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

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.

[greatdeliverer]

The young-looking man seems a little jittery. Nervous about something, as he scurries into the cabin. The bundling up, at least, makes sense, given how goddamned cold it is. Sam keeps a wary on him for now, half wishing he also had a scarf or something to go with his jacket. But he didn't deliver to cold climates all that often, so there hadn't been much of a need.

"Why would our stuff show up in a different place than us? Why would we show up at all? I know what that weird dream voice said, but that doesn't explain shit."

Arrival

[astrogator]

Tayrey notices him from a distance. That yellow pack isn't hard to miss - although neither is her bright blue uniform. Not recognising him, she approaches carefully, in case he's the jumpy type. It doesn't surprise her that he's searching, although she figures that any uninhabited building this close to the center of town has probably already been cleared of anything particularly useful.

'Peace and prosperity,' she greets him politely. It's custom, a wish for the future even if not a description of current affairs.

At his question, she shakes her head. 'I haven't seen it, but I can look out for it on my travels if you like. What's important about it?'

[greatdeliverer]

"Uh. And you." Sam gives a wave in return, trying to place her uniform but not recognizing it. "Are you independent, or do you work for a private company or something? It's not Bridges, and it's not Fragile."

He chews his lip a little, brow furrowing in confusion; if she doesn't know a basic description of a BB pod, she won't understand what it's for. "Personal item," he says, finally.

[astrogator]

This question makes perfect sense to Tayrey. The peculiar thing is being asked it here, a galaxy away from Company politics. It can't mean what she thinks it means, then, but it's enough for her to let her guard down a little. Familiarity, unexpected in a strange land.

She gestures towards her arm, the badge on her uniform. 'This is Tradelines,' she tells him. 'Trade and military functions. I was born Company. My father is a Director at Cardalek.' She searches his gaze for any hint of recognition, even though Bridges and Fragile aren't known to her. There are a lot of small-c companies out there, after all. The usual reaction back home is surprise that the rich daughter of a sprawling megacorporation ended up a junior officer on a frontier ship. She sure doesn't miss that.

'My name's Tayrey,' she adds. 'And you?' Name, affiliation, or both. She'll take what she can get.

ii

[bigbaddy]

Considering Bigby has been told that he doesn't talk enough to people - please, he already talks to people more than he'd like, in his own very humble opinion! - he's determined to hit up the newbies at the feast. And it's not very hard to spot them when he looks around the feast. Bigby's been here for long enough that he can tell who's been here for a while and who seems new.

Sam definitely has not been here. So it's why Bigby grabs some food for himself before making his way over to where the other guy is sitting - and then sitting down at that same table.

He gestures over at the other's yellow pack, if it's sitting nearby.

"That yours?"

[greatdeliverer]

Sam isn't the most chatty person himself, but he does understand that talking to people is a necessary evil. Especially in a new place, getting his bearings. So he nods in greeting to the man sitting next to him, then glances over at his pack.

"It is. Standard issue, for my job." Though he might move just a touch closer to his pack. Just in case.

[bigbaddy]

Thankfully for Sam it doesn't seem like Bigby is trying to make any sort of move for the pack in the moment. Even as the other answers and moves a little closer to it, Bigby is still just sitting there motionlessly. Maybe giving a small nod at the other's answer.

Though said answer does beg an obvious question.

"What kind of job do you have?"

Not that it will likely matter much here, so far away from Sam's own world. But sometimes it does. Bigby has definitely met a few cases where it sure did end up mattering.

[greatdeliverer]

"I'm a porter. Or was, I guess. I haven't seen any setup for orders here, but maybe I'm missing it." He fiddles with his fork a little, twirling it like some people twirl a pen or pencil. Feeling restless after sitting for more than a few hours at a time. Almost a whole day with no real movement feels wrong, somehow.

"Unless you don't have porters where you're from?" he adds, realizing he might need to clarify. "Long distance delivery. One end of the country to the other, sometimes."

[bigbaddy]

"Like a truck driver," he says.

Granted, those wouldn't have a reason to be carrying around a pack like that, given the whole truck of it all. But the rest of the description fits. The pack just makes it seem like the other is actually doing the same job, just on foot, but..

.. he did say long distance, which makes the whole idea wilder. Especially when Sam doesn't look to Bigby like he comes from times before they had long distance transportation available.

Hence why Bigby frowns a little when the thought occurs to him.

"They don't have trucks where you're from?" That has to be it, somehow. Why else would Sam be doing the - pun unintended - legwork by himself?

ii. (if you're cool with mild Severance spoilers, feel free to ignore this tag-in if not!)

[misshuang]

The girl who approaches Sam couldn't be older than thirteen or fourteen, yet her body language is that of someone much older — poised, confident, purposeful. Her attire, likewise, seems more suiting for a professional working in an office somewhere: crisp white collared shirt, neat black skirt, sensible flats.

As she steps up to the table he's eating at, she's wearing a pleasant, friendly smile. Yet her tone is almost a little too pleasant, a little too practiced, and her choice of words may seem more than a little odd.

"Hello! Can I bring anything else to help you be more productive? Maybe some coffee?" She stands there unmoving, smiling at the man.

spoiler away!

[greatdeliverer]

It feels weirdly familiar. Weirdly like Heartman's too-cheerful voice over the speaker in his room, informing him of various tests they've done with his bodily fluids that they stole in his sleep. Or from his shower.

