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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.
he's HERE for you (in his sad wet dog way.....)
[ At his core, Edward Little is a sensible man. He has lived this way, and contentedly — it suits his position well, his duties. He knows what is expected of him, and even as every thing has crumbled and degraded over these past three years, even as the men around him have progressively worsened in mind and in body, bleeding and bruising, he has clung to that sensibility as much as he can. (Perhaps too much so, some may say. Stubbornly, even delusional, to think that he can remain as he has always been.) The nightmare of it all, the things they've all known, must surely change a man. Still, Little has resisted, as resolutely as he can.
If there is any faith to his nature, it is a faith in his position, his responsibilities, his tasks, his superiors. Beliefs in the supernatural have never quite suited him, but even he can't deny a fear in the idea of a Hell, now that he stands somewhere impossible. And his own guilty spirit so easily accepts the thought that the figure before him may be some apparition — a torment of his own.
Yes, such ghastly things strike a certain fear into his heart now, but even then...... beneath those, what makes his heart shudder the most is the violence, the horror of it. The gore and the blood, the unnatural things done to a body. (And oh the idea of punishment, of pain.) He stands there some feet away from this impossible figure, and for a moment, can only imagine that it means to hurt him. Seek some vengeance — taking on the form of his fallen friend. Edward tenses, fear straining his heart; it aches. The being will hurt him, and he will deserve all of it.
....But there is a different ache to be felt, and it comes as he takes in the pain of the visage across from his own. The voice matched in confusion and upset, staring at Little as if he is the spectral figure approaching, the frightening thing. And it all floods in, the things he has yet to properly begin to even process, because there has been no luxury of time to process them — Irving's death, so horrible, so unexpected, so brutal.... so cruel in the deceit surrounding it, the planning by that devil Hickey. It had changed Edward. And there was no space to properly grieve, to mourn. It was all so cruel.
Here, now.... seeing the face again, and the upset it wears — he's blinking back against wet heat, mouth tipped open.
'Is that your true face?'
Whatever this is, whether a figment of his own mind or truly some Thing come to make him suffer, how could Little do anything but tell it the truth? When it looks at him this way, when he would give anything to speak to John Irving again? ]
Yes, it is me. It's Edward.
[ Although his hair is now more overgrown, tangles of dark covering most of his face, and his eyes are duller; he has lasted longer than most of the other men, he has not yet rotted the way they have (like Jopson, god, poor Jopson—) but he has lost much strength. Still, he is here, he is Edward, it is him. ]
I— I will not harm you. [ He lifts a gloved hand, held in the feet between them, gentle and meant to reassure. (If this being means to punish him, then he will accept it. He could not possibly turn it away.) And Edward takes a step closer, words breaking quietly at the end, like a child's. ]
I did not think I would ever see you again.
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( OKAY GOOD because let me tell you I'm also equally thrilled to be writing with (such an excellent) Little!! & I'M A-OKAY AND 100% OPEN TO WHATEVER, honestly if we change our minds about anything we can probably always discuss that further pending apps, but! :3a Boys got a Big Storm comin... 🥺 )
[ Irving, too, has always stubbornly (and certainly delusionly) clung to the familiar, to structure and routine and the way he knows things should be, ever the rigidly sensible man that he is-- a man soothed by facts and figures, things which can be answered, solved, literally counted upon, as well as each grander truths preserved for posterity within the pages of his bible.
Together, numbers and faith have always been his lighthouse, especially in the face of such terrible, impossible unknowns; creatures that are neither man nor bear, spirit nor demon, places that are neither Heaven nor Earth, but somewhere far beyond the reach of any lighthouse's bright, searching beam-- if not far below it.
Irving fears the reality of Hell a great deal, but if not Hell, then this is nowhere, he is nowhere, and it's that possibility which frightens him even more.
Yet to be gazing at Edward Little's face again, looking into those dark, familiar eyes, does not strike anything into Irving's heart so much as it overwhelms him suddenly with his own sense of heavy, belated grief; it weighs him down like a burden, heart and limbs alike, almost into stillness, his deep, nearly bottomless well of every repressed emotion now threatening to flood him with feelings of loss, with sadness, with anger, with relief, wringing him out like a sponge. He staggers, lightheaded, willing himself with every shred of remaining strength still left within his body not to weep, not to fall to his knees at the impossible sight before him.
Absurdly, he recalls a passage, aptly titled Daniel's Terrifying Vision of a Man:
But he is not Daniel, and this man -- this vision -- before him is not God, either, although Irving nonetheless does still take away strength from this passage anyway, considering that perhaps not all is what it seems to be after all; perhaps he has been much too rash in assuming that it could only be with malevolence and mischief in mind that any being should choose to appear to him now, here, as Edward Little.
However unwisely, Irving mirrors the movement, holding out his hands (one gloved, one not) to show he, too, means no harm, and it's a gesture that evokes suddenly in him the sharp and all too cruel familiarity of how he had approached the group of Netsilik this very same way. He'll never forget that moment, even if it hadn't also been one of his very last. ]
Nor I you.
[ He addresses the Edward Little Who Is Not Really There with more confidence this time, emboldened by memory, and tentatively opening himself up to receive from him (from it?) whatever message is his own to hear.
(Though it does slowly begin to occur now, too, that this is somehow not at all the man as he remembers him, not any version of Edward Little that has ever lived or existed within Irving's memory, and that there is some deep wrongness in this, although Irving cannot seem to place it.
He, on the other hand, Irving, looks exactly the same as he did the last day they ever saw each other, and therefore shouldn't also a figment of Edward Little look as he did on that day as well?)
Irving's large eyes grow larger still in his confusion, shining with something akin to awe for the sublime, for what he still doesn't know to be either great or terrible. ]
Edward.
