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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.
INDEED and also i am so sorry for how long this tag is whoops
If he has been reading the room, then to him, she is simply but one face of many. Bewilderment, certainly, is at the height of her feelings at present. Not so long ago she had been an inmate, a prisoner, her whole world squeezed into a minuscule space. Now, it seems, there is far too much space for her to take stock of. It's a little like those stories you hear about wild animals who are caught and caged, and when their doors are finally opened they choose to stay where they are, but Grace isn't sure if that's a real story she read somewhere, or simply a tall tale, a metaphor that feels apt in the moment.
Perhaps it is unwise to align herself with caged animals. She ought not to imagine herself as a feral thing, even just in her own mind.
So, bewilderment is a fair assessment. Relief and gratitude share a home, if not a name: gratitude is simply the natural expression of relief, unless the relieved person is also morally vacuous. Grace is certainly relieved that she's no longer out in the cold, and more so that she is no longer inside Kingston Penitentiary, with no effort on her own part to leave. She wonders what the guards will do when they find her cell empty, with no presumptive evidence of escape. Perhaps they will think she transformed into a rat and scurried out under the lip of her cell door. And she is most certainly filled with gratitude for this man, Methuselah, and the food he has laid out, and the warmth of this building, and even a little for the strange fashions and informal bearing of the other stranded people who have come to find refuge here. It is all so strange that Grace has not had much time to worry herself sick over any one thing in particular. Fellowship, though, is something she does not feel. She knows the value in staying here and not making her way out on her own, but she trusts no one here, and would not lightly call any of them fellows of hers.
She thinks all this, but does not say any of it. Her expression is thoughtful, but lightly so. ]
Answers are not meant to agree with us; we're meant to agree with them. Wouldn't you say, sir?
don't apologize, her thought process is so much of what's fascinating about her!
He doesn't expect her to actually think. The composure of her expression as she does so is striking precisely because of how subdued it is under these more than distressing circumstances. ]
That is the usual order of things.
[ The world composed of truths and facts, its fundamental arrangement set by God, interpreted by learned men, and disseminated to the questioning masses. So it is said to be, and so it is. Those who have that veil ripped from their eyes, as he did, discover a different kind of bleak answer to their questions, but still, it is an answer. Answers are meant to be agreed with.
But he's discovered of late that even the answers he thought of as the cold, genuine realities of the world, divorced from the idealized scheme, are as fragile as rotten wood. He doubts she'd remain so composed if he started speaking of that, and wicked impulse almost drives him to do so.
He won't go so far as that, if more for his sake than hers. But he's curious about her now, and that serves as a thread of distraction from thoughts such as those. ]
But surely not all answers can be agreed with. I could be in error, or a liar, or both. [ He says it carelessly, with a faint, ironic smile. ] I could give you the answer I thought you wanted of me, whether or not I believed it. Wouldn't you say that's what people typically desire, when they ask anything at all?
no subject
Well, sir, it stands to reason that if an answer is agreeable to one person, it can also be disagreeable to another, which is what I meant when I said that we are meant to agree with answers and not the other way around. But you're right that my agreement depends more on my personal feeling than on the truth of the matter. I would certainly like to agree that everyone here regards one another as an ally, but this can't be so, because I myself am not foolish enough to believe that our present troubles are at an end, nor that everyone in this room is of the same mind to put aside any differences and work towards a common goal. And I cannot be alone in thinking this.
[ She looks at him a little shrewdly. There's bitterness seeping from him in waves, which suggests to her that he was likely patronising her with his talk of an unanimous feeling of gratitude and fellowship. It is a thing often done by men to think they are sparing women from some horrible hidden truth, when the reality is often that women know more about these kinds of things than men do.
But she doesn't say any of that. Instead she smiles, just a little, in a way that makes her question lighter, almost teasing. ]
Do you agree with that?
no subject
Astonishingly, unaccountably, he finds himself ever so slightly embarrassed. His back straightens an iota, his mouth tugged towards a sheepish tilt. ]
I do. [ He says, startled into a milder register. ] It seems you need no help from me with your reading.
[ Of the room, and evidently of him. So much for his martyred sense of superiority, crouched in his corner imagining himself one of the few canny and cynical enough to see through the temporary congeniality here. Now here he sits, corrected with such deftness he can't even rankle at it. ]
You aren't alone in your thoughts. [ Which she plainly knows already. ] I apologize. I...
[ He's sure, then, that she can guess at his excuses too. She's certain to have heard all of them before. That at least draws up the more familiar itch of inward aimed frustration, which still isn't sufficient to right his wobbling. ]
I presumed the answer you sought. I was mistaken. Forgive my carelessness.
no subject
Carelessness is the least of my troubles, sir. There’s nothing to forgive.
[ Grace has already discerned that he’s bitter and angry at the world – it’s plain enough to see. She wonders for a moment if there’s any sense in talking to him, because the Lord only knows that she doesn’t need to make nice with any more bitter and angry men, but she’s not yet found him to be foolish. ]
In any case, I’m not sure that it’s careless to want to spare someone from an ugly truth. The only problem you have is that I’m very used to ugly truths, as they’re more familiar to me than placations.
no subject
But here and now, there is something of him that feels shucked, a kernel or a clam. Tender as the raw edges of a wound are tender. Embarrassment is too domesticated a word, he realizes. A wet new animal doesn't tremble with shame. A dying one doesn't shiver in throes of humiliation. They only shudder to be seen. ]
I wasn't trying to spare you. I was trying to spare myself.
[ Now it is carelessness - but she did say she was accustomed to ugly truths. His hand twists around his canister of his tea, the slant of his mouth grown tighter. ]
Not that I imagine that escaped you, either. [ He murmurs, lapsing back into an exhausted slur at the ends of his words. ] Carelessness is indeed the least of your troubles.
