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

laurent — captive prince trilogy

[wrists]

— hope nobody needs this anymore.

[ none of the homes are particularly desirable, but laurent still goes through nearly all of them to find one that’s less undesirable than the others — a sturdy little house at the end of a row, its chipped blue paint like little bits of broken sky dotting the outside.

he lets himself in, grateful for the reprieve from the incessant cold. it’s full of things completely foreign to the palace in arles, but it does have both solid and comfortable furniture — a couch with soft pillows, a little table in the kitchen covered in dust, a pair of wooden chairs with faded cushions on the seats. a short set of stairs lead to a pair of bedrooms and a large tub, and laurent throws open the closets to find them full of clothes. dry clothes that aren’t miserably caked with snow.

well. with no one to attend him, he begins the extensive process of unlacing himself of his garments, stripping off his cloak, boots, jacket, shirt, undershirt, and trousers. the first thing he swaths himself in is a large red sweater that hangs to his thighs, and he’s examining a pair of thick socks when he hears the sound of footsteps.

he snatches his sword and strides calmly from the room, holding it almost casually before him as his eyes sharpen. ]

Get out of my house.

— the siren.

[ his sword is lost to the lake, his grip slack, his fingers numb with cold. the woman’s wild eyes and tiny, bone-sharp teeth somehow are not the most frightening things about the situation, her body giving way to his strength and the hot burst of anger that she would attempt to murder him so boldly. he should be used to such things, and yet his ire has never failed him yet.

it’s the pull of the water that truly humbles him — dark, icy, dragging him down like a dozen prying hands. the cold shocks him, water flooding his lungs, his lips tinged a fragile blue. when someone forcibly grabs him, he doesn’t fight, dragged from the depths like a clump of wildflowers pulled from the dirt.

his mind lags in its attempt to race. he knows the sort of men that roam the wilderness. with gritted teeth, his aching fingers loosen the blade at his hip, his long hair clinging wetly to his cheek. ]

Come here, I have to thank you.

[ his words shudder with the cold, but he pushes himself to his knees and plunges his blade into the closest bit of flesh he spots through red-rimmed eyes. ]

— WILDCARD.

[ ooc: will default to brackets. laurent is a character that deals with csa and all the trauma associated with it, so pls proceed with caution if these are triggering subjects for you. ]

wildcard, arrival

[chokuto]

[The wind is furious, the cold is brutal, the dark is a smothering blanket over the world — and all of this would be fine if his body was not sealed like a tomb, useless, unresponsive to the barest necessity of chakra that survival demands of him now. Where he first woke, in a bare black cave somewhere on the outskirts of civilization, Sasuke found himself unprepared for the elements. He had only the clothes on his back, which were gratefully thick but not enough to protect him from the weather before he could reach aid and better supplies.

The odds are dire, a mercenary calculation he does in his mind with whole and realistic awareness. So he walks.

Choosing a direction is a gamble; it only pays off after a grueling period of time, as his eyes — dormant black — pick out the shape of a structure on the horizon, a speck of color in a sea of white. He heads for this. Soon, he can tell it's a manmade shelter, although badly degraded by an onslaught of ice and snow. A battered old shed. Planks of wood are missing in the walls and ceiling, cutting out dark holes, but it's standing. There's no other choice. He'll have to count his life on finding something inside.

... What he does not expect is someone, bundled in what appears to be a pile of threadbare blankets.]

Wake up. [His voice is urgent; all he can see is golden hair, a whole tangle of it, and it makes his throat close around an imperceptible feeling.] You can't stay here. You'll die.

cw mentions of csa

[wrists]

[ he tells himself that he's tired of the world changing, but maybe it's not change, inherently, that he's hiding from now, but the endless dark that seems to plague every corner of his life since auguste left it. it has been nothing but trusts broken and ironclad fear. one dogfight after another. all his lessons on the art of survival have been taught by skirting death.

he's tired. tired of being a pawn, tired of thinking ten steps ahead to avoid stepping into a trap. tired of the threat of his uncle's hatred and mouth and cock.

the cold has transcended into something else, something dreamy and almost comfortable. his lashes stick, frosty, as he opens his eyes and glimpses a familiar black stain. if his thoughts didn't feel so faraway, something like terror might've struck him at the sight. as it stands, he is just irritated. ]

Isn't that what you want?

