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singillppl2025-08-05 10:18 pm
singmod) wrote in singillppl2025-08-05 10:18 pm
Entry tags:
August 2025 Test Drive Meme
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
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.
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.
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.
Feast
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.
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I'm talking like, you can run really fast but it makes you hungry all the time, or you magically start fires every time you get upset.
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First one doesn't sound like much of a power, [ Use more energy = get more hungry, duh. ] second one sounds annoyin' as hell. [ He would've set half of Watson on fire by now. ] Wait, so there's some strange lady waitin' around, distributing powers? That's no basis for a rewards system.
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[And don't even get her started on Enola… or her Darkwalker curse, which she doesn't talk about as much now that there have been death threats against another person who has it.]
It sucks. She is never clear at all about what she's going to do to you, and even when she doesn't fuck it up there's always a downside.
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Digressing. ] Sounds like nature. You know, what it gives it also takes away? [ Balance. That's all nature is. Seemingly cruel to people, their attempts at taming it woefully inadequate.
Land spirits. He remembers the older nomads speaking of the California desert the same way the local Native American tribes did—cautious reverence. A living thing, to be respected and maintained. After all the co-living and intermarrying, that philosophy became the nomad's too. ] Maybe she's mad. Or sad. People have fucked with her and she's tryin' to communicate. Warn us.
Has anyone tried? Talkin' to her, I mean. One on one. Try to understand.
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[Not really the point.]
You're not wrong. In a lot of ways, that's the way of this place in general. Only thing I've ever seen give without taking something back is the Christmas pig.
[It's a whole thing.]
It isn't really like that with her. I mean, she is sad, I think, but we don't really see her in person. It's more like she beams a bunch of cryptic bullshit into your brain and then it hurts to touch people for a week. You know?
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Christmas. Pig. [ Never seen a pig up close. A dead boar once, a nasty irradiated beast his camp mates dumped an entire HMG magazine on. Thing was more meat than pig at the end of it. ]
Great, more chatty constructs. Good thing my last passenger got off, would've been a tight fit otherwise. [ Excellent idea, letting people know how crazy you are. He coughs. ]
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[She takes pictures with her phone, which will only work then. Maybe someday she can show them to Nadine in person.]
Yeah. It shows up once a year and pukes up your heart’s desire, so dream big.
She's real, if that's what you mean, but I don't know whether or not she has a body anymore.
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'Pukes' up? Like actual vomit?
I meant exactly that. I have... experience with said things. In the old times would've said got ghosts in my blood and given me coke, turn me into a shaman, but lucky me, born in modern times, where it's just psychosis. [ Casual tone, as if the weather. ] So yeah, not too keen to repeat the experience. Can we shut her up?
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[Maybe it's a California thing. She's never been to the States. This is actually her first time in North America.]
It's a remarkably dry affair, actually, but… you know… [She mimes gagging and then gestures along her neck toward her mouth.] One of my mates got his winter coat that way.
You could probably get ghosts in your blood for real here. [She got vampire cursed, anything can happen.] But let me tell you, if it were possible to shut her up I would already have done it. She's caused me so many problems.
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Wow. You were being literal. Here I thought it was some sort of metaphor. [ All quasi-religious, paranormal stuff tends to be. ]
Rather not, just shed one. [ Misses him too, the tapeworm who was killing him. Might still be, if this really is the exact same body he had back home, minus the chrome. ] Ah, so it's one of those. Fan-fuckin'-tastic. Uh, can we get meds here? Omega blockers should shut 'er right up.
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Also yes, literal. Huge-ass pig horks up your heart’s desire, merry Christmas. I only believed it before I saw it because it was too stupid a story for the guy who told me to make up.
We’ve got some mild analgesics? Burn ointment. This place was hard up even before shit went to hell. Don’t think it would work anyway. You ask me, she's the one who did this to us in the first place.
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Isn't Santa supposed to be an old white guy with a big belly and bushy white beard? [ Always seemed hokey to Vincent, guy who only saw snow once in his life. ]
Oh, fuck. No ripperdocs either? [ Maybe it is a good thing all his chrome got ripped off. Imagine dealing with software incompatibilities in a place that only has aspirin. ] Did what, bring us here? Thought this place was like purgatory. [ Because, you know, he just got done killing a lot of people. But he's baptized, so that's how it works, right? You kill people but you're sorry about it so you're still saved? ]
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And if this is Purgatory, I'm gonna be pissed. I'm Hindu, I'm supposed to come back.
