August 2025 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

AUGUST 2025 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals 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 — and the current inhabitants, their fellow survivors.

PROMPT TWO — IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE: Interlopers take a walk through the woods, and discover who they are as a person in this Quiet Apocalypse.

PROMPT THREE — BEACHED: A threat emergences from the sands of The Coast, threatening to drown Interlopers in a tarry grave.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-month.
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.

These are the words of the Darkwalker, you’ll soon come to find.

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. This place has been ransacked, abandoned long ago. 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.

The sun is bright, enclosed in light fog. It is a strange kind of twilight.

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.

Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilization...?

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. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People! In the town!

As you head into the outskirts and then 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, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people. Several dozen at most, but no more.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail 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.

“Ah. Once more, you poor souls come.” he nods gravely. No, this is not the first time that this has happened. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you, Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”

The room is dim, lit only by 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, and while it seems there's a few people already living here, there's enough space for those in need of them. There's places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas, mostly. But some coffee can be found. There’s also soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast for those who have battled the cold to come here.

Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks — aided by a handful of others in the Hall. Your fellow survivors, but those who have been here for some time now. 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 will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the town and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but gesture to your fellow survivors. They will have better answers than him.

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE

WHEN: The month of August.
WHERE: Everywhere…?
CONTENT WARNINGS: amnesia memory loss; skeletal remains of animals and humans; themes of honesty; themes of deep/thoughtful conversations/self-realisation; mention of eye-injury/body horror.

You do not remember falling asleep. You open your eyes to find yourself lying in the snowy undergrowth of a burned-out wood. The scent of charred trees hangs in the air, a little petrichor. The world is cold and empty and dead. The sky above you is a pale lavender-grey, a strange half-light gloom and a mist drifts around you. The stillness is not peaceful. Instead it feels like a sense of loss.

You do not remember your name. You do not know who you are.

There are only two things you do know: this is the ending of all things, and you must find out who you are.

When you look down, there are shapes in the snow and dead undergrowth. You reach for them, only to find the things you reach for— bones. Animal. Human. Scattered, half-bleached by the elements. You may be filled with horror, loud and jarring. You might be filled with sorrow. You might be filled with indignant and defiant rage. You might even be filled with something muted and quieter, something like resignation. Because, after all: this is the ending of all things.

You don’t recognise this place, nor do you know where you’re going but you still move forwards — picking any direction and hoping for the best. You trudge through the snow, looking for… answers. Even if you don’t know what those answers will be.

You find another, equally lost as you. Someone else who shares the same situation: not knowing they are and only knowing the same two things as you do. You walk for a while, trying to work it all out. But the woods are endless, and no matter which direction you head in, the burned and blackened trees never seem to thin.

Out of nowhere, a woman’s voice drifts through the trees: What kind of survivor are you?

The question settles on the air. You look at your companion, speechless for a moment. But if you take a little while, the words will come. The truth of yourself: what kind of survivor are you? And you’ll talk with your companion, talking about yourselves like it’s so new to you. You speak honestly. There are no lies here. You begin to remember a little more. A memory, an event, an instance. What kind of survivor you are. You will get your first answer.

Soon enough, another question will come: When you lost everything you knew and loved, how did you keep breathing?

Once again, the words will come. Between yourselves, you will answer and find the answer about yourself — speaking the words as if you are breathing life into your very existence. And more questions will come, giving you and your companion plenty to talk about.

The third question: Do you survive for yourself alone, revelling in the solitude? Or do you hunger for a connection, seeking out others?

The fourth: Do you settle into the silence, and embrace it? Or do you crawl into it whimpering and it crushes you?

The final question: Who are you and how will you face this Quiet Apocalypse?

You remember who you are now, don’t you? Your name. What kind of person you are, what shapes and guides you.

A woman stands before you in the woods. She is dressed in furs. She is gaunt, exhausted — her left side of her face is black and withered, her eye absent from the socket. Her other eye is blue and sad. She looks proud, and she smiles. This is Enola, the First Interloper.

“I see you.” she says softly.

With the blink of an eye, you are no longer in the woods but wherever you last remember being. Your companion is no longer with you, but you’ll find them again soon enough.

BEACHED

WHEN: The month of August
WHERE: Beaches/shorelines of The Coast, Silverpoint.
CONTENT WARNINGS:

The shorelines of the Northern Territories’ Coastal Region have been a boon to those who live there, thanks to the many opportunities for beachcombing and the occasional crates of random goods that will wash up on the shore from long-forgotten ships, along with regular fishing opportunities. However, in the month of August, there's a strange kind of emptiness to the beaches that even keeps some of the locals away. Interlopers who speak with Molly and Jace will be told that something about the beach creeps them out.

Jace in particular will mention that he has seen strange footprints in the sands made of tar. While he’ll point out where he’s seen them from a distance, he doesn't recommend Interlopers going to check it out. It’s bad vibes, and generally when that sort of thing goes down it’s best to stay away.

But he can't exactly stop anyone who wants to go see what the fuss is about.

Interlopers who go to explore the beaches will feel overcome with the strange sensation of hollowness; like something has clawed away at you from the inside. Some may describe it as a sense of sorrow or grief. Others might describe it as a strange kind of inner-disconnection. Some may describe it as a kind of stillness, the kind that comes after death, or standing in an empty room after someone has just left it.

The feeling is small at first but the longer an Interloper spends time on the beach, the bigger that feeling grows.

Interlopers who followed the footprints of tar in the sand after an extended period of time on the beach will notice that the footprints will actually be actively moving. You will see them being made in real time. Soon enough, the footprints will start to turn and walk towards the Interloper. They never hurry, but make a beeline at a steady pace — easy enough to outrun, but will catch the Interloper if they’re not careful enough. If the footprints catch up to them, they'll soon find out just exactly what is lurking within the sands.

Figures burst forth from the tar, writhing and scrambling towards you. A mass of several of them, a mob. The beings look human, but are twisted and distorted, and appear to be entirely made out of the tar. Their eyes are green and smoking, their hands are sharp and clawed. However, they’re extremely solid, as if they are a person after all. They hiss and shriek, trying to grab at you in hopes of pulling you down into the tar that pools and floods around them.

You can shake off one or two of them but let enough of them swamp you, and you’ll be dragged down into a tarry grave — never to be seen again.

The beings can be fought off — guns and bows can keep them back but won’t hurt them. Flames work well on them, too. If they manage to claw at you and draw blood, the blood itself will actually be harmful to them and they’ll cower away from even a few drops. Fighting them off will have them retreating back into the sands, leaving nothing but a pool of tar behind.

Leaving is also absolutely an option, if you can get off the sand itself and back onto land. The beings will not follow and seem to be stuck completely on the beaches.

But the experience will leave you feeling emotionally raw in the days that follow. Interlopers will be left feeling hollow, but spending time around others will have the feeling fading and you’ll feel like your usual self again.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. 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.

3. 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.

4. 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. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE

1. Interlopers are compelled to speak about themselves honestly — describing who they are as a person, using the questions provided. They can talk about canon experiences or simply share their own thoughts about themselves concerning the question.

2. While they will find bones, there is nothing else living in these woods. There will be nothing they will be able to glean from the bones.


BEACHED

1. While the claws are sharp enough to cut an Interloper, the beings aren't aiming to maim — they're simply trying to grab hold of the person to drag them down into the tar.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

QUESTIONS

[singmod]

Ask them here.

mike wheeler ❯❯ stranger things

[micycle]

(( ooc: I'm playing this loser with CRAU from another game, and you can find all that info ✨right here✨. Contact me by PM with any questions.))