[ at the mouth of the shed is a pathetic little assemblage of sticks, as if laurent had the thought to create a fire and progressed no further than that. ]

[chokuto]

[That voice confirms the sinking dread — an identity cold and crystal in his mind, the last time he heard it on a balcony a world away. It stops him at the flimsy door of the shed. The feeling in him coalesces, real fear now upon recognition of what this situation means. Life or death. Laurent seems content to die there, bundled in ratty blankets, unmoving.

Then Sasuke's eyes drift across the floor to find the barest vestige of what-could-have-been a fire. He gets to work immediately. It shouldn't be so easy — not out in the wilderness like this — but it's still a hundred times more difficult than if he wasn't so powerless. The sticks are reassembled properly; kindling is found in shreds of unused fabric left in a corner. He kneels, whittling precariously one-handed. His voice carries out mercifully even.]

If you believe that, you don't know me at all.

[It may be true. How well do they know each other? He leaves Laurent to decide for himself as silence falls in, disrupted only by the ominous howl of wind outside their barren shelter. It takes several minutes, but finally, finally — a flare of life in the pile of wood, a diminutive flame taking its first gasp of breath. Sasuke babies it gently, until it begins to grow stronger.]

[wrists]

[ he is not sure how the fire happens, and yet it happens, laurent watching between his slitted gaze, his puffs of breath languid. if sasuke could have called upon the barbaric magic that lives within him, he would have. laurent feels a swell of perverse joy at his misfortune, or maybe it's relief that sasuke will likely not be breaking his bones tonight. at least there's that. ]

Nobody wants to know you. [ laurent sounds bored. ] Not even yourself.

[ spite stirs him to move, if only to inch closer to the fire — but moving hurts. his whole body hurts. he is not happy to be awake, because now he's reminded of why he stopped here in the first place. going forward felt impossible at the time, and it still feels impossible now. ]

You like the wilderness. So go be in it. [ get out, leave, etc. ]

[chokuto]

[Dark eyes track Laurent's progress, abortive on its way to being beside the fire. The slow breaths are also another flag of warning. He hears the words, little knives intent to wound, but he does not let them distract him. There is a time for argument; it is not now, on the boundary of survival.

His head is so much clearer here, and he doesn't think it comes from the cold. He can take a full breath of air into his lungs without coughing. There is no blood, or illness, or the black malaise that had plagued him before.]

Are you giving up? After how hard you fought to stay alive against me, you'll surrender now? I'm disappointed.

[He stands, leaving his vigilant guard by the fire only long enough to reach Laurent, seizing the front of the bundled blankets to haul him closer, across the cold ground and toward warmth. His strength may be minimal, but in that state, he doesn't think Laurent will be able to stop him.]

[wrists]

[ everything in him recoils when sasuke takes hold of him, but his forced trek across the ground is over too quickly for him to muster up an adequate amount of strength to physically protest — and then he's near the warmth of the fire, grateful for the heat but saying nothing for it. ]

Your yellow-haired bitch isn't here to care about your disappointment. [ he'd only ever spoken to naruto once or twice, but he hasn't forgotten sasuke's affections for him. laurent's numb fingers make an attempt to seek out the knife hidden in his clothes, but he's clumsy, and so tired. ] Maybe he's out there, slowly freezing in this cold while you fuss over another who also doesn't want you. That's what you do best, isn't it? Kill everything you desire? It's funny to watch.

[ but even these words are difficult to push out, as if he's just reciting lines from a book. his hatred is real. the heat he needs to convince everyone else of this is lacking, banked by his aching numbness. if sasuke says anything in return, laurent has already chosen not to listen, his mind slipping to warmer places. ]

It gets this cold in Arles. [ his voice is much fainter, pitched lower for an audience of none. had it? this biting cold never swept past the palace walls, was never a match for auguste's fierce warmth. he shivers, the fire melting the frost at his lashes, his cheeks wet with droplets of water. ] Where's my uncle?

[chokuto]

[It's far from a kind suggestion Laurent has placed into his head. Of course he's wondered; sealed like this as he is, it would be impossible to sense either Sakura or Naruto in proximity. Still, his choices are limited in this situation. Returning to the wilderness is an option that might kill him — and would certainly kill Laurent, huddled here in this shed, alone.

He'll have to believe that either of the two will survive, if they do find themselves waking in this new dimension... They're both strong. No response rewards Laurent's cruel, targeted words; neither does he expect gratitude for bringing him closer to the fire. It becomes a waiting game — they will have to hope the storm outside weakens, and meanwhile, stay alive.