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It probably isn't then, which is...good? [ Afterlives are discerning—everyone goes wherever they believe they're supposed to end up. He's never been chauvinistic enough to believe everyone ends up either in Christian Heaven or Hell. The world would be such a boring place if only Jesus and the Devil ran the place. ] Thought you wanted to be free of that cycle? Or am I gettin' Hinduism confused with Buddhism? [ That bhikkhu did say the path he's embarked upon will bring nothing but suffering... and standing in this frozen wasteland, he's starting to believe it. ]
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I think we got kidnapped here to fight a war for Ms. Superpower.
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He groans at that. ] Just got done fightin' a war, c'mon! Can't a guy rest? Should've just sent me to Hell and gotten it over with. [ A beat. ] This ronin shit sucks.
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If you heard that voice calling you an “interloper” when you got here, that's the Darkwalker. Local folkloric figure, cycle of death and rebirth type of guy. His followers say he's pissed at us because he can't eat the world while we’re alive in it.
That's why this chick gives us powers, I think. She brings us here, to stand between the Darkwalker and the death of the world, and it spends all its time trying to kill us so she has to keep us alive somehow.
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Fucker wants to eat the world and we're the bad guys? [ Fan-fucking-tastic. Graduated from saving society from greedy megacorporations to saving the world from itself. Sounds like a story out of mythology—evil vs. good, yin and yang. The oldest story. ] Was really hopin' that voice was just another cry of help caused by the brain damage, but somehow it's worse. [ He rubs at his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyeballs, starbursts behind his lids. ] So they took my chrome away to give me different powers? Waste of fuckin' time. Could've been the perfect toy soldier had they let me keep all that titanium.
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[She’s no longer in her thirties, unfortunately!!]
I moved to Australia with my mum when I was ten, and she’d have loved for me to have left India behind completely.
[Story for another time, maybe.]
Lots of cultures have gods of destruction and rebirth. I'd argue that it's neutral, except that it's trying to kill us. It's so hungry.
[Her eyes are maybe a little too haunted on the last part: she's been cursed to feel that hunger too. Even now it's clawing at her.]
I don't know how it works - bog standard human, here - but powers and enhancements don't seem to make the trip with you. Enola seems to think her “gifts” balance it out. Make us competitive.
Also we can barely fix the shit we’ve actually got here. Cybernetics might just have made you die faster.
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[ Also a story for another time. Too early to bond over that specific kind of trauma. ]
Yeah, and in many of those tales other gods kick their asses. Or other gods recruit mortals to kick their asses. [ As is happening here. The haunted glaze to her eyes piques his interest, but he merely flattens his lips, stamping down the urge to ask if she might have personal insight to that. Not exactly a good question for a first meeting. ]
Startin' to think wanting her to give me somethin' isn't the best idea. 'Cause what the Lord giveth He taketh away. [ Has to be a downside to these powers. Fairness isn't part of a god's trade. Balance, some might call it. But even if there weren't any downsides, good old human hubris would kick in. Humanity ever loves to emulate Icarus. ]
Hm, point. Wouldn't appreciate getting locked outta my legs 'cause I can't do a software update. Or my eyes go dark 'cause I forgot my ClearSight™ Kiroshi subscription.
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[She’d abandoned her accent pretty early on.]
It's not always a bad thing, but I wish I'd had a choice. Go in with my eyes open, you know? It's really made things hard for me, and I know I'm not the only one.
Your hardware is a subscription service? That sucks. Definitely wouldn't want that here, there's not exactly wifi on every corner.
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Choice—biggest luxury in the world. Freedom. I'd give every eurodollar I have if it meant no one ever forced me into anythin' ever again. [ That's to say he gets it. Lack of autonomy, the attempt of its removal, is a trigger for him. ]
Eh, mine were hacked. I ain't payin' Kiroshi twenty eddies a month so I can zoom in just a bit farther with my eyeballs. [ Place is pretty low tech. Vincent wonders if that'll be a blessing or a curse. Could use the chrome holiday. Go full Buddhist monk. Maybe those bhikkhus and Robert Rainwater were onto something when they said too much cyberware rots the soul. He feels...lighter, like a fine-tuned machine but fully organic. ] So we all just doin' it old school? No electricity, no heaters, just wood, fire and a prayer?
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Turning into a wolf is pretty cool, though.
Basically. I have a steam boiler at my place - I run a little greenhouse up at the farm, but it gives the house heat and hot water too - but most people use wood burning fireplaces. Electricity works during the aurora, but it's patchy.
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