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

hope nobody needs this.

[patchwork]

"No, I do not."

Grace stops dead several paces away from the man hunched over a lump that she can only imagine is a corpse, her hands clasped together tightly, shorn auburn hair covered modestly in a cap, apron pinned to the front of her dress. It doesn't take a genius to work out what he's doing, or what problem he's trying to solve – it doesn't even take a close look. Grace can imagine well enough what a man looks like when he is robbing a corpse, and has also heard of what happens to bodies when they have been dead for some time. Even from this distance, the revulsion is clear on her face, perhaps because it is so well reflected in her voice. She is, in contrast to Hickey, actually Irish, with a clear accent in a high, almost girlish pitch.

"And I suggest you are less open with your requests of this nature, before someone thinks you a vagabond."

[friendsfordinner]

A vagabond.

Well, he's been called much worse.

Hickey looks over at Grace, eyebrow raised, clearly judging her disgust and finding her wanting. He turns his attention back to the corpse as he continues to try and pry the gun out of it's hand. "As far as I'm concerned, there's no need to act high and mighty. The bloke's not using this anymore, yeah? Might as well indulge in some Christian charity and give it to someone who will."

[patchwork]

"Have you no respect for the dead at all?"

If they're going to have this conversation, then she'll have it standing far away from him, as if she's worried she might be tainted by moving too close. He reminds her almost immediately of James McDermott, not chiefly because of his actions but because of his conviction that they are the only correct ones.

"What are you going to do with it when you have it?" At this distance, she can't even see what it is, but it certainly bodes ill.

[friendsfordinner]

Hickey gives Grace a Look. He doesn't answer her question but it's obvious from his raised eyebrow. No, he doesn't have any respect for the dead. They're dead. Just meat and bones and sinew. There's nothing person in there to respect.

"What I'm going to do is try and defend myself against whatever the hell killed this man. Person, beast, weather, I don't know. But two of those three can be shot."

[patchwork]

So it's a weapon, then. If it is to be a free-for-all among everyone who has been brought and summarily stranded here, then it stands to reason that some of them will end up placed above others. Grace holds onto her own trust like it's a precious commodity and nobody, least of all this stranger, has proven yet that they deserve it from her. It is less that the gun once belonged to another person who has passed on that gives her pause, and more that there's no telling what this man intends to do with it once it belongs to him. Putting a weapon in a man's hand invariably means that he will use it.

"If you must take things from a corpse, there are ways to do so without force." A step closer, just one. "And he ought to be buried with his valuables, if he had any on him."

[friendsfordinner]

Buried with his valuables? Again, he's not using them. What good would any valuables do sitting in the ground? Nothing! What good would they do in Hickey's pocket, assuming that there was a pawn shop or something of the sort here? They'd do wonders.

But he keeps that to himself for the moment. This woman seems to be a bleeding-heart sort. Follow the tenants of Christian charity even if it means fucking yourself over in the process.

"His hand's frozen around the grip," Hickey points out. "Help me thaw it out and no force will be needed."

[patchwork]

That's why he needed the water. Grace finds it a considerably more elegant solution than one involving the breaking of fingers, which she's surprised he hasn't tried already. Perhaps he has, only it didn't go as well as he hoped.

Grace moves closer still, until there's only a few feet between her and the body. He looks more like an object than the other bodies she's seen in her life, which had still held fast to some aspect of aliveness while she was looking at them. Perhaps because she'd known them in life, or perhaps just because they weren't frozen solid. "I'll help you with it, if you help me move him somewhere else afterwards, and see that he's buried." A pause, and then because she knows that sometimes when a great many people die at once, the most practical thing to be done with them is to burn them and scatter the ashes, she adds, "Or at least disposed of respectfully."

[friendsfordinner]

What is it with these people and things like 'let's bury the corpses' and 'treat the dead with respect'? If someone gave even a single shit about this man, wouldn't he be buried already? He's probably out here because there's no one left!

Things like 'giving dignity to the dead' don't cross Hickey's mind on a regular basis. But if it'll get whoever this is off his ass...well, he'll be willing to give it a shot.

"Dunno if the ground is warm enough to dig a grave," he points out, in a tone of someone pointing out the obvious. "But yeah, we can put him wherever the hell they're keeping the bodies."