Dark eyes turn from their speculative stare through one of the holes in the wall.] He isn't here. [Sasuke's voice is hard, definitive, whether or not it's the truth. Strange that he feels a desire to say more. And if he was... What? Laurent would reject any and all aid, would spit in his face for it more likely.] Arles is your home?

[The name is new to him, as he's only heard Vere before.]

Fire Country rarely snows, and never like this. You'd have to go further north. [Speaking serves a purpose. It keeps both of them awake.] Do you prefer the cold?

[wrists]

[ it takes long moments to place his surroundings once more, ragged and ramshackle. not the gilded walls of the palace. does that make his chest loosen with relief? his brow knots. his uncle is not here. sasuke said so. he's not sure why he believes a word from his villainous mouth. ]

The capital of Vere. [ a small clarification, as if sasuke's confusion matters. the less sasuke knows about him, the better. he already knows so much, too much, agonies laurent will never get back. sasuke has no idea how much it costs to look him and know that he knows. laurent would like to close his eyes and never see him or anyone else again.

the question drifts in the cold air. laurent considers pretending not to hear, but something deep inside rouses him as if compelling him to stay awake. ]

I prefer it. [ he burns easily in the sun, turning as pink-cheeked as a primrose. ] If you prefer the summer, then why are you further from the fire than I am? I'm feeling amorous. I won't bite.

why are you like this you are the worst boyfrenemy

[giantanimal]

Laurent!

[Damen sounds more annoyed than upset.

It's very, very far from the worst injury Laurent has done him. Laurent is motivated by rage and fear rather than strength, and Damen has good reflexes, even after a plunge through freezing water. Still, Damen's not expecting it, and Laurent manages to cut a sizable gash in his arm. As he was trying to offer Laurent the dry cloak he'd left on the bank too.

After a pause, he adds:]

No need to thank me next time.

love him at his worst or you don't deserve him at his babygirliest

[wrists]

[ his fingers fall from the hilt of the blade at the same moment that he recognizes the voice, his eyes widening in childlike consternation for a fraction of a moment. the knife clatters to the ice, damen's blood a bright stain against white. ]

I won't. [ he won't thank him nicely, anyway. a quick inspection tells him that damen will not bleed to death anytime soon, giving laurent the freedom to collapse back onto the ice, the cold winds whipping around his soaked body like a dozen knives being driven into his flesh. ] I didn't kill her. She'll be back.

[ the unfortunate-looking woman with the sad song, ready to drag them both under. ]

Damen: my boyfriend is so sweet he's only tried to murder me a few times it's so cute

[giantanimal]

[Damen drapes the cloak around Laurent's shoulders anyway, tugging it over his arms. It will help cut out the worst of the chill. And keep his arms occupied with something other than stabbing Damen.]

I'm surprise she affected you so much.

[That Damen was affected is a surprise to no one--the woman he'd seen had been pale skinned with waves of blond hair and blue eyes. Not as blue as Laurent's though. The blond hair didn't shine as bright as Laurent's either. Now that her song isn't in his ears, he can't quite remember why he thought she was so attractive.]

Let's not be on the ice when she does. We should find shelter.

[For Laurent's sake. Because as long as Damen is paying attention to keeping Laurent alive, he doesn't have to think about how close his own teeth are coming to chattering, or how he can't really feel the pain from the stab wound. It's fine, though. If he could feel the pain, it would make it way more difficult to do what he needs to do to get through this.

He picks up the knife and, after a moment, slides it into his own belt. You lose knife privileges for now, Laurent. Next time, don't stab anyone.]

[wrists]

Did you think I was made of stone? [ he, too, can be affected by beautiful things. the song, not the woman. he just also knows how to think with his brain instead of with his cock, which is a trait damen often seems to lack, but bringing up jokaste and her obvious betrayal seems irrelevant at present.

he notices the knife slipped into damen's belt, and frowns. fine. he has another in his boot, resting against his calf, which he doesn't bring attention to. it takes a monumental effort to push himself to his feet, clutching at damen's cloak. ]

You're not used to the cold. [ laurent focuses not on his sopping clothes as he begins to walk, but damen's perceptible shivers. ] Winters in Arles are brutal. I presume in Ios you all wrestle in mud naked all year in the warmth.

[giantanimal]

[Damen shrugs and tries not to let the motion turn into another shiver. Now that they're moving, he'll warm up. He hopes.]

