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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's not trust, exactly, but it's assessing a situation. One he feels is proven right once he hears that the man is merely burying the bodies out of some form of cultural respect.
Simon doesn't respond immediately. His eyes drift to the corpses and he feels a familiar twist of guilt. There had been plenty he has killed who had their own customs and cultures. Plenty of innocents too killed by others in the crossfire. War never left any room for consideration like burying someone properly. You just had to move on and hope you'd survive the next town over.
Too many bodies to bury, not nearly enough time, and not enough resources. You had to kill the part of you that cared. He winds up watching for a moment, not seemingly interested in helping, but his gaze is open and thoughtful. There's nothing else he's doing, so why shouldn't he do the one thing that he had failed to do more times than he could count?
With a sigh, he pushes forward and picks up a nearby shovel to bury into the frozen earth. It's grunt work, sure enough, but it's methodical and easy for Simon.
"Can't say I'm too fond of the ritual myself," he mutters, more conversational than anything. "You find my corpse and you burn it."
His gaze briefly shifts back to the Mandalorian, the silver mask, and he can't see his eyes but that's just fine. "What about you? Any requests you'd like to put in for the disposal of your body?"
no subject
His helmet tips in acquiescence to his request to burn his body. It's useful knowledge. There may be more deaths here.
The question catches his attention, and though Din doesn't stop shoveling, his head swivels to glance at the man, meeting his look. Though nearly fully masked, Din can nonetheless see his eyes, shadowed under his helmet. It's a curious choice, he thinks, to hide one's face but reveal one's eyes. He's covered head to toe in combat gear, and up close, he's even more of a mountain of a man than Din had realized. The mask doesn't look tactical, though. He doubt it would stop a bullet, and it's not sealed for environmental control. So, it's something cultural, then, or religious. The symbolism of the skull is definitely evocative.
"In my culture, we don't care what happens to our body. If our soul has already departed to the manda, our body is nothing but meat we leave behind," he replies, a thoughtful undercurrent to his voice. "I'd just ask that nobody claim and wear my armor."
He's... staring. He actually does that a lot, because he finds that intimidation factor that comes with it to be a useful tool. But this time he's staring because he finds the sight of the man... interesting.
"What name do you go by?" A pause, then, "Thank you. For helping."
no subject
He's always been more of the silent sort. Lurking about, soaking up information carefully. The man in metal gives plenty to learn.
"Manda your version of an afterlife?" Despite being raised Catholic, Simon had maintained exactly no religious sentiment or beliefs. He figured when the end came for him, it would be eternally dark. It was better than Simon deserved. Or so he believed.
"I'll be sure to hide it away then should it come to that." It's a simple promise - one he doesn't intend to have to carry out anytime soon. The man seemed capable enough and capable men rarely went down easy.
He can feel the man staring at him. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. God knows how many cadets gaped at Simon whenever he was lurking about. But this didn't feel like the terrified, curious stares of clueless youth. It felt like he was actually being looked at. His skin prickles a bit, but he ignores the feeling immediately.
"Ghost."
A name fitting of his appearance. A callsign that has long since taken place of any normal name people called him even outside of missions. He stops digging for a moment, resting his foot on the shovel's edge, finally looking at the man directly again. He shrugs at the appreciation.
"Seems like a job you're intent on getting done," he says, "Figure I've got nothing better to do."
So, why not help that stacked-out man in armor who probably didn't need the help to begin with?
"What do I call you?" And he still doesn't look away. Instead, he stares at the other man the way he's being stared at. Because Din is interesting to look at and truthfully, Ghost has never seen such armor before in all his days of service. He doesn't even bother trying to hide the exploration of his own gaze: eyes shifting from the man's head slowly down, all the way down, and then right back up, just as slow and calculating. Like Din, he has stared plenty of people down for the sake of intimidation, but also like Din, that's not why he's staring now either.
no subject
Din hadn't exactly expected to be talking about the Mandalorian version of an afterlife, and so he finds himself awkwardly stumped, not sure if he wants to go into detail with a stranger. It's not something that most non-Mandalorians know about; they're not a very open people, they tend to keep their culture close to their chest. But nobody here knows anything about his culture, and the idea is... isolating. There's no other Mandalorians here. Back in his galaxy, though they'd been nearly hunted to extinction, though his covert was wiped out and he was alone, he always knew he could find his people if he looked hard enough. Here, there is nobody.
Maybe one day he'll explain to him what manda is. But not today.
The offering a name has Din giving a small nods of thanks. Ghost. It is a good name. It says a lot about what the man thinks of himself.
Din's the first one to break the staring game, helmet swinging back down to look at the ground he's digging the shovel into. He's used to staring down criminals and seedy underground lords and the meanest predators his galaxy can offer. Something about those eyes in the black of the skull's eyesockets is catching him off guard, settling deep under his skin.