Which leads me to wonder why you'd trouble yourself with me, given you've no need of my help. [ His gaze has turned back out to the room, away from her eyes. ] A charitable inclination? Or do you intend to remind me it's rude to stare?
no subject
If I were to tell you that it’s rude to stare, I’d only be a hypocrite, sir. I’ve done my fair share of staring since I got here, and most of it at other people. But I suppose I came to talk to you because I did not want to hear another conversation about how we are out of the cold at last, and that we ought to thank the old man for his generosity – though of course he should be given thanks, because he has been generous indeed. I came to talk to you because it seemed from where I was looking that we were of the same mind, and although there is much to be said for talking to people of a different opinion than one’s own, sometimes it is easier on the thoughts to do otherwise. And I think, sir, that I came to talk to you because I thought you might be interesting, which you certainly have been so far.
[ A pause, since for a moment Grace is finished, but then she decides to add something else. ]
And you can rest assured that I’ve no charity to offer you, sir, and that even if I did I would find someone who would not rankle at the suggestion of it, because even though it says in Proverbs that ‘he that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord’, it is difficult to lend anything to someone who does not want to borrow it.
[ It’s clear from her tone that she doesn’t entirely deride him for that – pride, though a sin in name, can sometimes be virtuous when it is a case of wanting to fend for oneself. ]
no subject
He makes a dry, muted sound, an interruption of breath at the cusp of becoming something else. His mouth is still unevenly set, tipped higher on one side than the other, as he returns his attention to her. ]
'And that which he hath given will He pay him again.' [ He says, wryly. ] No. I don't expect you would reap much repayment on my behalf.
[ The prospect of pity being removed from the equation - or at least kept to herself - does settle him. He lapses into a brief quiet, wondering at that. Wondering at interesting. ]
My name is Thomas. [ He offers up. ] Thomas Richardson.
no subject
Grace Marks, sir.
[ And it’s strange to have to introduce herself, too, when she’s been so used to everyone already knowing her name. It’s disquieting, showing as a slight downwards turn to her mouth. ]
I don’t think anything was said in the Bible about the situation we find ourselves in, except perhaps that ‘The people which were left of the sword found grace in the wilderness,’ and this is certainly a wilderness.
no subject
[ He suspects she'll catch the rust on the words in their faintly wry delivery. There's little to be glad about here, and there's an inherent absurdity in any gentility coming from a dishevelled invalid bundled up like a butcher's package.
But she's been as gracious with him as her name might suggest. Whatever the cause of her slight frown, he can manage to scrape together the barest essentials of politeness to avoid adding to it. He'll even manage to bite his tongue on saying anything inane about finding her out in the wilderness. He's heard enough wit about his own name and doubts to guess at how dry that well is. ]
And while I'm certain something more could be sifted from that venerable text, I suspect it would be of little help in the here and now. Such practical matters always seem to fall to the hands of man. Or woman, as the case may be.
I notice you've already begun to make yourself useful.
[ As they've established that he's been staring, there's no further harm in admitting to more direct observation. There's certainly nothing to disapprove of in noting her attention to practicalities. ]
no subject
[ Whether she's pushing back against his Either way, her expression is a little placid as she looks away, around at the ragged group of individuals who've gathered here. ]
I've been working since I was a child. It would be strange for me to have nothing to do, so I always try to find something to fill my time. I was given the day off for my sixteenth birthday, and I had so little idea of what to do with myself that I simply sat down and wept. But that was a long time ago now, and ever since then nobody has thought to give me a day off for my birthday, although in truth I think I would have done the same thing. I don't like birthdays much.
no subject
Neither do I.
[ He mutters this in the direction of his canister of tea. It's difficult to imagine her weeping, although he has no doubt the story is true and that she has the capacity for it. It may be more that it's difficult to imagine her as a girl. ]
What I mean to say is that you have...talents. [ He'd roll the canister between his palms if he had both on it, but has to settle for running his thumb over its curved lip. ] Skills to capitalize on. You will be useful to these people.
Between that and good sense, you may have a chance.
just realised i left a sentence unfinished in that last tag whoopsie daisy
[ He's not wrong. Grace does have skills and a considerable deal of knowledge, and she's used to working. A person of more means than her might find this place terribly difficult. ]
Don't you have any skills? [ She asks it kindly, almost as if he's disparaged his own worth and she's trying to bring him up out of the doldrums. ] I'm sure you must. Nobody is entirely useless.
it happens to us all
There was a time he'd have been all but useless in these circumstances, but would have imagined otherwise in well-bred (even well-meaning) hubris. He's cultivated more practical skills since then, and while he's certainly no craftsman, the bare capability of acting as a diligent drudge would have been something he could have offered. ]
I did. [ He says, dryly, with a certain hollowness that belies complete indifference. ] But I have been recently disadvantaged.
[ He's kept the injury hidden, mostly for the sake of avoiding gawking and simpering, but he's past suspecting her of that for now. Thomas' slips his bandaged left hand through the seam of his blanket. ]
My prospects for gainful employment are not once they once were. [ That's a joke, of a kind. ] At least I kept the thumb.
no subject
She doesn't say anything for a long while, long enough that it's probably obvious she's trying to work out what to say. He doesn't want pity, and she doubts she'd be able to give it to him anyway. What she feels, perhaps more even than her initial revulsion, is burning curiosity. ]
How did that happen?
[ That she gave into the curiosity is a little surprising to her, because as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. But as Mary Whitney would say whenever that turn of phrase came up, perhaps cats have nine lives for a reason. ]