Actually, we use oil. We save the mud to build our huts and throw at enemies.

[He's not sure if the shivering is making his straight face more or less believable. Laurent's right about one thing: he isn't used to the cold.]

[wrists]

[ it takes a remarkable amount of restraint for laurent not to continue this insipid line of conversation, mostly because it would be easy to eviscerate every grating mention of akielon culture. why couldn't there have been anyone but damen standing on the ice in this moment? then again, at least the knife found a decent mark. ]

You use oil to fuck your mistresses and populate your country with more bastards. [ so much for restraint. ] We don't have to pretend otherwise.

[ maybe anger will keep them both warm. ]

[giantanimal]

Good to see your sharp edges haven't frozen and snapped off.

[Sort of. Then again, talking, even asinine bickering, will keep them awake and moving. Damen hasn't had much experience with the cold, but he knows that if they stop, if they rest or fall asleep out here in the cold, they very likely won't wake up.]

Do Veretians truly think every time a man and a woman fuck, the woman gets pregnant? There are ways to prevent it. Herbs one can take. Akielon women rarely get pregnant when they aren't trying to.

hope nobody needs this anymore

[fidior]

[ There is no rational explanation for any of it. This could be a dream — a continuation of a nightmare. The workings of a mind finally slipped into madness; he'd resisted it longer than most of the others had.

Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps it is Hell. The lieutenant allows himself some time to ache, and then to become numb, and then, finally, to carry onwards. Isn't it all he can do? All he's always done? He must continue, must not forget who he is, what he is. And so he begins to search this town that shouldn't exist, looking for his captain, for any of the men. They could be held in one of these abandoned establishments.

When he comes across them, he also searches the dead. But none of the frost-coated bodies are his men, or any men he recognises. Still, Edward continues to look. Shed after shed, home after home. Exhaustion weighs on him like a second skin sloughed and tugging, but he keeps going, on into another home that he tiredly assumes to be empty of life, same as the others (he'll still search each closet and cabinet that could be large enough to hold a man.)

He's coming up the stairs now, boots heavy against the old wood. An officer of the Royal Navy which set sail to the Arctic, his clothing is well-adapted to this climate, at least. Layers of sweater pad his frame beneath his long black woolen coat. His uniform cap rests atop dark tangles; despite everything, he wears it proudly. Secured to his back via a strap is his shotgun, recovered in that community hall.

There is someone with a sword, aimed his way. The lieutenant blinks, taken by surprise, hand moving to his own weapon's strap, but then— something in him pauses, and staggers. A man, young-looking. Not immediately recognisable, and he does not recall anyone with such long hair — almost like a woman's — but it's still possible he could be one of the ships' boys. Memory is a hazy fog within Edward Little. He lifts both of his gloved hands instead, expression wide and open. ]

Please, I mean no harm. You— live here? You are not from the Terror, or Erebus?

[wrists]

[ laurent does not live here, not in the way the man asks, but it's either claim this place as his own or return back into the miserable cold, and the decision is easy when he's been in the mindset of survival since his uncle's eye turned upon him. ]

I live here. You're trespassing.

[ his voice is smooth and easy, no underlying threat in his tone, but the faint smile that lifts his expression is anything but friendly. he takes his sword out of the man's face and proceeds to pull on his newly found socks, then straightens, closing the distance between them with silent steps. they're not that far off in height, though the man's boots give him the advantage here. laurent looks at him coolly, giving away none of his tension at being alone in such close proximity to a strange man who could do — anything to him. men in arles who've been out in the bitter cold think their cocks need tending to before anything else.

not that he would allow it. his sword dangles from his hand as he inclines his head. ]

Come with me. [ he moves past him like a rustle of flowers, descending the stairs. ] I have questions.

[ namely, about everything in the kitchen. the cupboards are filled with cans with pictures of food, a foreign concept, but he's hungry again. if this man can be useful, maybe he won't shove him out in the cold with his throat cut open. ]

[fidior]

[ There are more tells that this boy is not one of the two ships' boys, one of his boys (the clothing, a sweater that hangs so long like a dress, red — a brighter colour than any he has seen in years.) But desperation fuels him to ask, drives him forward, and then.... falters. He doesn't know what to do now. Once more, the first lieutenant finds himself stagnated. (A damnable offense. He is useless. Helpless. He deserves this Hell.)