"I am a Mandalorian. You can call me that." It's a question he's gotten often since he came here, and this is the answer he has been giving. It makes his gut twist every time. Can he even call himself a Mandalorian? Does he have the right? Nobody here knows the sin he committed by removing his helmet.
no subject
At least until the man gives him a name. Only it sounds less like a name and more like a title.
"A Mandalorian? Quite the mouthful, that." He scoops out another chunk of frozen earth, tossing it aside. "Is that your rank or title?" He asks, and then a beat later. "I'm a lieutenant from my world. Most of my subordinates refer to me as such rather than Ghost. It's a military rank."
He's explaining it because he figures it would make sense to have to provide some context in this new world where people seemed to come from all over the universe. In truth, though, Ghost had no reason to share all of this information. What would it gain him except the opportunity to be understood by this Mandalorian fellow?
no subject
"We have lieutenants in my galaxy too." So, Ghost is military. That would provide an explanation for all the hardware, but he doubts that mask is regulation. As he's noted before, it doesn't seem to serve a protective or environmental purpose. The next question would be what kind of military, because where Din comes from, there's all kinds. Empire, Rebellion. Planetary, country regional. Small militias.
He gives a muted grunt as he hits a hard patch of earth, clay deposits making it hard to sink his shovel into. He just shoves it in harder, soil scattering as he tosses it onto the pile.
"Mandalorians have very few ranks." The Darksaber hilt at his belt suddenly feels very heavy. "To be a Mandalorian is to swear a creed to follow the Way of the Mand'alor. To uphold loyalty, strength, keeping our word on pain of death. It is both an ethnicity and a culture -- I was adopted into it when I was young." And that's about as simplified as he can make what is a very complex topic. He's not even getting into different Mandalorian sects.
A moment passes, and because he can't quite help his curiosity, Din adds: "What kind of military?"
no subject
Just like Din's world, Ghost's own was filled with a variety of militaries, and none of them were guilt-free. His eyes skirt back to the man when he hears the grunt, his body tensing up instinctually. As if he's ready to react, to help. He wondered how old the man was. He sounded about Ghost's age, but voices could be deceptive.
"Not going to slip a disc, are you?" He's only just met the man, but he has no reservations about teasing him in his usual deadpan fashion. He doesn't think too hard about how he rarely teases anyone, and how the last time he did, it was with a handsome mouthy sergeant.
And perhaps it has a bit to do with how serious the other sounded. Simon was dedicated well enough to his own people and his own cause, but it was less sentimental by a landslide.
"Were you an orphan then?" Maybe an invasive question, but if it was, then the man could tell him where to shove it. "Sounds like a good deal more honor than I'm familiar with. You like to think your fellow soldiers uphold the same value, but..."
He slams the shovel in particularly hard and there's the hot, familiar snapping of betrayal that sinks the shovel in far deeper than with his usual strength. He wrenches a chunk of dirt out and throws it aside, his eyes narrowing some. The recent betrayal was fresh enough that for a second, he couldn't speak at all, his tongue arched and pressed to the roof of his mouth. There's a bitter metallic taste at the back of his throat.
He keeps digging, working his anger and hurt out through the labor of shoveling, but eventually, he finds his voice once again. When it comes out, it's deeper and more guttural than before:
"British Special Air Service. I'm part of the military they call when they've run out of options. We work to combat terrorism, operate in hostage situations, and perform covert missions." He stops shoveling finally, taking a deep breath. "I come and go before anyone even knows what's happened."
Hence the name. Well, there were more reasons than just his expertise for his callsign, but that's neither here nor there.
no subject
It's not often that people tease him. Only the very few friends that he's made -- Peli and Vanth -- have dared crack wise at him. For someone to do so minutes after meeting him is... unusual.
The question makes his helmet tilt. "Yes." It's a brief, stilted answer because Din has to struggle his way through the memories that swamp him for a moment; the ozone smell of lasers, the shadows of thousands of ships crawling through the sky, bodies lining the streets, mechanical grinding and whirring from every direction. "The Mandalorian who adopted me was very kind." It's not much in the way of information, but it's not a topic Din really wants to expand upon while digging graves.
Ghost's own moment of silence catches his interest. His voice reeks of betrayal, that unique wounded fury that can sit so deeply in a heart. Obviously some of his own fellow soldiers had issues with loyalty. Din can't imagine how badly that must hurt.
Special squadrons are a thing that exist in his galaxy, too, so Ghost's job description is easy enough to understand. It's impressive, too, because those sorts of units are usually difficult to get into, accepting only the most elite. "You will be an asset to this town, then," Din notes. "We do not know what dangers we will face while we are stuck here. We may need your skillset eventually."
no subject
Maybe it was true. Maybe not. It didn't even matter because there was a leak of smug amusement spilling into Ghost's tone just in those two words. He rarely let his own humor come out around anyone these days. Maybe he was just trying to keep them both sane. Like he had with Soap after the betrayal. Surely it was the only reason he'd care to make a stranger feel amused.
