singillppl | August 2023 Test Drive Meme

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

ARRIVAL

[ There is nothing like the cold. It becomes you. You become it.

Edward wakes with something's voice echoing deep in his bones and a shudder rippling through his skin. Immediately, he is thrown off-guard, startled into numb disbelief. He stands in a small, dark structure: one that is..... impossible. There is nothing like this to be found, no place with four walls to seek shelter within. They abandoned the ships long ago, walking until they couldn't, setting up tents. There was— nothing like this.

He comes out of his stupour, wrenches himself forward. He looks around, looks for anything, but there is no fire and no food (he picks up plates with trembling hands, searching each one, stomach curling at the sight of mould and at the horror of himself, the immediate yearning to eat what rotten film remains anyway). Edward Little takes a step back, heavy boots drawing out a resonating creak from the wooden floorboards below, and the ache draws moisture to his eyes. He knows this place has been abandoned.

He could remain here for a time, and something in his heart longs to, to stay within the space that feels like a home the way nothing has in three years, but this space is no home. It is safe from the elements, but it provides nothing more than that. And the men..... He has to find his men. His captain. (He gives a quiet gasp as memory comes seeping in, a cruel beast; what has he done?)

Edward reaches for the uniform cap that lies on the floorboards, near where he woke. He presses it down over dark tangles, and steps outside, into the cold. He is, at least, well-equipped for this particular environment in his lieutenant's garb of the Royal Navy, high-collared sweater and vest beneath a long black uniformed coat, thick and warm.

He walks, slow and searching. He stays quiet; there are enemies not far from here (or where he thinks "here" must be), and he has no gun yet with him, he must be careful. But it feels like a nightmare, surreal, to be so alone. Where are the others (the few with him, the ones marching forwards, unable to look back at what they were leaving behind?) Something must have happened, and now he... he is alone.

But it's as he finds a trail (again, this is impossible; there are no paths in the bitter Arctic, nothing to follow) that Edward spots the shape of life and movement, and he almost cries out. Both hands (wrapped in a pair of warm fingerless gloves) come up to show that he has no weapon, and he freezes where he is, tension wound tight. He knows what desperate men will do, and that his appearance may elicit immediate fright, inevitably violence, from the particular group he thinks lies in wait; from his position, he at first sees only a threat, one he must quickly extinguish. ]

Hold your fire! I am unarmed!

METHUSELAH'S FEAST
CW: HEAPS OF DISSOCIATION

[ It can't be real. Perhaps this is death, and if it is, it can only be Hell. Edward stares, wholly floored. Somehow, impossibly, he has found himself at a refuge with many others — a place of life, warmth, and....... food.

It can't be real, and his instinct and everything that comprises him tells him to be cautious; he approaches warily, stunned, thick brows knit and features tight with worry and ache rather than any initial relief (Edward please take five seconds to relax....) Slowly, he moves through the building, searching the faces of the wounded and lingering for any sign of Crozier or the others. He doesn't trust this.... any of it, and he finds himself wanting to resist whatever call, whatever pull, this must be underneath its warm exterior. There shouldn't be warmth here. Perhaps he has lost his mind.

But his body still seeks to live. To survive. Isn't that the true horror of it, how long a person can remain, even when parts of them have blackened and fallen away? Edward has lived among the walking dead for longer than he can say, now. And it isn't long before even Lieutenant Little's obstinate wariness and brooding can't suppress the gnawing thing that lives inside of him. Hunger, one that has been his constant companion, and it stretches its mouth open and demands him forwards. He takes a bowl into his hands, wide-eyed in his disbelief, thinking it must be some mirage, some insincerity, a trick. He moves to sit away from others, dark and silent in a corner of the space, holding the bowl in his lap. Staring down into it.

After an unknown amount of time slowly passes by him, the lieutenant begins to eat, but still it's slowly. Tears of shame and disbelief and pleasure all mingled into one well up in his eyes, and his heart aches unbearably, while his stomach churns. The warm food hurts to eat, after so long without it. He can barely taste it, this dream. Edward sits there in a chair like that, eating so stiff and strange and unhappily, eyes held wide, and it begins to feel as though this moment is happening to someone else. He's no stranger to that sensation, that detachment. ]

THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

[ He is no longer hungry, by now, having eaten so morosely, and now his belly is full and his guilt has swollen with it. Restless, searching, still confused, Edward wanders and continues to search for the others (above all else, perhaps he fears being the one left, the last. Truly and utterly alone.)