𝒊. 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍

[By the time his voice starts to run out, he's been shouting for a good half-hour, in names and pleas that have turned nearly wordless from gradually numbing lips. Mike was lucky enough to be wearing a sweater when he left, dressed for another world gone cold even in summer; the air on his exposed skin feels like an Indiana winter, enough that he doesn't question where he's wound up. The when is a different question entirely. Last he remembered, it was the Fourth of July back home.]

Hey! [He finally pulls his hands down from where they've been cupped around his mouth, sticking them under his armpits instead.] Can anyone hear me? It's fucking freezing!

[It's bad enough that the wind is cold, honestly, and it just adds insult to injury that it's starting to blow right into his eyes. Further insult is the stiff throb of his leg; he'd be using a branch as a crutch, if only he could reach them on the towering pines. He squints and shuffles through the dense forest - and completely misses the root sticking up in front of him. The thing pulls his shoe right off, and nearly six feet of gangly teenager goes right down on his face.

If you aren't lucky enough to catch sight of the crash, you might hear the aftermath: a furious string of sputtered curses. He just lays there for a short while, letting the anger seethe before he tries to push himself back up. And when he finally catches sight or sound of someone approaching, they're no more immune to his anger: ]

Jesus, now someone shows up?!

[Enjoy dealing with one (1) pissed-off teenager. He's your responsibility now.]

𝒊𝒊. 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕

[He's not eating the rabbit. Like, he's not some kind of activist, but really. Do they not have normal animals in Canada? Chickens, or something? He sits in front of his full plate, half-mourning pepperoni pizza in the back of his mind, and continues his line of questioning.]

Like, this tall- [A three-fingered hand leveled against his cheekbone, to demonstrate.] -and brown hair. Shorter than mine, and straight. He was, uh- wearing a plaid shirt?

[If he's not trying to ask after his friend, he's needling you about ever-impossible escape. There's a wild intensity to him, barely quieted in the busy community hall.]

Aren't there, like, boats? Or steam trains? [Like, like, like, duh.] Has anyone even tried to leave?

[And if he's neither asking after his friend nor insulting the Interlopers' willpower, he's hobbling around to look in whatever cabinets he can find, squinting in displeasure the contents. He doesn't even turn when he feels someone come up behind him.]

Do you guys have any Advil, or something? Or did that not survive the apocalypse either?

[Look. When he's frustrated, he lashes out. And he's beyond frustrated now. Don't take it personally.]

ii

[desperate_times_right]

[Chloe has no such compunctions — she's eaten far worse here than rabbit — and she's picking the last of the meat off the bone when she finally gets sick of this kid’s complaining.]

Do you really think there’d be so many of us here if there was a way out? We’re not hanging out in this hellhole for our health, kid.

I

[meadqueen]

[The woman who finds him might be a bit less surprising to him than she has been for people who haven't already once been spirited away to another world. Her long red hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her face is scarred with a makeshift patch covering the right eye. She has a warm fox fur cloak she may be persuaded to give up and wears a spear on her back. A young wolf stands at her right heel.]

Do you want help?

[She’s heard him yelling for quite some time, but he doesn't seem that pleased to see her.]

i. arrival

[comfortablyerect]

[ Well-- Tim can sure as fuck hear him.

He's in a tree some distance away -- far enough that even at this height advantage, he can't see anything. But that shouting echoes off the trees and rocks, sending birds scattering and a herd of deer bolting from behind a cover of snowy shrubs.

So much for hunting.

By the time he does find the owner of the voice, only having to backtrack once with the noise bouncing aimlessly in the hills, the owner of it (presumably, he hasn't ran into anyone else out here) is laying face down in the snow. A kid. Well, more accurately a teenager, but Tim doesn't ever care to differentiate. They're all kids to him.

He's still holding the hunting rifle in his hand, the butt of it resting on his hip with the barrel pointed up towards the branches. His expression is impassive and flat even when all that righteous teenage anger is directed at him. ]

Yeah, mostly to tell you to shut the fuck up. You're scarin' the deer.

[ Probably, he should have a little sympathy. Maybe even empathy since he was in a similar position only a few months ago, with the added fun of PTSD induced paranoia making him point his gun at the first people he saw. But realistically, the only reason he hesitates to leave is because he can already hear how huffy Raylan would get with him if he knew.

So fine. He'll offer a hand to the kid in the snow. ]

C'mon. You're just gonna lower your core temp lyin' in the snow.

ii...micycle.....

[satanicpanics]

[ Eddie has been dreaming of pizza for well over a year now…or a bowl of cereal…a Coke…god, he’d even take a Diet Coke at this point. He eats Methuselah’s food out of sheer necessity more than enjoyment, and he still doesn’t trust it. Anyone can any sort of meat in a stew and claim it’s rabbit. Who has actually eaten rabbit? Fewer people than have eaten human, probably...

But his concerns aren’t on the stew today. Eddie is already staring at Mike with a furrowed brow long before he even begins speaking, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. He knows who he thinks he’s looking at, but there’s some marked differences, albeit mostly subtle. A face that isn’t quite right (broken nose in the past, maybe) and just a little older. A little more height, and Eddie would assume the long hair was thanks to his influence and be totally flattered if not for the awful knot it’s been pulled back into…

He lets him ask his questions, then he takes a shot in the dark. ]

Jesus Christ, Wheeler. Was California was really that bad?

[ Eddie has been through this enough times to know by now not to be even remotely fazed, though. Even the lack of recognition is normal. Between actual Victorian sailors and a zombie best friend, things here are out of the norm more often than they’re not, and he's more concerned than anything. Mike can be a dour, glum sort of kid with a mean, argumentative streak, but this is different. Maybe the girlfriend was real after all, and maybe she's just really intense... ]

And, uh, no. To most of the above.

[ He begins to count off on his fingers: ]

No, haven’t seen him. Henderson is here, though. No boats. No steam trains. Cars don't work either. Guy tried to leave once and we never heard from him again. But maybe Advil if you check with the right people.

i

[bigbaddy]

[ Thankfully - for Mike, mostly - Bigby didn't see the crash happen. At least that's one dignity the other gets to keep, even in the middle of all the snow and cold around here.

Less thankfully is the fact that the adult that's shown up looks thoroughly unimpressed by what Mike is saying. At least Bigby is used to this sort of attitude coming from teens at this point, but it doesn't mean he has to like it, right.. ]

Sorry. [ There's nothing genuine about the sorry. It sounds dry and sarcastic as all hell. ] You didn't ring the 'welcome party' bell.

[ There's pause, and then Bigby raises an eyebrow, mentioning: ]

You look like you've been rolling around in the snow. [ More like crashed into it, Bigby.. But considering he didn't see it, he doesn't know about the other's not-so-elegant fall earlier. ]

arrival.

[sscuriosity]

[ Dustin has been getting the hang of this, the cyclical arrivals and the constant swathe of new and more terrifying ordeals to endure. Eddie debriefed him with all the ins and the outs, and so when two months span and he's told that arrivals might be coming their way, he's posted up on some high ground on a snow bluff waiting, insulated by an alcove he dug and he's got an old scope that he'd managed to unearth and pull off a corpse. The gun was useless, but the scope, well, with some TLC, it doubled as a viewfinder.

Dustin hears Mike before he sees him; his voice carries even against the chill wind and despite the scope and the layers of winter wear, complete with a toboggan cap with ear flaps, he acts before answering, stumbling through the snow off his perch like a man possessed.