And almost laughably a sight, he will follow the boy with an obedience. Not resisting at all, almost as though in a trance — turning to watch him pass by and drift down the stairs, and Edward steps down behind him, willing his heavy feet to step more lightly now. Truthfully, he is quite stunned, almost dazed. All of this continues to feel like some dream. And though some part of him stays tense and wary by the stranger who so immediately thrust a sword into his face, another part of him falters too easily. Softening, crumbling inwards, for he can't help thinking back to the boys of his ship, trying to be men, but as the years passed by he could hear them from the Officers' Quarters some nights, crying for their mothers.

Still, he gives the boy some distance, stays back several feet as he slowly follows him. ]

If there are any answers I can give, then I shall give them. [ It's almost ridiculously polite in such circumstances; but at his core, he cannot let that role go. Englishman, First Lieutenant, safe. He'll stay formal until the day he dies; he will not become like those other men. He will not become an animal. ]

And then I shall take my leave. I did not know anyone was living here... I apologise.

[wrists]

[ truthfully, dressing like this is unusual for him, but so is dressing himself at all. at the palace he had attendants to lace him up into his severe, fitted clothing, always covered from throat to booted foot. but his clothing will take some time to dry out, and he's not going back upstairs to change with a stranger in this place.

a stranger who follows him without complaint, which is curious but convenient. it's also suspicious, but laurent is suspicious of everything. the terror or erebus, both names that laurent does not recognize. could they be places?

he brings them to the kitchen and is even kind enough to pull out a chair, though he gestures for the man to sit and makes no move to join him at the small table. he sets his sword at the counter, within easy reach. laurent does not advertise his skill with it. he's found it's always served him better to let others believe his usefulness does not extend beyond ornamentation.

but his skill with the blade notwithstanding, his skills in basic tasks such as feeding himself are sorely lacking, especially when whisked away to a foreign place. he opens the cabinet and plucks out a can with a picture of a fish on it. after further examination, he also picks up a can with something like the tomato soup that the chefs at the palace used to serve with fresh bread and soft cheese.

he brings both cans to the stranger and sets them down loudly, his eyes crystalline, the color of blue glass. ]

How do you get inside these? [ the shapes are smooth with no lid to pry open. he'd considered slicing them in half with his sword but thought he might ask first. ]

cw: mentions of lead poisoning / effects of

[fidior]

[ It all continues to feel like a dream, and Edward continues to let it play out. There is no thought to run, or to threaten this boy; he will not. He would never. (He would let himself be run through first.)

But hopefully, violence can be staved. The sword is set aside, even if not too far from its owner. Edward slips his own gun from his shoulder and sets it down on the ground, and takes the offered seat. He watches the younger man, his own dark eyes following what is extracted from a cabinet and set before him... and he stares.

Cans. Although a bit different from what he'd be used to, smaller and thinner and with pictures he's not seen, Little sits there, freshly stunned. It's.... almost laughable, except no part of him has the desire to laugh. Rather, there's a twist up under his sternum, and it aches to breathe. It must be Hell, for him to be asked such a thing. It must be Hell, for he was one of the few who ever knew the truth about what was in those cans being fed to those men. One of the few who knew to eat less of it, and that is why he did not degrade like the others. His teeth did not soften and fall from blackened gums, his scalp did not bleed. He did not lose himself to madness. No, his fate was a different one: to remain. To be left knowing what he'd done.

Is this fair-faced thing an angel, then? Come to test him in his final hours? Or perhaps a devil; perhaps The Devil, blonde and sweet. Edward stares, chilled through to his core, and when he speaks, it's with a quiet shudder. He won't run from this, but he still fears it, and he can't hide that fright. ]

Fair wraith.... you mean to test me. Certainly, I deserve it. But if it's my soul you've come to take, go, take it. I will not resist you.

[ ...Sir he literally just wants you to open the cans, you sound insane right now. ]

this man... i'm crying

[wrists]

[ laurent is expecting — hoping for — a straightforward answer. not garbled nonsense. but this man is at his wit's end, perhaps in shock from the cold or from whatever sighs witnessed on his trek here. the kind thing to do would be to offer him a resting space — and there is space. not in the bed upstairs, but in the perfectly usable sofa within sight if he turns his head.

if he was a child, he would do it. but he's not. he's a man. a large one, a strange one, and an armed one.

laurent has been called everything under the sun, but fair wraith is new. ]

Your soul is worth that much, that someone would want to steal it? You must be an important man.