But there are other fears in him, and this white world holds them. The fear of the unknown, the supernatural, and always he is on alert for The Creature. He'd found his shotgun back in that dining hall, as though it had been brought there for him, and though perpetually suspicious, Edward wasted no time strapping it to his back. Now he's searching through shacks out near the ice for more ammunition when he hears.... something. Singing, a woman's voice, an unnatural sound; how long has it been since he heard the song of a woman?

But this song is not for him. Not just now. There's someone else (you!) who has been ensnared by her calling, and as Edward rushes from the shack, he only sees a glimpse of the being for himself (a flash, not enough time to perceive her as his own maiden) before she's moved to take her victim. A person out there on the ice, being... attacked by the woman (the thing? He isn't sure, but she thrashes against the poor soul like an animal.) A bone-deep terror freezes Edward in place for several seconds before he moves to act, lifting his gun and firing. He isn't aiming directly at the creature, still mostly perceiving it as a woman; he can't. But then the thing lifts its head to snarl at him, exposing that awful circle of needle-teeth, and woman becomes monster. The next shot comes from trembling hands; he only grazes the side of her (still cannot bring himself to shoot directly at the thing), but it's enough to send the entity away.

He barely has time to process anything, finds himself rushing out towards the ice, heavy boots crunching dangerously against its precarious surface. The person is slipping under, and Edward kneels, thrusts his gloved hand to them, holding steadfast and tight. ]

Hold onto me! I have you!

WILDCARD / ETC

^{Feel free to hit me up at horreur or pm! I'm also just fine with prose if that's your preference.
For any potential canonmates, I'm pulling Edward from epsiode 10 / right after he decided to Follow The Captain's Orders, u get me :')}

Edited 2023-08-10 12:27 (UTC)

[Unlike Edward Little, Edward Kenway did not come prepared for the cold. He'd come straight from death, and when he died, it had been in his trousers and house shoes. He has found a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket, so that's at least keeping the chill off his neck for the time, and he's mostly just stumbling toward the road with the grim look of a man determined to not die (again) to the cold.

When he hears another man's voice, he perks up, and gives a laugh that might, perhaps, be tinged with a hint of hysteria. He's had a rough few hours, he can be forgiven for sounding and looking like a madman.]

That'll be quite the feat, with no pistol to fire with! [Kenway staggers forward onto the road, having tied the blanket around his neck in such a way that it serves as something of a makeshift cloak.] Spare a coat, by any chance? I'm afraid I'm ill-prepared for the winter.

[ It isn't the first time Edward (of the Little Variety) has heard a laugh tipped towards something that feels like fingernails touching against the most sensitive parts of his spine, eliciting an unpleasant tremour. It's an unnerving sound, to hear a laugh where one shouldn't be — what reason is there for mirth, out in a place so cold and cruel?

But he knows why such a sound can split the silence of the air, and it is not mirth that fuels it. Although he does not know this stranger, Edward's thoughts immediately tip towards a certain caution. It's so fresh within him, his own horrors witnessed, what men can be capable of. He has seen brotherhood torn, teeth bared, atrocities unimaginable committed.... humanity lost.

The lieutenant tenses back as the other approaches, wary of that staggering posture, and his hands stay up. But it's easy to see that the other man truly is not armed, and doesn't have much of anything, barely dressed at all, certainly not for this environment (is he some sort of castaway? Perhaps a prisoner? Clearly a ruffian — though if it weren't for his formal attire, Little's state could fairly be perceived as something of a ruffian, himself.) Edward stares, cautious but torn. He knows, too, what can happen to a man's body when exposed to this frigid cold. It doesn't take long. ]

Wait right there, [ Little calls in what is meant to be an authoritative tone, though he feels anxiety tighten in his throat. He isn't unfriendly or aggressive, just guarded, eyeing the man as though he's a wild animal. ] Where have you come from?

Edited 2023-08-10 17:32 (UTC)

[Back in the bad old days when he was traipsing around the West Indies hunting for a fortune, Edward used to pull stranded, shipwrecked sailors out of the sea. Not all of them made it, for the reasons why he’s begging for a coat from this stranger right now: too long spent adrift, out in the cold, with little to protect them from the elements save the clothes on their back and their own luck. Kenway knows just as well as Little does—it doesn’t take long at all.

But he raises his hands in surrender, to show that he means no harm, and tugs his makeshift hood back as well so Little can see him better. He shivers again, as the chill bites at his face.]