When he manages to make it into the clearing, he's covered in the wet powder from the snow and the muck and mud from beneath clumped onto his boots. ]

Mike!! Mike?? Is that you?

feast;

[stevieboy]

[ Steve's there, helping hand out clothes to people. He's spent the last couple weeks scavenging the homes to find suitable clothes for when newcomers arrive, so he's doing his best to make sure everyone gets some adequate layers to start off here. He's passing off a sweater when he sees Mike. ]

Holy shit.

[ Then he's waving his hand and saying loudly to get the teen's attention: ] Hey, Mike!

V | Cyberpunk 2077

[mikoshi]

1. ARRIVAL

This is Purgatory. Hell would be scorching, like the Californian desert Vincent grew up in. It'd flay him alive, bake him, heal him, then do it again. Punishment for all the lives he's taken to save his own skin.

This place has also taken but it's a strange sense of take—he's chromeless now. A perfectly fragile human. Cyberware's more harm than help the voice of Robert Rainwater reminds him, the benefits of natural prowess as apparent on his frame as they were on the chromeless chrome shaman. Aside from the lack of mechanized fingers and knuckles, Vincent's body looks exactly the same as he did back in Night City—toned, alert.

The dissonance's all internal. No OS with invulnerability to abuse, no finely tuned hormone injectors, no software diagnostics. But Vincent doesn't need any of that high tech shit to tell him if he stays put he's going to freeze to death. Opposite biome, same objective. Survive. ] Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. [ Every step across the snow offers cold resistance. A titanium skeleton and reinforced tendons, combined with an internal heat source more efficient than just a mundane heart pumping regular blood, would've made this stroll through this winter wonderland a cakewalk. ] Stop. Fuckin' stop. [ Can't cry over spilled milk. Wasting precious calories getting pissed off over shit that can't be helped. Find shelter. Worry about the state of his body and soul some other time, somewhere safe. It'll be a fucking luxury if he makes it. ]

Hey! [ Silhouette ahead—to his side? So hard to tell when everything's blanketed in white with more white sprinkling from the sky. ] Hello? Hello! [ He calls out again to the stranger, this time in Spanish and Japanese, covering all his bases. Shivers in his jacket, pulls up his scarf over his mouth and nose to stop losing even more body heat. ]

2. FEAST

[ Was food always this good? Is this why corpos pay top eurodollar for organic?

Food, with flavors he's never tasted before—or has, but they're fading memories, weak facsimiles. It's the bread that impresses Vincent the most. Crunchy, flaky, but so soft and buttery if dipped into this colorful, thick stew with a mystery meat he can't identify. Yet it tastes divine, gamey, but in a way the synthetic exotic meats back home only approximated. His palate, deadened from a lifetime of eating mass produced trash, sings for more.

Raking up an impressive collection of bowls and plates, Vincent stacks them on top of each other. Doesn't want to think about what this purgatory means for him, why the welcoming committee being named Methuselah sets off warning signals, his Catholic upbringing leaving him apprehensively curious. He's content to indulge in baser instincts for now. Once in a while he turns around, watching people pass by, listening in to their conversations. Blatant about it too. ] What?

[ OOC: PM me if you have any questions and/or want a different prompt. Character info here, permissions here. ]

Arrival

[rebelsamurai]

[What the heck is happening, man? Johnny is bumping around beyond the Blackwall one minute and then finds himself in fucking purgatory the next. He can't believe he's here, let alone living again. Feeling the cold biting his flesh again isn't how he envisioned being reborn again. Then again, Johnny didn't know what to expect at this point.

He's not supposed to be here. Hell, he's not supposed to exist anymore.

However, Johnny isn't given the opportunity to process his feelings. Instead, he jerks his head to the right when he hears someone calling to him. At first, Johnny thought it was simply some random gonk until he heard the Spanish. He nearly does a double take once the man comes into view.]

Vince?

[Holy fuck...]

Feast

[desperate_times_right]

[Chloe gives the newcomer a jaunty smile over her own impressive array of plates.]

Oh, nothing. Just saying, if you ever hear the voice of a woman promising you power, say no. I think if you caught the wrong superpower you’d eat the whole town.

Arrival

[meadqueen]

[The woman stands out red and blue against the snow. Blue tunic and leggings, and red hair and a fox fur cloak. The right side of her face is heavily scarred, and she wears a patch over her eye on that side. She wears a spear on her back, and keeps one hand low to grab it if needed. A dog - it looks like a husky crossed with a wolf - stands alert at her right side.]

Peace. I mean you no harm. There is a nearby village where you can get your bearings.

victor vale / villains / ota

[crass]

ARRIVAL.

[ he coughs up dirt and dust, and then all of a sudden: it's cold.

victor glances around and almost calls out for - syd, anyone, but stops. he doesn't know where he is. he doesn't know who anyone is around him. a quick pat of his clothes and vic realizes he doesn't have his gun, but it's been placed beside his cot heedlessly like someone didn't really care for a handgun. he holsters it immediately. it might be useless in the cold, but at the very least, it's a weapon.

and more than that, he can always -

- always -

- victor's eyes widen. ]

That's not possible. [ he mutters. he clenches his hands to a fist around the edges of his cot, closes his eyes. breathe. tries to feel for his power and finds that he can't. in fact, the worst part of it all - he can feel things. he can feel everything. he can even feel the cold. not good. vic can feel a tension headache forming, and he feels like a little bitch knowing he has to endure it when normally it shouldn't be a damn problem.

more importantly: the coat he has isn't warm enough. turning to you - ]

D'you know if they have something stronger than soup? This isn't gonna cut it.


BEACHED.

[ the feeling of emptiness is comforting. it's familiar. it's that terrible ache he's felt inside of him since - he died, first time he did, that threatened to engulf him, which all of his greed and viciousness fed for years and years while waiting for eli. it's a lot better than staying in town. vic needs a moment to process the fact that he actually has emotions now: having such control of them for so long, losing his powers felt like losing a limb. the emptiness brings - funnily enough - a feeling of completion. relief that victor is somehow still capable of feeling beyond human. something other. extraordinary.

meditating on the sands on a name: eli, eli, eli. it's not the first time he's been in solitude to meditate on one cause, one reason, and -

- he doesn't realize the slight disturbance in the sands, at first. slow and careful as the footsteps made of tar come towards him. when the figures rise from the dark, victor fires one, two shots - the gunfire ringing in the cold and the quiet sharply. he doesn't kill anyone, and was tempted to fire again when he realizes, bad idea. he doesn't have an extra clip with him.

anyway he's going to zoom past you - ]

Beach is fucking haunted. [ yeah. ]


WILDCARD.

let me know if neither prompt works, or if you want something tailor-made for your character!

Arrival

[mikoshi]

What, like booze? [ Vincent eyes this stranger up and down, noting his discomfort—those clenched fists are a universal language—but says nothing of it. ] If you're askin' me to get shit-faced to deal with whatever the fuck's going on, don't think downing a bottle of tequila would solve it.

[ But, unwilling to be totally useless, Vincent rummages inside his jacket's inner breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes, hits the carton's end on the table, then opens it one-handed, offering one to Victor. ] Nicotine's all I got, poison wise.