[ laurent regards him for a moment with a blank expression, then turns back to the drawers to rummage through them. he did the part of asking. now he returns with a knife, one of many stocked in the kitchen, and brings it down point-first upon the first can with startling precision. it slices into the metal top, the table shuddering with the force, a fishy smell filling the air as liquid leaks onto the wood.

he saws straight across the top, carefully, the fine bones of his wrist flexing. there's a mess on the table when he's done, but the can is jaggedly sliced open to reveal an unappetizing pile of shredded fish. laurent looks down at it. ]

Taste it. [ if he dies, then he knows not to eat it. ] Your soul should be able to handle it.

I'm so sorry for him... Pathetique / cw for mildly gross descriptions of eating tuna

[fidior]

[ Edward is a sensible man, at the core. This— this really is unlike him, to sit here and see something Other, to perceive it in that way. Some part of him surely even knows he's projecting — casting his own horrors into the face of this innocent.

But even the most sensible of men will certainly see a vision skewed, when subjected to this. This... impossible town, this impossible situation. His own state is not in the best of sorts; he may not have begun degrading to the severity of some of the other men, but he is nothing that could be considered well. He shudders quietly as he sits there, as though suffering from some illness. He does fear this thing, as much as he accepts it.

...As much as its words strike like ice through the soul of him. Edward draws in a soft breath, then releases it in a shuddery exhale, broad shoulders tensing, and then staying like that. 'You must be an important man.'

He was. Now he's nothing. He can only sit there in silence as his strange companion fetches a knife, staring mutely at the display. Through it all, there's some dulled sense of surprise — the can top so easily punctured..... Cans of his time are so much more severe, unable to be pierced this way. Something unsettles him deeply to the fact this being is able to expose what's within so quickly, and the fever dream continues.

He stares down at the can, nostrils flaring slightly as anxiety pools through him. 'Taste it.' So it is a punishment... and a fitting one. Still, he's afraid, afraid to ingest the poison within (there is no poison within, Edward), afraid of the consequence. He fears that the most, he knows: gore and pain, punishment and ache. He fears his insides festering, fears losing himself in that way.

But he reaches for the can, fingers wrapping around it. The smell is pungent, but fresh in a way food has not been for him in so long. Even now, his body reacts to it — stomach grumbling loud and fierce like a beast, like it has a will of its own. The man winces, eyes wet, and tips the thing to his mouth.

He swallows more than chews, chunks rubbing the walls of his throat unpleasantly, but he doesn't stop. Not until nearly half of it is gone. Only then does he allow a break, can placed back down on the tabletop, taking heavy breaths. He looks up to the boy, moisture leaking from one eye, down into the tangles of an overgrown sideburn. That obedience remains— ]

Do you desire me to have more?

hope nobody needs this anymore

[marynka]

( what is she supposed to be scared of this twink

she isn't not expecting the house to be occupied necessarily, it just takes a minute for her brain to catch up that she can't just kill whoever's inside and take their heart for a delicious snack. they might not even be a prince. only — her brain lags behind enough that she's already indoors once she thinks better of the plan, and by then she has to double down because someone has witnessed her. she isn't backing down. she's obviously intended this all from the beginning, duh.

on her shoulder rests an oversized scythe, like a painting of a grim reaper — if the grim reaper had to be a young lady dressed obnoxiously in the brightest colors of red she could find, with snow stuck in a lopsided braid down her back. she wiggles her fingers in greeting, as if it matters whether you're nice to humans or not. )

Why? You're not even wearing pants. ( after a beat, she tosses up a hand to cover her eyes, appalled. ) You're not even wearing pants! Ew!

the siren

[although]

Oh. Great.

( had darlington not spent an extended vacation in literal hell, he might've been a bit miffed about getting stabbed in the gut. as it is, stabbings are basically how demons say hello to each other, so — hello to you too, laurent. after an extended bit of the unending pain of torture, a little stab wound doesn't get anymore than a furrowed brow, and his fingers poking the skin sucking the knife from laurent's grip. when he steps back, the blade comes with him, like a souvenir marking the one time darlington tried to do something nice for someone else.

the wound not healing feels like a problem he should deal with. logically, he knows it would be an embarrassing death to bleed out here, in front of a stranger, after everything. illogically, he thinks it's kind of funny to pull the knife out and wave the bloodied thing around, flamboyantly. )

If you stab me I get to keep it. That's the rule.