methuselah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
singmod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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.
methuselah's feast
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?
no subject
But it's equally important she exerts her authority. And so when she speaks, it's crisp, to the point. ]
Miss Huang, please. As a friendly reminder, I am your supervisor.
How old I am isn't relevant. [ Pause. ] Not eleven, though. [ Please! She's not an infant!!
After she's said her piece, she smiles, more sweetly again, and just a touch patronising. She doesn't mean it to be, but it's probably always going to come off that way when she's a literal child treating adults like they're the children. Of course, aren't innies technically mentally younger than she is? ]
And what's your name?
no subject
[ He knows she probably isn't nine - though he's not the best with children, Hickey has a vague idea of what kids look like. But he suspects being called nine will annoy her and Hickey is 100% ready to bully a child. ]
no subject
She has to do this, though. She can do this. Even if it does irritate her that the innie continues to disrespect her, and she wrinkles her nose for a moment before responding with another one of those Stepford smiles. ]
In that case, it's a pleasure to meet you, Cornelius H.
[ That's your name now, Hickey... ]
Surely you have a supervisor. [ Maybe they don't call it that where he works, though. Some of the departments are very... unique. ] Which department do you work in?
no subject
Caulk.
[ That was his department back on Terror (maybe?), still counts. It's not like he can give a better answer anyway. The bullying continues as he points out, ]
And you're wrong on that point. Closest thing I had to a supervisor died. House fire, if I'm not mistaken. Saw the corpse.
[ Even sniffed it to make sure the body was Crozier's, that the scent matched. Hickey had to be sure. He had to. ]
So my point still stands, Huang. You aren't my supervisor.
no subject
Oh, goodness... What a tragedy. [ Miss Huang offers in a quiet voice, giving her best Empathetic Expression — brows knit, sad smile, head tilted. ....It might still come across as mildly condescending. There is empathy, but mostly because she knows what it's like for a branch to suddenly and unexpectedly be down a manager. It's why she was brought in so swiftly as deputy manager, after all. ]
Well, given that there are no other supervisors around right now, I am your acting one until a senior manager shows up again.
[ She's right back to business, bristling at the innie's insistence. He's her responsibility. Maybe this is part of her test. Handle a bunch of very stubborn, very unpleasant innies! ]
You can't just be allowed to run around and do whatever you want, after all.
no subject
The bullying continues as Hickey points out, ]
You don't even know where we are. You don't know where we are, you don't know how you got here. You know nothing about this place. How d'you plan on supervising when you don't have a damn clue what's going on?
cw: dehumanisation, she thinks ur fake but this is actually so funny because....
But everything he says is... true. She has no idea where this is. She's just as lost as the innies on her floor were during that first ORTBO. There's been no direction, no instruction. No Mr. Milchick. She's all alone. (There are the innies, but they're not... well, they're not real people.)
It's that reminder that has Miss Huang regaining her composure: he's not even a real person. Slowly, her expression loses every lingering ounce of pleasantness. She stares back at the man, flat and cool. ]
There's a purpose for everything, Cornelius H. We have to trust our superiors' decision to send us here.
[ She lowers her head so that she's looking down at him from where she stands near his table. There's a clear chiding tone to the softness of her voice now, with no doubts that she's speaking like she would to a child. ]
It might be wise for you to remember that you aren't really Cornelius Hickey. He would want you to behave as well as possible, now wouldn't he?
no subject
He knows she can't mean it like that. Child like her, she doesn't know about that. She can't. Hell, barely anybody back home knew that Cornelius Hickey wasn't Cornelius Hickey. Only a handful of people here do. This must be a coincidence.
But hell is it a funny coincidence. Hickey can't help but laugh. It's a low little chuckle as he shakes his head, grin on his face, before he mentions, ]
Course I'm not the real Cornelius Hickey. The real Cornelius Hickey is dead. Killed him myself.
[ What's she going to do, tell other people about this? Rat him out? Everybody here already knows Hickey's sins, Crozier made sure to damn well tell everybody during that farce of a trial. And really, what's one round of identity theft compared to what others here have done? What they will do, if the Darkwalker shows up again? ]
I don't have to trust anything. Only thing I have to trust is myself—and I certainly don't have to trust some jumped up little seven-year-old who doesn't know what she's talking about.
no subject
That's... that's not possible. An innie can't kill their outie. ...And some have tried, though the girl isn't privy to every ounce of information there. Like most of the rest of the world, she's only directly interacted with innies so sparingly. Her internship at Lumon is her first time.
So it's practically unfathomable to her that such a thing could be true. ]
You're telling lies. [ And maybe, for the first time, she sounds like a child. A little petulant, mouth tightened. ] You're not displaying probity.
[ ...One of Kier's nine core principals, the ones every Lumon employee lives by, the ones she assumes he should be living by too. ]
no subject
[ Huang is petulant, Hickey is smug. No matter what, he's thrown this child for a loop. And honestly, Hickey's petty enough that he will take this for a win! Fuck you, kid! You don't know him! ]
no subject
But he has to be lying. He can't have killed his outie — certainly not literally, and there's no way that could happen otherwise, either, with the innie consciousness fully overtaking its original. Lumon is far too careful to let something like that happen.
This must be part of the test. And she will not give up. So the child adjusts her shoulders, wills a smile back onto her sweet little face, even though the warmth is fully gone from her eyes. ]
You have no reason to lie, under Kier's guidance.
[ ....Yeah, this kid is absolutely part of a cult. ]
Maybe you just need to be reminded of his greatness. You're lost. But fear not, Cornelius H. I'm here to help you.
no subject
[ This kid does sound like she's part of a cult. Crazy recognizes crazy (even though really, his own cult is a hell of a lot more fun that hers is.) Whoever this Kier is, obviously he's her boss, leader, enlightened savior, what the fuck ever. But that doesn't change the fact that Hickey has no idea who that man is.
There's nothing in his posture to suggest that he's lying. He's relaxed, leaning back in his chair slightly, just vibing and enjoying the mood. ]
no subject
But she most definitely thinks all of this makes sense by her world, not at all realising that this is somewhere else entirely. And so — it's part of the test. Lumon is testing her loyalty to the corporation, to Kier himself. ]
Kier is the most important figure to us all. He created... everything. Everything that matters. [ Something shines in her dark eyes as she speaks; it's a clear reverence for this man who's more like an entity, a deity. ]
Surely you know of his nine core principles. Vision. Verve. Wit. Cheer. Humility. Benevolence. Nimbleness. Probity. Wiles.
[ She recites them for him with her shoulders back and her proudly chin up. Lumon is watching her right now, and she'll show how dedicated she is. ]
no subject
Way I see it, you're not living up to those principles. Humility? Tiny little girl coming in, immediately bossing around a man she knows nothing about in a situation that she also knows nothing about, how the hell is that humble? You don't know anything.