Sam Porter-Bridges | Death Stranding | OTA

[greatdeliverer]

(ooc: a note for all threads! if your character comes into physical contact with sam for any reason, you can assume his automatic reaction will be a hard flinch away from it, regardless of intent or context.)


i. arrival
Sam's yellow pack sits empty on his back, his spare pair of boots hanging off of it. For once, he has no cargo, which is a relief. What's bothering him, though, is that he has no BB pod. Which means no Lou, which is freaking him the fuck out. As he makes his way to the town centre, he stops by any sheds or cabins that look abandoned to dig through them. Not for supplies, those he'll leave for other people, but for his pod. If someone stops him in his search, he'll ask if they've seen what looks like a backpack with a clear yellow egg attached to it.



ii. the feast
The food is a welcome sight. He's tired of surviving off of cryptobiotes and energy drinks, so he happily fills up his plate. He hasn't seen food like this since he stopped going to his mom's ridiculous parties. Maybe at the inauguration, but he wasn't really paying attention to that, just on getting the fuck out of there and not rolling his eyes out of his head. He might claim a cot later, but as long as he's not out in the snow, he doesn't really care where he sleeps. Although he's not the chattiest person, he's open to talking. More or less.



iii. in the woods
Sam is used to hiking over weird terrain. What he isn't used to is the sight of bones. Where he comes from, corpses are cremated as quickly as possible, to avoid potential horrifying monsters. But less than a moment after being concerned at the sight of human remains, he forgets why he was worried in the first place.

"Sorry, uh," he says to his companion, scrubbing his hands over his face with a harsh exhale. "Lost my train of thought. Do you know where we are?" A question grips him, sudden and tight in his chest. "Do you... do you know who I am?"



iv. the beach
This isn't a new situation to Sam. It is, in fact, a very old situation. The man standing on the beach looks tired in a way sleep can't cure. He'd come out to the beach when he heard about the footprints, not out of curiosity but out of resignation. Some things he just can't fucking escape, it seems. So he sits and watches the waves for a while, feeling weirdly calm. Though he will call out to anyone who looks like they're about to follow the footprints -- "I'd leave those the fuck alone."



v. wildcard
[hit me with something!]

arrival

[brushoff]

The person Sam runs into is Dorian: a young-looking man, someone who looks like he's in his early twenties, but also looks sick as hell in the daylight. He's bundled up, showing as little skin as possible. At the question, he shakes his head.

"I haven't seen anything like that. Have you made your way to the community center yet? Sometimes things of ours mysteriously arrive there—and don't ask me how they get there, I've no idea. Only theories."

Though don't mind Dorian as he also slips his way into the abandoned cabin Sam is rummaging through, just so he can get out of the way of direct sunlight.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter | MCU

[ricochetingbullets]

I. Arrival cw: mental disassociative state, auditory hallucinations

Dex isn't entirely sure he's not just lost his mind when he ends up in the middle of a snowy forest. Look, he'd been having the absolute worst week of his entire life just before he ended up here, and he can't discount the idea he finally had some sort of psychotic break. But everything certainly feels real enough, so he'll do his best just to struggle along until he can figure out if this is reality or not.

He does not have the right shoes for this sort of climate and is really hoping he stumbles across civilization sooner rather than later. Dex served long enough in the Army that he knows if his feet get messed up, that's practically a death sentence in the middle of a place like a deserted snow-covered forest. He just starts walking, hoping if he goes in one direction long enough he'll bump into someone out here or civilization, whichever comes first.

He tries to stay calm but this is the worst sort of situation for him to be in when he's as mentally unstable as he feels right now. Just alone in all the silence of the woods with only his own thoughts and the voices in his head to keep him company. They start up because why not, it's not like he's in the most stable place mentally in his head. Short staccato phrases loop over and over again in between the sound of buzzing insects, some voices he knows saying things from reality and some conjured up by his own imaginations. 'Do it, Dex......emptiness, so alone....the real you...let go of me....no one appreciates your sacrifices...."

Eventually, he can't stand it anymore, which means the first sign of movement out of the corner of his eye means he's already scooping a rock off the ground, aiming at someone's head, and throwing it with a lot of hard force behind it. Fortunately, he's not so far gone he's aiming with intent to kill. It's just really gonna hurt like hell when that rock collides against someone's skull. And it will collide, there's no doubt about that, because Dex doesn't miss once he's already aimed at something. He won't apologize for what he's done, instead wait to see if there's even actually a person there or if his hallucinations have become visual as well as the ones already occupying his mind.

Whether on his own or with the help of others, by the time he reaches Milton and then the Community Hall, Dex is fine physically aside from being really fucking cold. But mentally? He's hanging on by a thread. He needs to physically ground himself for a while so he doesn't reach the snapping point of wanting to shove a spoon through someone's eye. He grabs some stew and coffee before immediately going off to sit in a corner where he can have his back to the wall at all times. Don't mind the slightly feral guy eating and watching everyone a little suspiciously, he probably doesn't bite too hard.

If anyone approaches him, they might notice he's grasping that spoon of his a little too tightly but good luck getting him to let go of it. Dex always feels more secure with something in his hands. "What do you know about this place?" He asks whoever ends up nearby. The two things are are notable about him is that there's no emotion in his voice when he asks the question and that he's got eyes with nothing going on behind them, dead eyes like those of a shark, a predator who has wandered in from the cold and somehow accidentally found himself among a bunch of normal human beings.

II. In The Woods Somewhere

He wakes up and has no idea who he is. In some ways, this is a blessing, being a blank slate, and later one he'll bemoan the fact that he wasn't able to appreciate how lucky it was to be without all his baggage for a short amount of time. But all he can think of when he wakes up is that he's missing everything. Even his name remains frustratingly out of reach.

When he looks down at the bones, there's no horror, rage, or sadness that comes from him upon witnessing such a sight. In fact, there's nothing there at all, just a gaping void where most people have a normal emotional makeup. Normally, this would agitate him knowing how different he is than everyone else around him, but right now all it does is stir his curiosity a little bit. The sight is just mildly interesting to him in the same detached way someone might find an exhibit at a museum or watching something amusing on TV as it plays in the background while they do household chores.

He starts walking, hoping to find someone else in this landscape. Maybe they'll know who he is. It'd be nice to get some of that, any of it, back in his mind. When he spots someone, he goes right over. There's something just a little....off in how he acts. He stares just a few seconds too long at the other person as if sizing them up in a way that has more to do calculating their physical weaknesses than registering just their physical appearance. There's no real emotion when he speaks aside from that mild curiosity from before. "Do you know who I am?"

III. Beached

Dex is curious enough about talk of the beach to go check it out for himself. What he feels is very much like that empty spot inside of him where a conscience or empathy would be for another person, only with that lack of feeling suddenly amplified. It's that same sensation he gets after he kills someone, those moments afterwards where everything is very quiet and still, where there's no buzzing in his mind and everything goes quiet as his focus narrows down to just that moment in time.

So he follows the footprints long enough for the tar monsters to come life. Dex has seen a lot of weird shit in his life. It comes with the territory of living in a world with aliens, magic, super soldiers, and legitimate gods from legend all being around at various points on Earth. This is still one of the strangest sights he's ever seen.

Then he snaps into action when he realizes they're trying to grab him and immediately pulls out a knife. Then he notices someone else nearby. "A little help here would be nice!" He snaps at them. Feel free to help. Or just stand there and watch him struggle, cause Dex sure as hell isn't allowing himself to end up getting dragged to a hellish tarry grave.

IV. Wildcard

[As a canon point, Dex is taken from Season 3, Episode 8 just after he leaves the FBI office feeling discouraged. Keep in mind all prompts have a good chance of having his mental illness and mental health in general coming up.

