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.
Abigail Hobbs » Hannibal » cw: blood in linked image
Arrival
Methuselah's Feast
Wildcard | Yolo
arrival
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.
no subject
There's a delay following his request, thoughts rapidly processing as the adrenaline continues to pump through her veins. Abigail unsure if it's a good idea; if anything is a good idea. Fuck. Worst case scenario: she finishes bleeding out. Best case scenario: she's already dead so it doesn't matter.
There was no way Hannibal hadn't struck her jugular vein with the steady precision of his cut -- less chaotic than her father's. Deeper. She didn't understand why she wasn't bleeding as heavily... or maybe at all? Hard to tell what was from a few minutes ago and now. What was hers versus Will's.
Gingerly, she lowers her hand to reveal the healing slash to her throat. It's hard to see with all the blood staining her skin, but the wound is no longer lethal. Still needs tending to and bandages to stop residual bleeding from the clean edge of the wound as it tries to clot and to prevent infection. ]
no subject
Right. Don't try to talk because even though that wound doesn't look as bad as it could be, it still looks rough. I'll get you...fuck, I don't know, the community center? We're a tad short on doctors here at the moment. Feel up to walking?
no subject
She stiffens in the cold, but pushes forward. ]
Are we dead?
[ Is this purgatory? Some weird in-between before she's sent to hell? Or is she already here? ]
no subject
Thankfully, no. Been there, done that, would prefer not to have it happen again. Lean on me if you feel like you're going to collapse.
[ Dorian takes his steps out of the house slowly and carefully. One, the girl's probably still a bit too weak to actually book it right now. Two, snow's not exactly the most stable of terrains. ]
We're something worse than dead—we're stuck in Canada.
no subject
As harsh as the cold is, at least the air is no longer stale. She keeps her words soft and slow, not wanting to test fate more than she already has. ]
I'm from Minnesota -- not too different. [ For better or for worse. ] I'm Abigail, thank you for helping me.
(no subject)
sorry for delay - was out of town!
(no subject)
feast!
Especially when he, a long while ago now, was the person at the feast with a blood-covered shirt. He knows what it's like. ]
That's alright. [ He says, and after a second, he shifts - moving to be opposite her, rather than next to her. Hopefully she can hear better that way.
The slight frown is still on his face though as he asks: ]
Are you.. alright? [ Clearly not, but this is more a polite sort of 'do you even want to bring it up' sort of question. It's not like Billy to be all up in people's businesses anyway.
It's just-- there's something about her that reminds him of his own situation a long while ago, so he can't help but ask. ]
no subject
The question catches her off guard, knowing she's still quite a sight. The real question, though, is how truthful should she be? Hannibal's voice still echoed in her ear, the depths of her psyche shifted and molded to fit what he needed her to be. She didn't know who she was anymore, but she could at least muster up a sorrowful and hollow laugh. ]
No. But I will be... I think? [ Probably not. The line of ghosts in her memories are hard to quiet. ] Does everyone come here from the worst moments in their lives? [ She'll remember her manners eventually and introduce herself. She's rusty on everything. ]
no subject
[ It's said with a neutral enough tone that - even though it could have been, in a different context - it doesn't sound like Billy is joking. If anything, it makes it sound like he kind of gets it.
He's not questioning her on it, after all. Apparently there's nothing strange to him about her likely having come from a terrible moment.
There's a slight moment of hesitation, like the man isn't too sure whether to share, but then he decides to tell her, slowly-- ]
I died before I found myself here, actually. [ Maybe it's an attempt to make her feel better. To show her that she's definitely not the only one. ]
no subject
She'd gotten used to most people treating her with kid gloves. At least before everything fell apart. ]
I should be dead. I am or I was -- [ There hasn't been much downtime to really think through the last few hours of her life. Not sure she wants to. ] Did it hurt when you --? [ She cuts herself off with a shake of head and a quick apology, her eyes immediately cast down to look at her cup of tea. ] I'm sorry. That was rude to ask.
no subject
It's fine. [ Sure, it was kind of a direct question. But at this point his death feels so long ago that he doesn't really mind talking about it - especially when he can easily shave off the parts he doesn't want to mention. Sticking to the very basic details of it isn't so bad.
Besides, considering what Abigail is saying.. It sounds like she went through a similar enough thing in the first place. ]
It did hurt. Though I suppose that sort of thing depends on the manner in which you die. [ Despite the macabre subject - or maybe because of it - the man's tone is on the soft side. Polite. Pensive. ] It is more drawn out for some than others.
feast
[That probably should have been obvious, how embarrassing.]
I was just saying they keep a stash of warm clothing that people have scavenged here in the community centre for new people, if you want to get out of that stuff.
sorry for delay - was out of town!
Abigail doesn't dwell and doesn't try to explain. ]
Might be best. [ There hasn't been a ton of time to really take a look at herself or even process what the fuck happened. ] Do people usually show up in rough shape?
No worries!
no subject
[ Should she be trying to stock up on bandages? Is that silly? ]
no subject
Most of the torture here is psychological.
arrival
She runs to the door, her wolf Ulfrùn at her heels, but tries to temper her alarm as she turns the handle. She doesn't know what this girl has been through, and her own rough appearance - the scarred face and missing eye the result of a bear attack - may remind her of her own attackers.]
My name is Randvi. I saw you from the road. Do you need help?
sorry for delay - was out of town!
Not that it mattered. Warmth didn't mean safety. Abigail turns towards the voice, hand tightly grasping her neck. She doesn't trust her voice, unsure if she'd be able to form words or what might tumble out. The shock of it all paired with residual pain has at least left her with an illusion of a calm disassociative state.
She chooses to nod yes, taking in the other woman's features. Just another question to be added to a list for later. ]
No problem!
This time it doesn't have to be that way. Randvi walks closer.]
There is a village nearby where you can get treatment for your injuries. You will find that they are less severe than they were prior to your arrival.
I can help you walk if you'll allow it.
no subject
There's a moment of hesitation as Randvi walks closer, Abigail akin to a skittish deer with the adrenaline still running through her system. After a steadying breath to gather herself, Abigail manages a slow nod. She can do this. She can keep her shit and herself together. ]
Where are we?
no subject
She holds out her arm in case the girl wants support.]
This land is called Canada. We are in a northern territory, near a village called Milton. Whatever harmed you, you are very far now from it.
feast;
Yeah, totally. Everything's just over here - [ He motions to a table where he's got everything folded and organized to the best of his abilities. It's a hodge-podge of things, and finding a perfect fit might be impossible, but at least it's something. ] Definitely grab a jacket.
no subject
While the blood staining her clothes has mostly dried down, she doesn't want to risk getting anything on the clean clothes -- setting the jacket and sweater aside to take one more look for a scarf or gloves. ]
Thanks. I'm Abigail. [ She manages a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes before dropping her gaze back to the assorted items. ] Have you been here long?
no subject
I'm Steve. It's only been a few months but I guess I've been here before. I don't really get how that's possible, but my friend says so, so ...
[ And Eddie doesn't really have a reason to lie.
He shrugs. ]
I won't lie, this place is a shithole, but the people are good.