He watches the girl with a cautious expression. God she looks young. Strange. "What am I being productive at right now?" Other than eating his dinner.

[misshuang]

The girl simply brightens at that question, looking all-too eager to answer it.

"We're always being productive! Even if you're sitting and eating, you're preparing your body for the tasks to come just after. I would say that still counts as being productive, wouldn't you?"

She pauses as though waiting for an answer, wide white smile locked on her face, unmoving.

[greatdeliverer]

"I guess that's the truth," he snorts a little. Trying not to be unnerved by the unyielding smile on the girl's face. "You don't need to be productive, though. Kids can just... be kids. No productivity needed."

He frowns a little, thinking of Lou. Of all the BBs, for that matter, and their forced productivity.

feast;

[firetouched]

At the first sound of new people arriving, Danny headed towards the community hall. He figures the more support the new arrivals have, the better, and he wants to try and be a useful member of the community. He manages to set himself up making and serving tea. When people aren't milling about to get their cups filled, he brings the teapot around to those seated to see if anyone would like some.

"This'll help warm you up," he says, giving the teapot an enticing wiggle.

[greatdeliverer]

"Huh." The other man gets an amused look, a slight shake of his head. "I haven't had tea since I was a kid, maybe. Not in a teapot, anyway. That was more for fancy parties.

But yeah. Sure." And Sam gestures for his tea-carrying companion to sit with him, if he'd like to.

[firetouched]

The tea-pot is something Danny found by pure luck in one of the houses. It's a bit chipped, but he likes the charm of it, and the routine of preparing tea like a ceremony brings him a sense of calm and comfort. So of course he brought it to the feast for the new arrivals, in the hopes that it might bring a bit of a homey feeling to something otherwise foreign.

"Trust me, you'll feel better for it," he says, pouring out a mug of the steaming liquid and handing it over. Even if tea isn't someone's thing, the welcome warmth of it almost always wins out.

[greatdeliverer]

Sam wraps his hands around the mug, sighing a little as the warmth seeps into his palms. Just because he has cold weather gear doesn't mean he was prepared for this level of freezing, and the warm mug is very welcome indeed.

"You're not wrong," he concedes, smiling wryly at the man with the tea. "I'm Sam. I guess I'm new."

[firetouched]

"Danny. And don't worry, everyone was new at some point."

Setting down the tea pot, Danny takes a seat next to Sam.

"We're all just here trying to survive and figure it all out, so most people are pretty chill. Some are more tense than others. It's understandable."

sammy boy!!! (the woods)

[imperatour]

Her gait is rhythmic, almost mechanical. Dependable. Reliable, each crunch of the snow under the sole of boots coming at the exact expected time of the next. Keep moving forward. It's only at the question carrying over the snow that she slows for a few paces before she stops entirely.

"You're..." and the question falls apart, evaporating like the visible breath puffed out softly from her lips dissipating into the cold winter air. Her expression pinches together, straining and confused. She immediately takes stock of herself. Feet grounded into well-loved boots lined with animal furs. A knife tucked snugly into a pocket sewn onto the side of her pants. A long rifle slung across her back. A thick, heavy coat with the left sleeve hanging empty off her shoulder, tied up at the elbow while a blunted arm is nestled close to her core, shielded, but not enough to entirely ward off the phantom ache that bites at her nerves.

She studies the face of her companion. A stranger.

"We're..." she tries again. They were doing something right? Going somewhere. Home, maybe. Wherever that is.

It's dizzying, but she does not panic. This is simply not her nature. But she also does not lie or comfort him.

"No," the word is short, her tone firm and final. "And I don't know my name either."

furiosa my love!!

[greatdeliverer]

"Hm." Well he doesn't like that. That neither of them know who they are, who the other is, or what they're doing here. It feels like one of his nightmares. Stranded somewhere.

... does he have nightmares? As soon as the thought materializes it's gone again. Drifting off in the wind.

His companion looks sturdy, at least. The two of them dressed for the weather, seemingly in good health. That's a plus. Maybe they stand a chance of getting out of here, if

Something tickles at his ear. A voice falling along with the snow.

What kind of survivor are you?

Sam turns back to the woman next to him, frowning in confusion. "Did you say something?"

[imperatour]

She hears it too, whistling through the trees, eerie.

"Wasn't me," she says with the wary shake of her head. She narrows her eyes, peering carefully into the woods, but there if anyone is there, she doesn't see them. It echoes again, like a whisper against her ear, unable to pinpoint exactly what direction it's coming from.

She lifts her chin, high and appraising.

"One that keeps moving."

[greatdeliverer]

"Same," he agrees quietly, turning the question over in his mind a few times. "I'll walk until my feet bleed. I keep coming back." Something about that last part tickles at something in the back of his mind. A memory of a beach, washing ashore.

"Huh. Do you think -- is there something else in the woods with us?"

[imperatour]

A nod. She understands. She can't name it, this return and return. A cycle as unstoppable as the turn of the day.

"Has to be," she decides. The logical and pragmatic answer. She calls out, "Hello?"

A branch snaps loudly under her foot as she turns a half-circle around to look for an answer to her question. Not startling her exactly, but drawing her sharp attention to it. It sounds like a trap. How some animals would rather gnaw their own leg off than die in a foothold.