[ The name is heavy with the burden of so many questions Irving can't even begin to find words for. Then again, gentler by inches: ]
What is all this? What's... [ A beat. A swallow. A whisper: ] What's happened to you?
[ And is he addressing the vision as Edward simply because it's easiest to, because decorum and protocol is already dictating this rhythm for them, or might it be because to imagine the reality of truly being able to speak with his old friend once more is much too rare and too tempting to ignore? Irving has no answers to these questions, either. ]
no subject
[ Little's own lighthouse... what may it be? His orders, surely; it's what he looks to so resolutely, no matter how some of the orders he's been given over these past Hellish years have sat uneasy within him. And here and now, he's found himself left without any order in this strange, impossible circumstance.... he's left feeling maimed from it, as though struggling to function without all of his limbs. There has been no familiarity. No concept of what he should be following.
To see John Irving before him, even if that too should be an impossibility.... it's the closest thing to lighthouse that Edward has felt since waking up in this place. To familiarity and who he is just as much. He knows Irving cannot possibly be real, but oh, how he yearns for him to be. The aloneness he's known these past weeks (months? How long has it been? Time has stretched on in the feeble camps they've made, as vast and unfeeling as the landscape around them). He is the only Terror lieutenant left. Irving, gone. Hodgson.... gone too, in a different way. (Jopson, given the title but always a steward at heart, so unflinchingly caring..... he will die soon. Little left him to die.) Through all of the horrors since the ships were frozen in the ice, at least they had one another. Now..... it is only him left.
But Irving is here, or something wearing his face, and when the other man staggers, Little finds himself not having to think about stepping forward more, closer, both hands lifted as though to steady him — though not quite making contact just yet, remained held up in the air between them.
He stares, taking in every detail, and as John is beginning to process that his own countenance has shifted as though time has passed, Edward sees that the visage before him looks..... exactly as he had on the day he'd been found dead. His own grief stirs, swells, and he has to swallow back against it in order to be able to breathe. Is he damned this way? To last, while all the men he knows rot and fade and become ghosts?
He knows in this moment that he'll let himself be haunted by this one, for all of his days. He will not turn from it.
And so he slowly closes more of the distance towards that confused, wide-eyed face, one seeking answers, and there are few Edward can truly give; he knows so little himself about what is happening, but.... there are some. ]
My brother, I do not understand it, either. I woke as though from a dream, and found my way to this place. No one else is with me. Neither the men, nor the captain. ....I am alone.
[ His eyes fall to the third lieutenant's hands held out there, and Edward pauses, breath shuddering, before his own hands move towards one of Irving's. So slowly, carefully, fingers uncurling and, if he is allowed, finding the shape of that hand, enclosing it gently in both of his own. Holding on, not tight, but with intention, with tenderness — with caution, with affection. So many things a gesture can hold, and there will be a soft gasp as he realises the hand is solid in his own. Not a gossamer wisp, not a fading thing that slips through him. Likewise, his own are real, solid and warm in their gloves, — real. ]
It cannot be. When last I saw you, you were..... dead. [ The word is ugly, horrible against his tongue. Edward gives a soft sound of ache as though it hurts even to voice that word aloud. And with it come more; all of them uttered softly to this impossibly solid spectre, this vision. ]
We know what happened. We know.... they fed you. The Netsilik. My god, John, we know.
[ His voice quiets even more, sorrow and joy some inconceivable mixture within him, pulling his brows tight. ]
It has been.... much time has passed, but... You look just as I remember you.
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Truly, it's been a long, long time since last the world could still make sense to Irving, and maybe he should finally try to accept that those days are now forever behind him.
Yet what a relief it still is not having to face this bleak and frightful awareness alone.
He curls his fingers inward toward his palm within the tender, two-handed grip Little's enfolded around his hand as if seeking sanctuary there, as if Little's hold upon him is the only thing stopping Irving from sinking fast like a stone to an even deeper abyss. In this moment that touch is nothing less than blessedly stabilizing to him, a gentle salvation that allows some of the white noise filling Irving's mind to finally begin to settle, if not actually quiet itself entirely. Still, what can he say? ]
But those Netsilik, they must still be-- [ His thoughts turn themselves over helplessly, drowning in air like fish as a terrible ringing rises in his ears from the cold. ] Surely they've not all been...
[ But of course they are; of course they would be. The certainty of this realization -- he'd simply not even considered it before, not yet -- chips pieces, whole chunks, from off his sinking heart, and he briefly drops his gaze to process this.
Then raises it again, stoically meeting Little's eyes. ]
How much time, Edward? ... How long has it been?
no subject
He squeezes John's hand within both of his own, gently, but with his own brand of quiet warmth. And perhaps it's for his own benefit just as much, a desperation not to be left alone, to cling to the only familiar thing he can see. After a moment, he lets go, but he stays close by him, this spectre of his lost companion, his crewmate. (The word friend is scarcely used, but isn't it there? Isn't it true? John was his friend.)
The words hurt, and he pinches his brow tightly, giving a shuddery exhale. He doesn't verbally answer that inquiry, and perhaps that in itself is an answer. All of them— lost. In such a brutal, inhuman way. Even a child— ....It's unspeakable, what happened to them all. And to this man before him; Edward can't stop remembering him there, laid out, eyes glassed and empty. He almost fears if he blinks, Irving will look that way again right before him. ]
It's difficult to know how much time has passed, truly. The days have... bled. Weeks — months. We've been walking for so long. [ A beat, a swallow that feels like glass. He drags the words up out of himself, the rich timbre of his voice hoarse at the edges now. ]
We've lost so many. After you—.... there have been many more.