I was born in Swansea and I made a home in London. [His voice is dry but his wit is still quick and friendly. He doesn’t want a fight, not right now, when he’s wearing little more than a blanket and Little has a coat that Kenway sorely needs.] I reckon that’s not what you were asking, though, so—I woke up in a cabin, not far from here. All I found was this blanket.

[He lets his hands drop, looks Little over. A man of the Navy, Kenway thinks—one of some significant rank, although he can’t quite be sure what. Wherever he was, though, it was already bloody cold, since he’s brought a coat along with him.]

I mean you no harm, mate. [His teeth chatter from the cold, and he quickly flips his hood back up, mostly just to protect his face from the chill wind.] I don’t even have anything I can do harm with.

Edited (mixed up place names, fixed it) 2023-08-10 19:10 (UTC)

[ Woke up in a cabin — it's familiar, impossibly familiar.... Are they the victims of some foul play? Perhaps drugged and left in those small abandoned places, but why....?

Little hesitates, giving the man his focus as he listens with sincerity to his words. To wake in this landscape with nothing but a tattered blanket.... his body aches at the mere thought, and he thinks of all the men who have had to have parts cut off from them as their bodies froze and rotted away. (Not him. He has lost no fingers or toes, he has been kept warm longer than most others, as first lieutenant. Neither have his teeth loosed and fell from his skull, for he's known about the tainted food longer than the other men, been avoiding eating the worst of it. He has not begun to degenerate the way they have. The guilt stays in him like a living beast, scraping its claws against the lining of his belly.)

Edward stares, uneasy in the face of this man pleading for— for warmth. That's all he asks for, isn't it? But Little's nature remains suspicious; this could be a trick, somehow this man may have.... joined up with Hickey and his men, may mean to rob him of his warm clothes the second he lets his guard down.

(What else can he do? Walk away from him? Leave him to meet a gruesome fate, one way or another? He won't survive long like that, with his core largely exposed; he needs padding.)

Little's head turns slowly to one side and then the other, searching the white abyss for any signs of an ambush. But there's nothing, not unless Hickey's men are hiding beneath the snow itself. Perhaps it's foolish. Perhaps he will be killed for this. (Perhaps it's what he deserves.) The lieutenant begins to peel his coat from his body. Though parting with extra warmth brings him no joy, his clothing beneath is still quite warm, doubles of layers, England's finest. This is the only way both of them have a chance at surviving this place.

Little hesitates a moment longer before he nods his head slightly and reaches to hold the coat out to the man. Even with the coat, he'll likely be cold, with those pants and shoes, but... but it might still save his life. ]

Here. Button it up quick, so your core can get warmed.

[For a brief moment, Kenway finds himself tensing up as Little looks around their surroundings, as if trying to catch out anyone lying in wait. He almost wants to shake the fellow, but manages to restrain himself from doing so both by force of will and also by necessity—he really, really needs that coat. He won’t survive long with just this tattered blanket. Still, he shifts from one foot to the other, restless, shivering.

It’s an odd thing, to hope he seems so pitiful that someone gives in to his request. Usually he relies on intimidation, something he learned from Blackbeard in the bad old days. Years ago, now. He wonders at how it feels like a lifetime ago, like the man who'd known Blackbeard is a different one from who he is now. Then Little starts to peel his coat off, and Kenway breathes out a relieved sigh.

He takes the coat with no small amount of gratitude, and buttons it up as quick as he can, with his fingers trembling from the cold. It helps, much better than the blanket ever did, and between this warm coat and the tattered blanket he looks vaguely more like a rugged survivor now than the shirtless madman from five minutes ago.]

Thank you. [It’s sincere, and relieved. Kenway truly was not looking forward to having to trudge through the snow with only a blanket for warmth. He’s still not looking forward to it, since he’s only wearing house shoes, but he’s not about to ask Little for his boots as well.

He’ll just have to make do with what he does have, and hey, in the long run, house shoes are better protection than nothing at all. He fiddles with the sleeves, looks at Little with a slight, tired smile.] My name’s Edward. Might I know my savior’s name?

Edited 2023-08-11 14:34 (UTC)

Edward Little | The Terror

arrival

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

arrival | cw: some minor suicide ideation

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

feast

cw: some mention of lead poisoning / effects of

no subject

no subject

no subject

arrival

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

feast

no subject

no subject

no subject