Have a different idea or want a custom prompt? Hit me up at Light_shade or  .lightshade]

III

[mikoshi]

The beaches of Night City were stinking, polluted. Those that were not where sculpted for the pleasure for corpos and celebrities, the fakeness dripping from the tops of the genetically modified palm trees down to the synthetic sand that somehow didn't stick to your skin at all. The mind might forget but the body remembers what nature is supposed to feel like, animal inside encased in chrome yet undefeated.

This is better. Vincent's starting to internalize his newfound reality, the quietude of a purely organic body. No OS throwing pop-ups at him, no system diagnostics to pester him about his blood pressure, adrenaline, his oxygen levels. Feels a lot like the meditative state the Zen Master taught him, yet also more. Complete awareness and control over himself. Mastery.

Emptiness. It might scare the locals but it's a balm to Vincent. Night City, the people, his life, it was all so loud. He's content to bask in the silence as long as possible, lotus positioned at the edge of the tide.

Until someone starts screaming, that is. He had ignored the tar footprints ("Not my biz.") but clearly this stranger chose to disregard the ancient wisdom of fuck around, find out.

"We have got to stop meetin' like this," he says to that familiar face, an annoyed look on his. "Learn to leave shit alone." Yet he still offers a hand, pulling Dex away for the sentient tar. Nope. Gonna ignore that. None of his biz.

miss huang | severance

[misshuang]

arrival.

[ A young girl of thirteen or so blinks widely as she slowly rouses herself from the abandoned cabin floor she woke up on. Confusion knits her brows as she begins to search the place, but there's nothing — no instructions left for her to follow, not even a way to communicate with Mr. Milchick.

She worries her lip as she pushes open the heavy wooden door with a resonating creak, peering out into the snowy white abyss. Is this another ORTBO? But there was no scheduled second Outdoor Retreat and Team-Building Occurrence for the innies, and she hadn't thought there would be another, given the fiasco that was the first.

....This has to be one though, right? There's no other explanation. Possibly she was put to sleep for the journey. Maybe this is even a test for her, too. She hasn't been doing so well, she thinks. Mr. Milchick seems irritated lately. All the more reason for her to succeed with what must be a lesson she's meant to learn.

Gathering herself, the girl closes the door to the cabin behind her, and begins to head in the direction that the smoke is coming from, though it seems a long distance away. If Mr. Milchick intended for her to stay in the cabin, he would have left clear, no-nonsense instruction for her to do so. It's time to head out, see what she's supposed to do. So she does, though the trek is a difficult one. The last time she was out in the snowy landscape, she wore a thick fur coat with an appropriately matched fur hat. Now, she's simply dressed in the usual crisp uniform befitting her managerial position.

None of it is well-suited for this environment, but Lumon makes no mistakes. The girl keeps walking, trudging forwards with discomfort she tries her hardest to mask; the snow is harshly cold and unpleasant against her feet. By the time she finally makes it to a path, she's shuddering harder than she can control, thin arms wrapped around herself, cheeks stung pink by the chill. Unease pricks at her heart, but she ignores it. Mr. Milchick wouldn't leave her in a dangerous situation; surely she's being watched, monitored.

And then she sees the movement of someone along the path up ahead, and relief comes pouring in, even though she doesn't immediately recognise the person. Her voice is shaking from the temperature, but she lifts it loud enough to be heard, managing a hopeful, breathless smile. ]

Have I completed my task?

methuselah's feast.

[ By now, Miss Huang has realised that this ORTBO is very different from the last. Mr. Milchick still hasn't come to retrieve her, and there's been no sign of any of the innies on the floor she supervises. She's still unsure how to react to everything, but all she can do is keep moving forwards until someone comes to collect her. She listens to the elderly man speak, making sure to keep her disposition one of Cheer. None of what he says is familiar to her studies, but this must be part of the process.

These people must be innies. She must be here to supervise them. That's it. Lumon is testing her managerial skills, making sure she's up to the task.

After helping herself to a bowl of warm stew, the girl goes to sit down at one of the long tables. Back held straight, posture rigid and controlled, she takes sips of her meal and lets her eyes roam around the place. When her gaze makes contact with someone, she sets her spoon down politely on a nearby napkin and smiles pleasantly, head turning to face the stranger. ]

Good afternoon. My name is Miss Huang. I'm your acting manager today.

[ ...With Mr. Milchick nowhere in visible sight, her deputy manager status gets bumped up a bit, right? It shows that she's taking initiative when she's the only authority figure available! ]

Would you like to come sit with me? We can get to know each other better that way, can't we?

[ After eating, Miss Huang can be found walking around the community center, checking in on various people standing or sitting about. The girl of thirteen or so will step up to you with that calm, pleasant smile, voice almost robotic and mildly infantilising in tone. ]

Hello there. My name is Miss Huang. How are we doing? Is everything okay?

---

etcetera.

character info / hmu at horreur if you'd like to plot something else / will match format ♡

methuselah's feast

[friendsfordinner]

[ Cornelius Hickey is being confronted with something that he has absolutely no idea how to deal with: a preteen girl. He's come to the feast mostly because hey, it's a free meal, he's not an idiot, he'll happily eat Methusalah's food for the night. That's something he's used to. Questions like 'how did I get here' (who knows), 'where are we' (Milton), 'what's with that old guy' (Methuselah, he's an odd one), those are things that Hickey can answer. Those are things that Hickey is used to.

Some small child saying that she's his acting manager, whatever that is? Yeah. Unexpected.

He's seated across the table from Miss Huang, a few seats down, and simply raises his eyebrow at that question. ]

Hell, Aurora's bringing in children now? I know there's that Marsh girl, but you're something else. How old are you, Huang? Eleven?

Laurie Strode | Halloween (2018)

[thatfinalgirl]

Arrival: The Hike

She prepared for this. That can be said about everything except peace and joy; those, she struggles with. Happiness more often than not comes from a bottle because then she can put a stopper on it.

But when she wakes up in the wilderness, in the snow, among the trees, she doesn't scream. She doesn't shout. She pushes herself up to her feet, pulls her flannel around her, cursing internally and nowhere else, and she checks her knife, her gun (one of each, workable) and then she looks to the sky. Listens. And starts moving.

She's almost silent; she might come upon you before you realize it, and more than likely (unless you're making similar efforts) she's watched you for a while before she approached. More than likely, unless your vibes are off (and they don't need to be that off; she's got a very low threshold for that sort of thing), she'll greet you and offer to travel with you.

There's strength in numbers and it doesn't mean she trusts you. But it's something.

Arrival: Methuselah's Feast

You'd almost think she's been here for a while, the way she takes up a spot by the fire, eats what there is without complaint or comment, seems settled to the place and the situation and the bleakness of it all.

The only time she might soften is for children or younger women. Then, and only then, will you see something more human and less of a curled scorpion waiting to see who needs stinging. The fact that she found her rifle here with some rounds is abundantly clear, given it's settled right beside her and does not look to be leaving her side any time soon.

Settling In

It's easy to tell that she's moved into the house she's chosen.

For one, she took time choosing it, so anyone nosy enough would have seen her walking between the unoccupied houses checking a variety of things, knocking walls, checking door strength, doing a little home repair here or there whether she picked that one or not. Then, once she's chosen a house, the work begins. Squatter or no, this is where she is now, and that means she has to prepare. You'll almost certainly see her either out scrounging or hear her hammering or sawing or doing some sort of other work on the interior of the home she's chosen. What she's doing is not something she is very specific about, but that's your problem, not hers.

