, fallen overboard. He'd gasped for what seemed like mere seconds, perhaps touching on minutes. Hypothermia killed him so quickly that it didn't seem real. His heart is pounding, relentless as he scrabbles to find purchase against ice-cold clothing, gloved hands already feeling numbed.
The tone — like an order, a command — does help. It helps in the exact way that Little needs it to help; direction given in the face of his own panic. He pulls, and though the man is made so heavy by chilled wet, though his own body is weakened from where he's just come, Edward is a strong man, even now. His body moves as though on autopilot, adrenaline giving him an edge. He presses the man to his side and moves, stumbling, dragging, not stopping.
Unoccupied side slamming against the shack's door, it falls back and he hauls the other in. There isn't much inside, but there is a cot, and Edward deposits him there, lets go, hands trembling. He isn't... good at this sort of thing, not really. The frenzied upset, the medical emergency. Still, he thinks quickly, what he knows— ]
You need to get out of those wet clothes, quickly — and then dry in this.
[ There's a thin sheet draped over the end of the cot, and he tugs at it, firm, urging it upwards and pushing it towards the man. ]
cw: hypothermia risk, past finger trauma
There's nothing for it on the ice. Thomas grits his teeth and staggers along at Edward's side, leaning hard into the other man's greater strength, breathing ragged through his nose.
Then: the shack. Unheated, but sheltered from wind, with a log burner waiting to be kindled. Thomas drops onto the cot where he's deposited with a harsh, hissing gasp, his pallid face contorting. He snatches the sheet from Edward's hands without regard, then tosses it aside to attend to his undressing. In his delirium, he brings his shaking hands to his mouth to drag his mittens off with his teeth. The right comes away clean. The left -
The curse Thomas snarls through a mouthful of freezing wool is unintelligible but vicious. The bandages wrapped around his ruined hand and its three missing fingers are as sodden as the rest of him, and each the slight clinging friction of that was enough to create unbearable drag on the raw, rent flesh concealed beneath them.
If his coat was fastened by buttons, he'd have to prevail on his terrified rescuer to aid him. This coat is secured by a gliding set of teeth, and Thomas grasps the toggle at his throat and rips it down to free himself. Off it comes, followed by kicking out of his boots, then the loose, dark sweater he'd donned specifically to do without buttoning a shirt either, then fumbling clear of his trousers. Every step of the process wrings more meaningless noise out of him, more pain, but he only pushes on.
At last he's down to undershirt, long underwear, and thick socks. He stops there not for modesty's sake, but to drag up the left hem of the once-white top garment and bear witness to the sight of not one, but two of his stab wounds broken open, oozing a sullen perfusion of blood. ]
Get that damned fire going. [ He spits, despite the chattering of his teeth. ] And tear me a strip of the sheet.
cw: mentions of (past) amputation and head trauma / gore
He hadn't faced pain like that himself, directly, but— the cry of it. Sounds that tormented his thoughts in all the days after. (A man whose leg was shredded to the bone, alcohol poured down his throat in a frantic attempt to numb him. Of course it hadn't, not enough, not quickly enough; the poor soul had felt it as his leg was sawed through. He'd howled like an animal. Little helped hold him down.) ]
I'm sorry— [ The lieutenant gasps, standing close by, helpless, stricken with horror as he stares down to that mutilated hand, bandaged. Of course he's also no stranger to men having parts of them gone away, rotted and cut off, but how does he deal with this... this pain before him? How can anyone? His stomach curls, sick with itself, and Little stares down at that hand in some muted, almost childlike stun.
Then he's watching the other man rip clothing off of himself, movements quick and rough and (animal-like, Little thinks — the way he uses his teeth). It's like watching a wounded dog ripping and ravaging.
God, but the injuries don't stop there. Blood's seeping out of him, and Edward's mouth parts, opens and closes and opens again. He doesn't like blood, even after having seen so much of it. He doesn't like seeing the parts of a person that shouldn't be exposed. (Again, memory comes in, uncomfortable, unwelcomed, burrowing its way to the forefront of thought— a man existing somehow, impossibly, alive — heart still pumping even after his skull was cracked open and pieces of spongy wet were exposed. It shouldn't happen. A person shouldn't look like that.)
It's only at the bark of further instruction that the lieutenant abruptly moves as though snatched from a dream, shuddering hands reaching to first grab for the thin sheet and pull, ripping it into one shred, then two, placing them at the bed before he turns obediently to tend to the burner. There's some old ash left behind from whomever used this shack last, and behold — a box of matches (although as his trembling fingers slide open the box, his heart sinks to discover a meager one left....) Edward turns back to the man. ]
I will return. Keep this with you, should that... that creature return.