[patchwork]

“I suppose it’s up to the old man.” Grace knows his name is Methuselah, but she has never heard that name outside of a biblical context, and it’s hard to think of him as a person with a name like that.

“And I suppose you know how to work a gun,” she adds, as she finally crouches to examine the weapon frozen into the man’s hand. Warm water should be enough, but the process of getting it won’t be easy. They’ll need something to boil it in, and dry kindling, and a method of starting the fire. “But how am I to know you won’t turn it on me or anyone else in this place for so much as looking at you, the second it’s out of his hand and in yours?”

[friendsfordinner]

"You can't know that," Hickey says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Because as far as he's concerned, it's true: she has no idea of knowing what he is, what he might do with it, if anybody would end up shot or hurt or what have you. She doesn't know who he is, she doesn't know what he might do, all she knows is that there's a man here who wants a gun.

He looks over at Grace, staring her down directly, meeting her gaze.

"You'll just have to trust me on the matter. And hope that whatever killed this man doesn't find us next."

[patchwork]

Grace doesn’t trust him one whit, but it is in the scheme of things much better to have given him a hand in acquiring this gun than it is to let someone else take that job in her place, and then he would be grateful to that person and not her. If he is capable of gratefulness at all, which he may well not be.

“I don’t mind admitting that I do not trust you. It would be foolish to do such a thing, and you ought not to take any offence from it, because I would say it to anyone else stranded here as plainly as I’m saying it to you now.” She takes another look at the body, lips pursed, and then straightens up again to look around the vicinity for anything she might need. There’s a house nearby, which if it has a proper kitchen might suit well to melt down some snow. “Some sort of collection ought to be organised, of all the weaponry found here, and someone put in charge to disperse it among properly trained men.” The idea of a woman using a gun has apparently not occurred to her. “Although of course there’s no guarantee that the person put in charge of that would not simply hoard it all and make himself a tyrant. Do you suppose it’s better for ten men to each have one gun, or one man to have all ten?”

She straightens up, brushes down her skirts, and starts to head towards the nearest house.

[friendsfordinner]

Don't worry, Grace, the idea of letting women have guns hasn't crossed Hickey's mind either! Though to be fair, the only though that's crossed his mind with regards to all this is that he deserves a gun. He deserves any sort of weapon if they've got to deal with whatever the hell this is and whatever the hell is going to inevitably happen.

"That sounds like a decision we should put to the masses," says the man who's only suggesting that because he knows that's the right thing to suggest in situations like this. "But if you ask me? The more people who can fight, the better. I don't know what's out there, but something brought us all here. Best to have enough ammunition to face it."

[patchwork]

Grace leaves the door open. The house is small and poky, a place she would have yearned to keep for herself if her life had not gone in a vastly different direction. The kitchen is little more than a countertop with a strange box on it that Grace does not recognise. It has a number of dials and knobs along one side, which she promptly decides not to touch. The range itself is nothing like the ones she’s used to, but she at least knows what it is, and it only takes a little poking and prodding from her before she’s worked out how to turn the burner on.

She emerges from the house after just a few minutes carrying a large pot, and she crouches down to start the process of filling it with snow. “I suppose the primary issue is that there are bound to be people here who want nothing to do with things like voting and putting someone in charge. There are always those kinds of people, and they cannot be accounted for, because they have no reason to follow any rules agreed upon by everyone else.”

[friendsfordinner]

As Grace enters the house, Hickey continues to try and wriggle the gun out of the man's hands. There's a moment when he seriously considers just breaking his fucking fingers and getting on with it, but...well, whoever this lady is, he suspects the phrase 'delicate constitution' has been used about or by her more than once in her life. And he wants to start this off on as good a foot as humanly possible. So no flagrant corpse abuse.

At least, no flagrant corpse abuse yet.

When Grace returns, Hickey's squatting down by the corpse, still trying to loosen the gun slightly. At her statement, he perks up and looks up at her. "Then bugger those people," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing ever. "If they want to go off and form their own group or not listen to the majority, then let them. It's not our problem if they end up dying."

There is zero indication that he's going to help fill the pot up with snow.

[patchwork]

She hadn't been expecting help, not really. Grace has had more than enough experience with ineffectual men in her life already, who prefer to talk than to get their hands dirty. But for a moment, and not just because of the coarseness of the language, he reminds her a little of Mary Whitney. She, Grace thinks, would have had fewer qualms about wresting a weapon from a dead man.