In the Woods

She'll talk.

Something about the place, something about the people here... something about the bones all around them makes it feel like when she says what she thinks, what she knows, what has been her reality for so many years, no one's going to laugh. No one's going to call her a lunatic. No one's going to say she should take it easy.

So ask the old woman about why she sleeps with one eye open, why none of this has even ruffled her one bit, and she might, might, tell you about how pure evil can and has walked around on two legs and refused to burn.

[ ping me at yarnzipan if you like! ]

arrival, the hike

[bigbaddy]

Honestly, at this point it's a little surprising to see a new face - because this is a new face, Bigby can tell at this point who's new here and who has been around this place for a while - that's actually got their shit together.

Maybe it's just the other's way of coping, but if it is, then Bigby thinks that Laurie is doing a real good job of it.

"You're sure you're not some witch out in the woods here?" He asks after she greets him. Look, somewhere between her silent approach, the way she seems relatively composed and the fact that witches are very normal where Bigby comes from, it's a very real possibility to him. Even if he's pretty sure he doesn't recognize Laurie from the witches circle back in New York.

Abigail Hobbs » Hannibal » cw: blood in linked image

[illecebra]

Arrival

[ Kitchens were the heart of the home, usually. At least, they used to be. The hum of ovens, the familiar sound of a knife against a cutting board, the soft simmer of a rich smelling stew on the stove. It was a place where everything had fallen apart, where the teacup shattered. It had been put back together-- meticulously and with what she'd thought was love and trust.

The chill of the floor against her back chased away those last tendrils of complicated love, Will's futile attempt to stop the bleeding again. The protection had been another trap, from the hands of one monster to another. Once again manipulated, once again too far gone to be saved. This place was different, however. The floor of Hannibal's house was smooth against her back and the air wasn't stale.

She'd known death was coming for her. How could she not? He'd sent her to the kitchen so Will would see her. He made her watch Will be gutted. She'd walked right into his grip. She'd been cornered and forced to act that night. Right? God, what was real anymore? Did the voice choose the word 'design' intentionally? Did nature's design align with Will's? She'd hurt a lot of people in many unforgivable ways. Was this hell?

The burn of the curved blade ripping her throat open was still present with every breath, but there was no more pour of hot blood soaking her clothes and saturating her skin. Gingerly, she rolled from her back to her side, a sharp cough painting more of the floor red. Everything hurt - strange that even in death, she was still forced to relive the aftermath. No peace.

She didn't deserve it. Peace apparently was also not part of nature's design.

She'd gotten through the pain before, she could push through it again. Face whatever the fuck was waiting for her -- punishment for her crimes. With a hoarse cry, she manages to push herself up to her knees, eyes scanning the room around her and out the window. Squinting, she moves towards the sliver of sun to see if she can spot landmarks or anything remotely familiar. The bleeding was stopped somehow, but she doesn't know that she trusts it to hold. She needs help or some sort of reassurance and her hand will have to do for now.

For anyone looking into the small window of the cabin, they would see quite a sight. A girl covered in blood with a hand at her throat, staring out with an almost zombie like gaze. Her eyes scan but don't actually take in the sights, possibly passing over or landing on people unintentionally.

Eventually, she finds the strength to leave and wander towards any signs of life or sounds. The violent and biting cold, at least, is a familiar feeling. Home in Minnesota. If someone approaches her or if she can stumble upon someone, she will try and ask for help. ]

Methuselah's Feast

[ After the greeting and an initial examination of her neck, Abigail tries to find a spot not near the food to get herself cleaned up. The deep wound was closed and now bandaged roughly, but would need to be kept clean for the shallow edges to heal. That will take time and feels like it'll be easier said than done in this environment.

Gingerly, she begins the methodical process of cleaning the blood from her face. Her clothes are a lost cause, doing her best to pay attention if anyone approaches from her left side specifically. She hasn't been around anyone other than Hannibal since he cut off her left ear, unsure how her hearing will be or how she will be in a group setting. She was so used to being hyper aware of her surroundings, raised by a hunter to hear every little sound.

She's practically jumping at everything and everyone, fingers tightening around the cup at what feels like a cacophony of sounds. She's not used to this any more - she's not used to noise.

Shit. Someone's talking to her. Are they? Wide eyes turn to the person on her left. ]

Sorry - I'm - I can't hear as well with my left -

[ Instinctively, she loosens the grip of one of her hands on the cup she's been holding like a safety blanket to tug her hair further forward to make sure the space where her ear is supposed to be is fully covered. Does it still count as part of an ear if it's gone? God, she hasn't acknowledged it out loud to anyone but Hannibal.

Later, she'll wander around the Hall asking about where she can find extra clothes and a scarf to cover the eventual scar once everything is healed and take on any information people are willing to share. If this is real, she has to be smart about it. Break patterns. Succeed at this third shot at life. ]

Wildcard | Yolo

[ Nothing striking your fancy? That's a-ok - feel free to throw out a wildcard. She'd be wandering around trying to find non-bloody clothes, clean herself up, and find a place to settle. Also, she would be out in the Woods and angry. Hit me up on plurk @ hoopskirts! ]

arrival

[brushoff]

[ Twilight is coming. Soon enough the irritating polar summer will be gone and there will be actual, proper night again. But it's not here yet. So Dorian, a man who's developed an annoying sensitivity to the sun, still bundles up like a hint of sunlight would burn his skin every time he has to go out. And unfortunately, today he has to go out. He had plans to poke around a cabin, try and see if he could find any more canned goods to slip in his pack so he didn't have to try (and fail!) to forage for supper.

What he finds instead is a teenage girl looking at him through a window, absolutely covered in blood. ]

I really should leave you alone, [ Dorian grumbles, more to himself than to Abigail, as he makes his way to the front of the cabin. ] But considering my reputation is a teensy bit shot, might as well try my hand at Prince Charming.

[ He opens the door to the cabin, pushing his ski goggles up to the top of his head so he can get a good look at Abigail. ] Shit. Move your hand, let me see if you've still got a wound.

helly r. | severance

[perceptual]

001.Methuselah's feast.

[ Helly makes a pretty ungainly sight, hunched forward over a bowl of soup and shovelling it into her face with mad abandon. There's soup dripping down her chin, soup on the table – wait, no there's not, because she just wiped it off the table and then her chin and stuck her fingers in her mouth to hoover it up. It's as if she's never eaten before in her life.

Once the spoon stops being any use to her to dig the last of the soup out, she just prods her index finger into the bowl and starts to scoop up the remnants. It's during this process that she looks up and makes eye contact with someone, her finger halfway to her mouth. ]

What? What are you looking at?

002.In the woods somewhere.

[ This isn't the first time Helly's woken up knowing nothing about herself – not that she'd remember it right now. Motivation to move, to understand, keeps her moving; she stops briefly to poke through the bones on the ground and pick up one that feels hefty in her grip, a long one with a heavy round end. She could defend herself with it if she had to. Then she stomps through the undergrowth and crunching snow, hugging herself against the cold, red hair like a beacon in the darkness.

When she spots someone else, her first instinct isn't to see an ally, but someone to question. She hurtles over to the figure, scavenged bone held aloft. ] Who the fuck are you? And what'd you do to me?

003.Wildcard.

[ throw something else at me! helly's canonpoint is immediately as the overtime contingency ends in 1x09. ]

methuselah's feast

[friendsfordinner]

Nothing, [ Hickey answers, with a little shrug. Truthfully, he's a bit impressed. So many people come here with their morals, with their compunctions and dreams of civilization, still clinging onto what they once knew only for it to be dashed against the rocks in a week or so. He knows this woman is used to eating with a spoon—look, she must be, she's used the bloody spoon, after all. But she's eating with such abandon that it's honestly impressive.