[ His shotgun is placed on the bed as he hurries to the door and out. He needs kindling, enough to get things going and then he can return for more fuel later. Although he leaves the scant safety of the cabin so warily, wide eyes searching for any sign of the Thing.... Edward moves to the nearby line of trees that start to form a wood, and grabs for twigs, some bark, anything he can find, and some larger pieces of wood to keep things going. The process will take some time, although he hurries — at least the man will have opportunity for some privacy to tend to his undressing and wounds.
Arms stuffed with things, the man pauses on his way back, eyes finding the hatchet that Thomas dropped out on the ice. Convincing himself to approach the lair of that horror takes something that is not courage, but pure force. Edward steps lightly that way, easing himself close enough to crouch and find it, before hurrying back to the cabin, sturdy form sweeping in like a large magpie with its collection of items, twigs and hatchet held to the thick wool of his coat. ]
I've returned! How is the state of you?
cw: hypothermia symptoms
He's still not dead. That's more evidenced by the mist of his breath than it is by his flat stare. ]
The state of me, [ he says, or rather shivers, in muted astonishment ] the state of-
[ He snorts and shakes his head, his lank, half-frozen hair rattling soundlessly against itself. What is there to be said of the state of him? What should he make of even the question? Nothing, on both counts. ]
You should have taken your gun. [ Which comes out more as, y-you s-should have - and so on, as much as Thomas tries to clench his jaw into stillness and speak at the same time. ] You'd have been sorry for that if the bloody thing came back up.
[ There should be gratitude in him. Relief, indebtedness, or at the minimum some dollop of sympathy for the other man's endurance of his own palpable panic to come to Thomas' aid. But Thomas is bitterly chilled, in the throes of injury that gnaws steaming holes in his gut, or seems as though it does, and the stark fury that gripped him on the ice still shudders in his blood.
So giving a damn about where Edward set his gun is what he musters. His jaw sets hard enough to ache his teeth as he hunches tighter on the cot and watches the other man get to work on the fire. ]
no subject
But even now, it's difficult to... accept. All of it. The woman-thing that screamed and wailed, the crack of hatchet to skull, the wounded figure so abruptly left to his care, bleeding from his side, maimed in places. Little moves almost as though on auto-pilot, and through it all still maintains a mannerism that is, assuredly, delusional on the surface. Beneath—
The man is not okay, the state of him is.... Edward doesn't know whether he'll live or die, and he can't bear to look at another corpse, to see the unmoving glass marble eyes of another man he failed to keep living—
'You should have taken your gun.'
He blinks in the face of the reprimand — the shudder that controls the voice prompting Edward to hurry ever more, fumbling with small twigs and bark to thrust into the burner, crouching down to face it. His own hands tremble, and he catches himself before attempting to light the single match, takes a moment to peel off his own gloves, wet from hauling up the stranger. Tossing them aside, he so carefully strikes once and then a second time with a pounding heart. It lights, he places it down inside the belly of the thing, and draws back to find a larger stick to set into the fire, to feed it with. It is no inferno, but some warmth will begin to radiate from it. ]
You would have been helpless in here, should it have come for you.
[ He reasons, or tries to, but his voice drips heavier with something ashamed (he realises, being called out for it now, that it was a foolish call, to leave his gun. How can he keep anyone alive if he dies, if he's ripped apart by something with claws and jagged teeth?) ]
It's starting to burn now, [ he announces after a moment, but with little real relief as he thinks again of how cold the water was, and how the danger is hardly thwarted; the wounds at his side, that bleeding..... He needs true medical care, and Edward does not know where to find it.
But for now... he needs warmth. Abruptly, Little hurries out of his greatcoat, urges it around the other man's shoulders where he sits. ]
Can you feel the warmth? Do you need to move closer?
no subject
Perhaps it will, in time. But the weight of his greatcoat and the sight of the fire - even if Thomas can't yet feel its warmth, or much of anything else beyond the trunk of his body - ekes a feeling less and more than pity out of Thomas. ]
This will do.
[ Whatever good getting slightly closer would do him is outweighed by how much it would cost to rouse himself into motion. He doesn't bother to tell himself it has nothing to do with weakness of his own, physical and otherwise. He tugs at the inner edge of his meagre sheet in a fit of further uselessness, snorts again in an attempted to clear his nostrils. ]
You brought the hatchet. [ His gaze slips over to it. ] At least you have some sense.
