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

niven mcpherson | original

[mundifies]

ARRIVAL

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

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

Fucks sake.

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

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

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

[ Yes, he’s talking English. ]

THE FEAST

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

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

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

Still, old habits die hard.

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

Am busy. Ye’ll have tae wait.

WILDCARD

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

the feast

[humblewizard]

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

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

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

[mundifies]

[ ... Graffiti?!

Niven stops mid-carve, his knife digging into the wood of the frame like a record scratch before his head turns slowly round to the man who's in his way. His stare is hard, indignant. If looks could kill, this man would be dead, dismembered and dumped in the North Sea.

... What the actual fuck is this guy wearing? ]

Excuse ye. [ There are children around, so he's minding his tongue. ] Bit rich comin' fae ah man who's clearly compensatin' fae something.

[ He nods his head at the staff. ]

Ah dinnae ken whit 'The Weave' is, anyways.

[humblewizard]

[ Now it's Gale's turn to give Niven a odd look, though his is one of pure confusion. How could this man know enough about magic to try and carve some runes but not know about the Weave? Urgh, he's probably one of those sorcerers, people who've had magic thrown at them and not gone through the proper channels to study it.

If he's surrounded by sorcerers and warlocks instead of anyone who has the slightest idea of what they're doing, he'll be very put out. ]

Surely you know about the Weave. It is the source of all magic. Wizards such as myself manipulate and craft the Weave in order to cast spells. And based on those runes, you're obviously trying to craft some sort of spell.

[mundifies]

Well, am no ah Wizard. [ His voice is short, clipped. Matter of fact. ] Wizards are whit we call auld men with beards in get-ups like yours with ah wee pointy hat.

[ He even gestures above his head for emphasis. Wizards are kiddies stories. Witches are real though. You don't fuck with Witches. They're scary. Mostly. Niven regards them with the same respect one does a wildfire. ]

Whit am tryin' tae do is craft some protection wards on this place, considerin' the folks congregating here. [ He's using big words, he must be annoyed. ] Am ah Mage. So, naw. Dinnae ken whit 'The Weave' is, it's no part of mah business.

[humblewizard]

[ As he knows an old man with a beard in a get-up like his with a wee pointy hat, Gale's not going to push back against that description. Somehow, this man described Elminster perfectly, which really means that Gale needs to get some better wizard PR for this place. Lord knows he's not going to wear a pointy hat.

If he doesn't know what the Weave is, however...well, there are options. Gale frowns a little, looking at the wards before asking, ]

Did you learn your magic from study, were you born with it, or did you obtain it through a pact with a patron?

[ At least in his world, 'mage' could mean many different things and could be broken up into many different subcategories. And as far as Gale's concerned, only one of those subcategories is worth a damn and the other two are punkass little bitches who cut corners to obtain their magic. ]

[mundifies]

Definitely no the last wan. [ Well that sounds dodgy as fuck. ] ... Bit ay ah mix ay the first two.

[ He physically squirms a little, uncomfortable. He's quiet for a long time before he clears his throat. ]

Seventh son ay ah seventh son, but I had tae learn.

[ Sure, aye. He was born with magic in his veins, saturated with the supernatural from a young age. He is well aware of his standing, and what the circumstances of his birth mean. But everything he's ever done has come from hard graft, and every fuck up along the way. ]

Are ye usually this nosy?

[humblewizard]

Only when there's something interesting happening, [ Gale lightly chirps in response. So that's a yes. Yes, he usually is this nosy. Niven might be uncomfortable, but Gale is treating this whole situation with an easy calm. ]

I asked because the distinction matters. If you were born with your magic or made a pact, then it makes sense that you wouldn't have heard of the Weave. But since you studied...well, that only offers up more questions.

[mundifies]

[ It takes him every ounce of energy not to roll his eyes. He fails, mostly because he doesn't want to expend the energy. Nosy twat. Something about curiosity and cats, etc. ]

If ye say so. [ He gives a long, suffering sigh. ] There's nae such thing as ah 'magic school'. Ma Da taught me, people he knew taught me, contacts, that sorty thing. Helped me how tae use it. Ah teach myself, tae.

It's kept oan the doon-low. People really ken that the supernatural stuff really exists? They'd huv ah meltdoon.

feast.

[afterdrop]

[For all his restless, teenage impatience, Charles is pleased to wait for a little while. Not like there's anywhere to get to in a place like this, much less when it means leaving one of the safest spots in town. He leans against a wood beam, hands in his pockets, and watches the guy work for a few moments.]

That some kind of magic?

[Charles doesn't recognize the runes, but he wasn't the one with the encyclopedic knowledge. He could figure out what needed doing, while Edwin always knew what book to use for it.]

What's it supposed to be doing?

[mundifies]

Naw, it's yer Maw's shoppin' list.

[ Is he a grown arse man? Yes. Is he also the pettiest bastard going? Also yes. Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers. Niven snorts, shaking his head. Alright, alright. He'll try not to be too much of a dick, they're just a kid. ]

Wardin' sigils. [ He explains as he continues. ] Ah huvnae seen ah lick of it since ah got here, an this place is givin' me some bad vibes despite the fact am comin' in blind.