This is someone who knows what matters. Fuck propriety, especially when you're hungry. ]

Doubt anyone's filled you in on this place, yeah? What do you want to know?

Sabina Octaviana | OC

[praetoriana]

Arrival

Sabina dreams of the aurora. She’d been watching it before her world suddenly went dark… a shining silken ribbon of light a thousand miles long, fluttering in cosmic winds… it had been beautiful, otherworldly, a glimpse into the numinous, more awe-inspiring than she had ever imagined, and if she could only watch it for another moment…

But now the aurora is gone, and the dream of it is fading. It is replaced by something else - something soft and wet, and, oh, something cold, cold as chilled saline in the blood, cold enough to bite.

She sits up, and looks at her surroundings. She is not where she expected to be. There is snow everywhere, white and crisp and new - there is snow on the ground, mounded thickly into piles and hummocks; snow on the trees, many trees, cone-shaped conifers up on the hills in endless ranks shrouded in white, so many that they fade off into the horizon in all directions; snow in the air, a fine haze of it, making the frigid wind smell like burnt copper. The sky is the gauzy dark purple-blue of an overcast night, lighter than a clear sky because of the refraction of moonlight over the clouds, but too dark to illuminate much. And it’s cold, so cold in this unknown place…

Say nothing to anyone until I send you a sign, she’d been told. Then, wait for me faithfully. She had never been told what the sign might look like - but surely this must be it, mustn’t it?

She would sit here and wait, if she could. The cold hurts - she’s only wearing a thin cotton robe, so that isn’t surprising - but that hardly matters because she’s good at enduring pain. But this kind of cold might put her in danger of frostbite, or other damage to her body. She can’t allow her body to be damaged; it isn’t hers to abuse. So, that means she must stand up and walk to some place that can offer shelter. With a few cracks of stiff joints, she climbs to her feet and begins to walk.

Feast

Sabina is not at all comfortable in this crowded hall, with its bright yellow lights and chaotic noises and thick warm air full of new, strange smells: it’s overwhelming after weeks of solitude. But it’s better than being in the cold, slowly feeling her limbs freeze.

She’s currently sitting right at the corner of a table, as far removed as possible from the main spread of food. The old man has bidden her to eat, and of course she is hungry, but none of this looks like food she can eat. She can’t even identify most of these dishes, and among the few that she can identify, none of them have been approved for her.

But she’s got a cup of water, and that seems safe enough. She drinks it with small, quick sips, like some nervous prey animal. It doesn’t taste like the water she’s used to; there’s some kind of mineral content to it that makes it taste bitter and slightly metallic. But she is thirsty, and this water is satisfying nonetheless.

When someone approaches or sits near her, she will scoot her chair out of the way to give them more space. Then, without uttering a greeting, she will watch them owlishly over the rim of her cup.

Feast

[desperate_times_right]

The woman who sits next to her is looking a bit pale and sickly herself these days, but she definitely doesn't share the other woman’s lack of appetite. Her long black hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and her red T-shirt and jeans are both streaked with dirt.

Chloe is nearly finished her bowl of soup, which is being consumed with nearly rapturous abandon, when she realizes that this new person isn't eating. She's had enough friends in this place by now that need to eat weird stuff to live that she can't help asking.

“Hey, are you okay? You're not eating anything.”

Gale Dekarios | Baldur's Gate 3

[humblewizard]

arrival
There is a wizard, face down in the snow, just really having a bad time. It takes Gale a moment to push himself to his feet. Baldur's Gate was an actual city, a proper city with things like 'cobblestone streets' and 'halfway decent temperatures' and not 'a foot of snow.' It's obvious he's not dressed for the weather.

Still, easy enough to fix! As he stands to his feet, Gale huffs to himself, "If this is some sort of trickery by the Absolute, I will be very annoyed." A quick application of Burning Hands should be enough to sort this out—an unorthodox application, of course, but something to warm himself up and clear away the snow would kill two birds with one stone.

Except when he says the word, when the incantation is on his lips, he realizes something. The Weave isn't here. The Weave, the source of magic, something Gale's always known and always interacted with, something part of his very being...it's not here.

Hmm. This is worrying.

"Hello?" he loudly calls out, pushing down the worry and confusion in his voice. "Hello, is anyone out there? I could use a hand!"

methuselah's feast
Truth be told, Gale is still very worried about the lack of the Weave here. After all, he can still feel the Netherese bomb in his chest. Without the Weave, the magic that powers that bomb shouldn't work, right? Things should be fine. But what if it isn't? The Weave isn't here but based on what he's eavesdropped about the situation here, there is obviously some form of magic. Perhaps that could trigger the bomb? After all, it is only held in place due to the gifts and influence of Mystra, a goddess who's not here (and who Gale also has mixed feelings about not feeling her influence, but we can only deal with one problem at a time, alright?)

Logically speaking, he should tell people about the possibility that he might explode. Practically speaking, is he going to tell people about the possibility that he can explode? Like hell he will, we are keeping that a secret as long as possible!

Instead, Gale sits at a table, eating some stew. "You know, this is hardly the worst thing I've eaten on the road," he muses, striking up conversation with whoever's next to him. That's what he needs, conversation, something to distract himself from the ten thousand questions swarming around his head. "In fact, I'd say this is quite good! When one is tired, hungry, cold, and stuck somewhere they never expected, a hearty bowl of stew can go a long way."

wildcard
( free to go somewhere different if something else strikes your fancy! )

feast

[desperate_times_right]

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Chloe advises from across the table. “The big feasts like this only come around when groups like yours show up here. Rest of the time, you're on your own.”

niven mcpherson | original

[mundifies]

ARRIVAL

[ He wakes up as if he’s got a bad hangover, except it’s about a hundred times worse. Instead he’s freezing his tits off in the middle of the wilderness and Niven wonders just who the fuck did he piss off lately to deserve this. Seriously. Which supernatural spooky that he’s been dealing with lately did this?

He remembers, a little sheepishly as he picks himself up from the snow-laden ground, that’s probably a long list.

Fucks sake.

Although the voice in his head calling him an Interloper is probably a good shout. And at least they had the sense to bring his dog along with him. As Niven sighs and shivers, wrapping his arms around his middle, he picks a direction and goes for it — whistling sharply for the chocolate-coloured Border Collie to follow.

Bess will find you before Niven does, as she darts ahead to check the way. If you’re lost in these snowy woods, the dog will find you. Barking and tail wagging as she circles you and immediately starts to herd you back to her owner: the miserable and shivering Scotsman who’s just as confused as you are. ]

Right. So. [ Huh. Right. Someone else is here. ] An’ here ah thought ah’d be the only wan here.

[ Yes, he’s talking English. ]

THE FEAST

[ Warm up. Eat something. Dress a little warmer. Aye, sure. He’s done all of that. Niven’s the sort to linger around the edges of the Hall, looking like the least approachable man in the room. His face is just Like That, for the most part: his brow furrowed and glowering around the place. The only thing approachable is the dog at his feet.

Things feel… different, here. In a way he can’t describe. He isn’t sure whether to be suspicious or relieved or both.

He holds one hand up, staring down at it and flexing his fingers. He doesn’t feel— no heat, no spark. Nothing to burn clean.

Still, old habits die hard.