"You sound like a politician." She hasn't met any, but imagines that's the kind of thing they would say.

[friendsfordinner]

Hickey also hasn't met many politicians but he imagines that 'fuck those people in particular' isn't something a politician would say. Still, he gets the idea of looking after your own. That's what he's done. That's what he's always done.

"I will take that as a compliment," Hickey grins. "Led up my own little group of men back where I'm from. I know that sometimes, you need to focus on yours over everyone else. Keep your own alive."

Hickey, you were literally going to feed them to a bear.

"As far as I'm concerned? Same rules apply here."

[patchwork]

Grace eyes him placidly for a moment. His own little group of men – that could mean anything. But she can tell from his voice that he seems to think very highly of himself, to take politician as a compliment. Mary Whitney used to say that some politicians are so crooked they could eat soup with a corkscrew. But she was a person of very democratic views.

Grace stands up, hefting the snow-filled pot back inside with her and setting it on the range. A little more fiddling, and then she has a merry flame burning underneath it. She heads back to the doorway, leaning in it with a hand propped on her hip. If she's to say on the right side of this man, he might like for his ego to be a little flattered – this is what most men want, after all.

"But do you mean to say that you were a soldier of some kind, before you came here?" she asks, injecting just a touch of wonder into her voice. Too much, and it's obvious that flattery is her aim. Just enough, and it feels natural. She is a woman; she could not possibly understand war, or the sufferings of men therein.

[friendsfordinner]

"Sailor," he says, with a little nod. Hickey stays where he is, guarding the corpse and the gun like he's a dog standing over it's prey. He wants this gun. He's going to get this gun. The only question is, who's going to be in his way.

"Specifically, a sailor on an exploratory expedition. Went well for the first year or so. Then things started to...falter."

A diplomatic way of phrasing it if there ever was one.

[patchwork]

That does sound awful. An exploratory expedition means that they were not certain of what they would find. Reasonably sure, perhaps, but not absolutely certain. She's not surprised there were problems.

"I've been on a ship for a long stretch of time, but only once, on the crossing from Ireland to Canada. It was frightful. I'm glad not to have made a habit of it. Where were you meant to be exploring?"

[friendsfordinner]

"A trade route through the Arctic. Something to make the passage from England to Asia smoother. A Northwest Passage, I believe."

There's a moment where Hickey thinks back to the voyage. To being crammed on a ship, sent off somewhere to possibly die for something as stupid as trade. To make it so that rich men could get rich just a little bit quicker.

"Don't think it even exists," he points out, with an annoyed 'hmmph.'

[patchwork]

Grace is quiet for a little while as she thinks that over. She's not had access to the outside world for quite some time, but it's not as if she's lived in complete isolation, and that phrase rings a bell. An exploration to find the Northwest Passage.

"I think I heard about your expedition," she says, looking at him with some intensity now. "One of the captains was Irish. I remember because someone made a point of telling me, when it was all being reported in the news that you'd set off."

[friendsfordinner]

One of the captains was Irish.

Hickey stiffens. He goes quiet for a little bit as he thinks things over as well. That certainly must be Erebus and Terror. Irish captain, Northwest Passage...what else could it be?

"Francis Crozier," he says, with a little nod. "Man's name was Francis Crozier."

He knows he has to ask this next part. It's like there's a spell over him and the only way it can be broken is if he puts to words what he's thinking. "They never found any of us, did they. Hundred and fifty odd men, just...vanished."

There were only forty or so of them at the end. They never would have made it.

[patchwork]

It's a little surreal, to know that amidst all this strangeness and displacement, he and Grace are so close in origin that she'd heard about his expedition when it set off. She wonders when he was born, how close they are in age. For a moment she says nothing, and then she turns back into the house to take the pot off the stove. The snow has melted now, not yet boiling, and so she lifts it back outside, carrying it resting against the bustle of fabric on her hip.

"I was very young when I first heard about it all, and in the years since I've not had much access to newspapers." She sets the pot down in the snow next to the body, and because she has something else to occupy her mind with, it's easier to see it not as a person but as a thing, an object – mostly because it's as if she's not really seeing it at all. "But I do recall much being made of a disappearance."