[ It's not a conciliatory statement at even the most generous assessment, but it's a variation from snapping commands and reprovals. What the other man makes of it beyond that is up to him. ]
no subject
To the burner once more to check its status and feed it another handful of twigs. He'll have to go back out for more; this can't last. But for now, Edward eases back again, moves awkwardly to stand near the cot but not close enough so that he's in the man's personal space. A grim thing that's not quite a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth at that, and his body heaves a deep sigh. His stomach burns at the thought of could haves, not emboldened by his decision to step across the ice and retrieve the hatchet, not fueled by adrenaline that he'd succeeded, but tense with anxiety by the thought that the monster could've been lurking so close by, could've appeared again. The sensation is almost unbearable. ]
I figured we would need as much defense as possible.
[ He says it almost as though a child would, a little guiltily, as though explaining why he made a decision he himself thinks was foolish. (Even if Thomas is giving him something that isn't a reprimand now, is even approving of this decision in comparison to disapproving of his decision to leave his gun, he's stuck on that feeling of having done something wrong... Edward....) ]
Against that.... thing. [ He adds. There's much more to ask about, to wonder and to speculate, but this situation still feels like emergency, and he's looking to the man with concern that he may be leaking and leaking beneath those coverings. He does not know how to help with such a thing, shuddering quietly at the thought as he voices his observations, concerns. ]
Your wounds. Those aren't from the creature — you were injured before.
[ Edward swallows, dreading to continue, barely masking his queasiness. ]
Do you need more strips of sheet? Are you still... bleeding?
no subject
[ Flat and only half a lie. Thomas doesn't need more strips of sheet, and what bleeding he imagines is still occurring isn't spilling past the absorption of the crude bandages already in place.
Or perhaps it's not a lie at all, and it has stopped. He's continually amazed at the variances of what his body can manage to produce in way of effluvia, and the mysteries of when and how it chooses to cease doing so. Whatever the case, all he could have asked of the man more than he's taken would be the hatchet, which has been provided. ]
If I haven't died of it yet, I don't intend to in the next hour. [ Which he doubts will make the man stop looking at him like that completely, but might at least blunt it. ] I imagine neither of us will. If it relies on luring its prey and fled at resistance, it's a creature subject to the pains of the flesh.
[ It seemed in pain during the onslaught. His first thought on that is a vicious hope that it was, and still is, wherever it's gone to lick its wounds and seethe. His second thought is not one thought, but a complexity of them, fine and pale as seedling roots buried in the dark soil of his mind.
He doesn't care for it, so he sets it aside, a trick much more easily imagined than fully accomplished. More accurate to say that he'll ignore it, like so much else. ]
So, then. It seems we'll keep each other company for the time being. [ His shivering is lessening, his words less disrupted. ] Thomas. Richardson.
no subject
Which means the arduous task of moving him, a figure unable to move quickly, surely not to run in the case that the creature decides to pursue them. And also moving him without harming him further, up back around the line of the wood, to the town.
For now, though... they stay. To get him warm and dry, give him time to recover from the trauma of those cold waters. Edward looks up as he listens, brows lifting slightly at the words. They come from a mind that is quick to think of such things, to make reason out of how a predatory creature functions.... and they do make sense, though they make his stomach ache further. He nods quietly, thoughtfully, and reaches up to remove his cap with a tired sigh, still coming down from waves of unpleasant adrenaline. He turns it over in his hands a few times, gazing downwards. ]
Edward Little, [ he replies, after only a brief pause. How long has it been since he'd introduced himself? He carried himself proudly, once. Now here he stands with hair a mess of wild waves, long and unkempt, and shame eating at the edges of himself. But he lifts his head again so that he can make eye contact, polite. ]
—Of the Royal Navy, [ he adds, and wonders if it sounds as rehearsed as it feels. ]
Even now, I am in disbelief to ask such a thing, but— were you also.... brought to this place, Mr. Richardson? From another?
no subject
Still: it's resignation, not disappointment. Thomas is finding himself more inclined to a spirit of imperial brotherhood the more he can feel the warmth of the fire penetrating his chill. ]
So I was.
[ Thomas tilts his head at an oddly acute angle, peering up at Edward and his tumble of untamed black hair. He's making an effort to present himself as best he can, Thomas supposes. ]
You'll find I will not blush at the improbable, Mr. Little. [ As much of a concession as he can give. ] Even the coincidence that you and I seem to hail from the same homeland.