Enough glowering done, he’ll be hovering around the door to the Hall with his knife in hand — carving symbols and runes into the wood of the doorframe and muttering furiously under his breath in something Celtic-sounding. No, he’s not moving out of the way if anyone tries to get past. ]

Am busy. Ye’ll have tae wait.

WILDCARD

[ Just go for it, lads. information here. contact heolstor for plotting. ]

the feast

[humblewizard]

No, please, go on ahead with your graffiti. I certainly shan't stop you, [ Gale dryly responds. So much about this man screams 'fantasy wizard.' He's looking like an extra from a fantasy movie dressed in his purple robes, obviously not designed for this sort of temperature. Less fantasy movie is the big, fuckoff wizard's staff strapped to his back.

He shan't stop Niven from a bit of graffiti but the graffiti shan't stop Gale from being nosy as hell. He leans in slightly, taking a closer look at the symbols and runes. He doesn't recognize them specifically, but he recognizes the form close enough. ]

Are those runes? I appreciate the effort, but I don't think they'll be much use. The Weave is missing from this place.

Challia Bull | Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX

[jupiterman]

✘ ⸻ the arrival.

Frostbite nips at his fingertips as he walks farther into the woods. Even the white gloves he wears are insufficient to keep the frost at bay, but this is not the first time Challia has been exposed to such cold. The commander lets out a disgruntled sigh as he looks up at the dreary grey clouds above. His olive green uniform stands out against this field of endless white. Despite the presence of a few trees along the perimeter, most of the field is blanketed with miles and miles of snow.

"How did I get here?" He wonders aloud, looking for signs of life in this freezing wasteland. "This is insane; I was in Side 6—" Challia abruptly trails off when he notices a stranger traipsing through the snow. He has to squint to get a better look at them since his eyes are starting to ache. A classic sign of photokeratitis, better known as snow blindness. It doesn’t really snow much in the space colonies, so he’s having a really terrible time here.

“Hello?!” Challia waves over towards the figure. “Hey!” He waves his arms towards them in hopes of getting their attention.

✘ ⸻ the feast

Challia gives out a mournful sigh as he attempts to warm himself by the fire. Despite throwing a shawl across his shoulders, he's still shivering. While he's suited better for the cold than most people, that commander uniform isn't designed for freezing temperatures. Nonetheless, Challia is pleased that he made it out of the cold.

He softly blows into his bowl of soup before sipping it, and the hot liquid gradually warms him from head to toe. It's remarkable how a warm bowl of soup can soothe his aching bones. Challia was almost confident he would have died out there without help. After all, he is a Spacenoid who hasn't spent much time on Earth. He doesn't know anything about this place, let alone how to survive in the tundra. This entire incident has made him wonder how he can possibly survive here.

“I can’t sense anything,” he mutters to himself while staring into the fire. “I can’t sense anything or anyone. It’s as if…I lost something.”

Something feels off, horribly off.

✘ ⸻ wildcard.

(Do you have something else in mind? Feel free to send me a PM or contact me at devillady, and we can plot something!)

The Arrival

[astrogator]

Tayrey's long, bright blue uniform coat also stands out starkly against the snow. She's walking briskly, carrying a laden backpack, with a gray scarf wrapped over her dark hair and around her neck for warmth. At her collar there's an eight-pointed silver star insignia, along with a single chevron. The young lieutenant comes to an abrupt stop as she hears someone calling, and she turns, shading her eyes to get a better look at the waving figure.

He's a stranger, she can tell that much. She has been here long enough to tell the regular residents of Milton by sight. That could mean that he travelled here from further out, of course. Or, given the telltale intensification of aurora activity, it could mean that he was brought here as she was. Displaced. Very from home.

She hurries towards him as best she can, planting her feet firmly in the snow and carefully minding her balance. Even so, with the expanse of snowy terrain between them, it takes longer than she would like, so she gives him a reassuring wave as she draws nearer. It does give her more time to assess him, and although his uniform isn't one she can identify, she's in no doubt that that's what it is. Tayrey hasn't stopped wearing her own spacer uniform, but in this climate, she has several warm synthetic underlayers beneath it.

'Peace and prosperity!' she greets him, with an encouraging smile and an extension of one gloved hand.

Palamedes Sextus | The Locked Tomb

[hellonspectacles]

Arrival

Darkness. A whispered voice. Falling.

Palamedes awakes to the feeling of damp snow seeping through his clothes. It isn’t the first time he’s gained consciousness only to find himself in a different place than he last remembered, but a snowdrift in the middle of the forest is new. Carefully, he pushes himself to his feet.

“Update—“ the word dies on his lips as he realizes two things in quick succession.

One: he is alone.

Two: he is in his own body.

Somehow, Camilla’s body is gone. Pal peers out through spectacles lenses, his sight made blurry by the snow that clings to him. He’s tall, limbs ungainly. He’s, well, male.

Palamedes lays two fingers on his neck and takes his pulse. Elevated, but that’s to be expected, given the circumstances. He checks his blood pressure. Nothing.

No, that can’t be right. Brow creasing, Palamedes shakes out his hand, blinking a few times. It must be the stress of whatever’s just happened, he tells himself. Nevermind that the necromantic theorem required to evaluate one’s own blood pressure could be executed by an agitated six-year-old. He takes a breath, bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, spits in his hand, and tries again.

Still nothing.

And that isn’t the only thing that’s wrong. With growing bafflement and no little panic, Palamedes realizes that he can no longer feel the low and constant hum of thanergy and thalergy around him. Even on a thalergenic planet—even on a spaceship—he would feel something.

There’s just one reason Palamedes could think of that would find him in his own body, lost in a strange landscape, without the ability to perform necromancy. And that reason is one he refuses to consider.

He bites his cheek harder and tries to take his blood pressure again. And again. But each time he executes a theorem, it feels like he’s struggling to hold a weight he can’t carry. Eventually, he faints from the strain, landing in a grey pile of robes in the snow.

Methuselah’s Feast

Eventually, and with great relief, Palamedes arrives in the large, cozy building, drawn by a sort of warm glow that he can feel even from the edge of town. Pal is shivering when he steps inside, his grey robes soaked past his knees and covered in frost that quickly begins to melt in a puddle.

Aside from some polite words to Methuselah (a name that rings a bell, but that he can’t quite place), the gangly young man doesn’t say much. Instead, he takes a cup of tea and finds a place out of the way with a clear view of the door. Gradually, he defrosts: he stops trembling from cold, his extremities regain feeling, his clothes even begin to dry.

Yet his expression remains one of troubled concentration. He looks a bit like he’s trying to sort out a particularly difficult math problem, and the numbers just aren’t adding up.

Wildcard

[Hit me with any additional ideas! Feel free to DM or find me on plurk at historein.]

Arrival

[astrogator]

From a distance, Ari Tayrey thinks she has only spotted a bundle in the snow. Someone's supplies set down for later, perhaps. She's on her regular patrol, so it's no trouble for her to go over and investigate, indulging her curiosity.

It's a man. Immediately she kneels down beside him, pulling off one of her thick gloves to press her fingers to his neck, checking for a sign of life. It wouldn't be the first time she discovered a body in the snow, but he still has warmth. Color. She hopes she isn't too late - and she isn't. There's a pulse.

Tayrey takes him by the shoulders and shakes him. 'Citizen!' she calls out. 'Citizen, can you hear me?'

If he opens his eyes, he'll see a young woman in a bright blue military coat, a gray scarf wrapped over her dark hair and around her neck. She looks awfully concerned about him.