The amusement disquiets appropriately at the mention of being an orphan. His own gaze becomes solemn and sincere, his own head bobbing in acknowledgment. In some fucked-up way, he envied the man. But he lectures himself just as quickly: being an orphan in any war-torn place was hardly a kind life. It was just another shitty hand of cards dealt to someone who shouldn't have to worry about that kind of thing.
"I'm glad for that. That they were kind," he says, and he's being completely sincere. He doesn't ask more. Out of respect and out of understanding as well. He wouldn't want anyone to pry too hard into his own childhood, so he effortlessly lets the subject go.
He scoffs quietly, shaking his head before looking at Din yet again. Even with a man who had his entire face covered, Ghost found it easy to maintain some weird form of eye contact.
"No matter where I go, there always seems to be a high need for killing. Most effective currency out there. In any world, apparently." He glances meaningfully around them. When his grave is about dug, he pats the body down for anything important before heaving it up rather effortlessly from the ground and dumping it right into the shallow grave.
"Wouldn't write yourself off yet either, Mandalorian." He begins to pull the pieces of frozen earth back over the corpse. "You seem a capable man. In more ways than just bloody." He nods to the graves. Compassion and respect were just as important, he thought, but far more rare to see in a place like this.
no subject
Because he truly has no idea what dangers this town might bring. So far he's seen glimpses of regular animals -- prey animals that dart out of sight whenever they're seen, and the predators that prowl behind them -- but nothing that Din would call a threat. But something killed all of these people, whether it was an external threat or internal. A bigger predator, or the town turning on each other.
Ghost's skills may come in handy either way.
(Briefly, he wonders at the genuine tone Ghost had taken when he'd said he was glad Din's adoptive Mandalorian parent was kind. Most people would say that's nice or ask further questions, but Ghost's response had been unusual.)
He hefts himself out of his own grave, and carefully places the frozen corpse into it. For a moment, he remains crouched beside the corpse, silent. He does not know what their belief in the afterlife was, or if they had one at all, but he takes a few seconds to silently wish happiness for their soul. He doesn't search them for useful items; he'd already done so earlier, and had turned up little.
As they shovel dirt back into the graves together, Din volunteers, "I'm a good tracker. That may be useful." He pauses, and then sounds irritated when he adds, "I have no idea what to expect here."
no subject
Ghost watches him with open wonder, leaning against his shovel. He wondered if the man was giving a prayer.
"Just tracking?" He assesses the man once again, but this time makes a point out of tipping his head fully to the side. And since they are done with their morbid task, he even takes a few steps towards the Mandalorian only to step fully around him in a slow circle.
"Seems to me like you probably have a few more skills than just that."
He huffs lowly, a sound not unlike a laugh.
"I like a little challenge. We'll have to keep in contact with our observations. You're living there, right?" he asks, pointing in the general direction of Din's humble abode. "I'm just there." He moves his finger and he's hardly a few yards from Din's own settlement.
"We'll be just fine if we cooperate."
no subject
He follows Ghost's pointed finger, helmet swiveling to gaze at Simon's cabin. It's far enough from his own that Din feels like privacy will still be intact, but close enough that they count as neighbors.
Hmm. Unusual. It's more domestic than he's used to. His way of living within coverts has never been what most would call traditional; this new way of living is strange to him.
But it will be good to have Ghost so close.
He nods, a concise action. "We should share intel of our surroundings. Between the two of us, we will be able to secure our perimeter just fine. I'm working on setting up some traps for small game -- I will share the locations when I do."
no subject
He's never really lived anywhere long enough to know a neighbor. He mostly lived on missions, and between those missions, at a base. Home wasn't a word he'd use for himself. Even now, he figured he'd be in and out of this place whether through death or whatever bizarre magic or tech brought him here in the first place.
"We can do that," he agrees with a nod of his own. "Appreciate it. Have you explored much of the town itself yet?"
no subject
Din shovels the last pile of dirt onto the grave, and sinks the shovel into the earth at the edge of it, standing it on its end. He turns to look back at the town -- from here it's easy visible, though at a distance, the town more clustered in the middle and more sparsely populated at the edges. If this were a covert he'd be right in the middle. Here, he feels better with some distance.
"I checked some houses for whatever I could scavenge, and the community hall," Din elaborates. "I have not yet had the chance to do a fuller survey."
That will be happening soon, though, because he'll need to get to know this town in order to defend his territory.
"Starting tomorrow I will be patrolling the perimeter." Din turns again, and nods at the bird's nest Ghost has been building in the tree nearby. It's not even visible from here, but Din had seen lugging supplies back and forth. "You're a sniper?"