methuselah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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.
no subject
It does fill her with a quiet sadness. She hurts for him. ]
I'm sorry. [ It's a hushed sound. She looks across to him, and finds herself grateful for the space between them. There's a long pause before she tentatively adds: ] ... He still loves you, even if you're still angry with Him.
[ She doesn't have an answer to give him to that. Not one that's straight forward. She worries the handkerchief in her hands, staring down at it intensely in the silence. She knows it isn't fair, she knows they're blaming her without even knowing the truth. But even Kate isn't so sure of the truth herself.
She's... too tired for anger. There's no fire in her in reply to the blame, the shaming. She's never felt so tired in her life. Her shoulders sink, it's a kind of weariness — heavier than she's ever felt. Shame, desperation, woe. Those are the things that sit so easily in her.
She can't bring herself to look over to him. ]
I don't have it in me to be angry at them, or to hate them for it.
cw: emetophobia (no actual vomit)
If there was so much as a hint of pious certainty in her voice, he'd tell her as much, broken bird or not. The tight-leashed rage that chews the slats of his ribs bloody would tear free and lunge up his throat.
He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth. The wounds in his side throb in time with the agitation of his pulse. Pitch loathing coils in the pit of his guts. ]
...kind of you.
[ He slurs through the tightness of his jaw and the effort of self-control, but he does control himself, if barely. ]
You'd be better served reserving a measure of that kindness for yourself, instead of squandering it on drunks and the self-righteous.
[ Pointless advice; she won't hear a word of it. All it serves is to coat his mouth like greasy ash. ]
It would do you far more good than it does me.
cw: some victim-blaming language/mentality
Is that why? she wonders. Is that why this happened to her? Is it her fault? She stood for what she stood for and was punished for it? Was she too zealous? Maybe she really is deserving of all this punishment, after all. She's sorry. She's never been more sorry in her life.
She considers it for a moment, but then her brow furrows with her own thoughts still echoing in her mind. She looks across at him in that silence, her eyes flicking back to where he had been sat initially — the bottle still left behind in the pew. ]
... You stopped drinking because I snapped at you, I don't know if that would still make you a drunk. You cared enough to stop. [ He could have ignored her anger, her upset. What is she to him? Just some stranger, some girl he doesn't know.
And by the looks of him, he looks terrible. He's been hurt. Maybe by the wild animals here, she guesses. Give strong drink to him who is perishing, and wine to him whose life is bitter. Maybe he needs it to aid his pain, it's allowed in its medicinal properties. Lemuel's mother had pointed that out. ]
I'm sorry I snapped at you. I guess I've just been... kind of weird about alcohol since... everything.
cw: alcohol abuse
It is all she can conceive of, or at least all she can let herself conceive of. How could she do anything else after a lifetime of being taught so? How could he ask her to? He might as well demand she walk on broken legs.
There's no good end to denying her. He is a drunk, and worse besides, but to scorn her kindness would only make her believe she'd made some error in how she offered it to him. ]
Consider it forgiven. [ He forces his bleary eyes open. ] I required a reminder of propriety.
[ He's too conscious of his inebriation now. His queasiness and the laxness of his limbs weigh on him. Her accusation - as little as it was meant as one - that he cared enough to stop curdles in him. His voice comes out lower, controlled to uncommon softness. ]
Thank you for having the grace to tolerate my conduct.
no subject
Kate. [ She offers her name. He'd already given his. ]
People are... complicated. [ Her lips purse briefly, she worries the handkerchief in her hands a little more. ] I work with a Meals on Wheels programme, back home. It let me meet a lot different kinds of people.
[ The elderly, the poor, those who didn't know how to cook for themselves. People of different backgrounds and circumstances in need of help. Each of them having different reactions to the need to ask for help: shame, gratefulness, the realisation of loneliness. ]
I treat people how I'd want to be treated. [ Or she always tries to. In everything, do to others what you would have them do to you... She had always liked Matthew. ] Even if people don't treat me that way. Grace is... hard. But it's what people need, because life is a lot harder.
no subject
Her vocation also suits her. That does mean something. He imagines he could have guessed she was involved in some manner of charity from her devotion alone, never mind her patience with him added to it. Devout young women are invariably involved in some sort of ministry to the less fortunate.
Of course he's a hypocrite for bridling at being compared to the unfortunates she tends to. He's always been an ungrateful recipient of the charity he's taken advantage of, chafing at the trappings of faith it's served with, the piety baked into every crust of bread and boiled into every thin broth.
But her smile isn't pitying or self-righteous. It's as pale as the winter sunlight streaming through the dirty windows, and as softly illuminating. He smiles back before he can catch himself, a crooked, ugly thing by comparison. ]
If more people thought as you do, perhaps life wouldn't be. [ He says, quietly. ] I wonder, then, if I might impose on your kindness a second time. If you'd indulge me, miss.
no subject
Wouldn't that be kinda nice? [ It would, wouldn't it? But... it isn't, and she falls into a softer, quieter kind of melancholy — her gaze dropping for a moment. It's far easier to fall into that than not, these days.
But she looks up again, curious, frowning ever so slightly. There's a soft sound. Oh. She doesn't know what he wants to ask of her, but she's willing to hear him out on what it is. ]
Um, well, okay. [ A beat. ] .. What do you need?
no subject
When you're done with this, [ and he manages to keep this mild on his tongue, wonder of wonders ] go fix yourself a cup of tea.
The old man Methuselah should be able to accommodate. Then sit down with it, a crust of bread, and think of...whatever it pleases you to think of.
[ The request sounds even more ridiculous aloud than it did when he conceived it in private. He feels like an uncommon fool, a grotesque of well-intentioned tripe. He shifts in his pew, agitated at himself, at the world, at tea. ]
I've always found it more difficult to imagine myself in Hell with a warm drink and full belly. [ He mutters, avoiding her gaze. ] Which is why I take pains to avoid it.
no subject
I like tea, and— Methuselah's really kind. [ It's not an absurd ask, though. She... understands why he's asking this of her. 'You'd be better served reserving a measure of that kindness for yourself, instead of squandering it on drunks and the self-righteous.' There's a soft exhale. She isn't annoyed, though. ]
Okay. [ She nods, there's another brief smile. ] ... I can try to do that.
[ And she does promise to try. But he's not looking at her, even as she watches him. There's a long pause, considering for a moment. ]
... Do you mind if I ask you something?
no subject
Turnabout is only fair play. He's sure she isn't thinking of it in that sense, but it still makes the far corner of his mouth twitch. ]
You may treat me as an open book.
[ There's a sardonic lift to his slurring, not entirely unfriendly. He meets her gaze again with a light in his eyes that doesn't burn as uncannily as it can, at times. There's a shadow like gratitude behind it, all the acknowledgement he'll give to her promise to try. ]
no subject
Slowly gets to her feet, quietly moving out from the pew — crossing the aisle to stand at the end of his. She looks at him carefully for a moment. ]
Will you come with me?
no subject
It snaps shut as he scoffs, low and quiet, slumping back against the pew. His half-smile is wry and resigned. ]
How could I say no?
[ He murmurs, and there's a tinge of approval there. With that, he takes hold of the pew in front of him and drags himself laboriously to his feet, wobbling a touch on the way up. He considers retrieving his gin, and decides against it. He can come back for it at a later time. ]
Lead on, Miss Kate.