[ It's probably the only thing he doesn't like about not having his powers: he's got nothing to defend himself with and he barely knows what's going on in his place. ]

Whitever forces are in play here, ye dinnae fuck 'round wi them. Someone tells me am an Interloper, am gonnae believe them.

[afterdrop]

[Warding sigils are at least something Charles is familiar with. He's drawn plenty of his own, even if they didn't look like this.]

Well, you're spot on with the vibes, mate, I can tell you that much.

[He can feel them, and he's not even one of those psychic types, with his brain all tapped into the energy, or whatever.]

Don't matter if you fuck around with them, though. The forces'll still fuck around with you.

[mundifies]

Thought as much. [ Normally, Niven loves being right. But in instances like this? Not as much. He huffs out a long sigh and uses one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. ]

Sounds aboot right, aye. [ He knows what it's like to be a walking target. Sometimes he makes that happen, other times it's just because of who he is. All other times it's just hazards of the job. ]

Speakin' ay forces: they got ah name fae that being that's callin' us Interlopers?

[ That'd be helpful, in case it's familiar territory. ]

Are we talkin' demonic? Spectral? Fae? Pissed off god?

[afterdrop]

[Charles shrugs, his shoulders loose and pointed.]

Don't really know, myself. Pretty sure I'd know if it was anything spectral. [It's said with a raise of the eyebrows, and a waggle of the fingers, dipping into a voice like he's telling a spooky story.] Sort of the resident ghost, 'round here. Whatever it is made me solid, though, so it's gotta be pretty powerful. Nothing like what I've seen back home.

[mundifies]

[ Niven, being Niven, frowns for a long moment before he reaches over and gently prods the boy in the shoulder. He makes a soft hum of surprise. Aye, that's pretty bloody solid for a dead lad. ]

Yer lookin' surprisingly normal fae ah ghostie. Benevolent, tae. [ Which has him raising an eyebrow in questioning. ] Maist ghosties are arseholes fae one reason or another. The guid ones don't tend tae stick aroond.

[ Only in rare occasions that they do. ]

So— has it brought ye back tae life, or—?

[afterdrop]

[He shakes his head, mouth twisting in a crooked little scrunch. It spells annoyance more than genuine upset, but then, Charles has always been good at hiding his feelings.]

Nah, not really. Heartbeat’s just for show. Can still get bashed to hell, though, so the blood’s all real.

[Which was a nasty surprise, when he expected weapons to go right through him.]

And that’s sort of how it works, in a way. [Roughly.] Longer you stick around without moving on, better a chance of getting all twisted up. Getting stuck in your feelings, going all poltergeist. Gotta stay busy. Find a purpose.

arrival.

[micycle]

[The bark comes first - growing louder, and closer, somewhere on the path behind Mike. Fear cuts through his stomach instantly, cold as the air in his lungs, and for a moment he stands stock still. Then - close enough to hear the thing breathing. His brain acts on instinct his body can't quiet follow through with, trying to make a sprint towards the tree line, but his leg his too stiff and his gait too slow, and by the time the creature reaches him-

When Niven catches up to his dog, he'll find her harassing a bedraggled teenager, backed against a tree with wild, terrified eyes, and a heaving chest he's trying desperately to still.

It's just a fucking collie. Someone please put him out of his misery.]

Wh-what? [He sucks in a cold breath, lungs aching, and tries to school his face.] What did you say?

[mundifies]

[ Ohhh, sweet baby Christ. Not only is it a kid, but it's a fuckin' Yank. Niven's head rolls back and he exhales sharply. Of all the people he expected to be here, this kid was nowhere near on his list.

Right then. He puts his hands on his hips. ]

Right. Let's try this again. [ He's speaking slower, louder. ] Hullo random laddie in the woods.

[ The accent doesn't shift that much. That won't budge for love nor money. ]

She'll no hurt ye. [ The dog, he means, with a cant of his head towards her. Bess is still wagging her tail and dodging around the boy as if still trying to attempt to herd him. Niven whistles, getting her to relent then chuckles. ] She probably thought ye were ah sheep wi' that hair, though.

[micycle]

[Yeah, he's sort of got the picture, now that he's actually seen the dog, and he's trying hard to tamp down the embarrassment at his reaction. Even if its bark still sends a prickle up his neck, it's about a fourth of the size of the thing that took off his fingers and killed his best friend.]

Hilarious.

[He spits it out like a snarl, but it just makes him sound even younger.]

I'm not a random laddie. [The quotation marks are practically audible.] I'm fucking lost. Tell your dog I'm not prey.

[mundifies]

Ah ken, aye. [ Niven beams at him with a shit-eating smile, bending with his knees briefly as he stand on the spot. ] Bess, leave him be.

[ The Collie does finally give up, trotting back over to her owner. ]

Well, considerin' ah've found ye in the middle ay naewhere, I'd say ye were pretty random. Am lost tae, so yer in shite company.

[ He's going to gloss over the anger, paying it no mind. He was a teenager once. He pauses, shrugging off his jacket. It's not much, but the lad's probably cold. Closing the gap a little between them, he holds it out for him to take. ]

Got ah name, 'lost random laddie'—?

[micycle]

Um- Mike. It's Mike.

[He's still frazzled enough that his brain feels like it's lagging behind, tracking Niven's words and motions a split second late. The offering of the jacket doesn't even carry at first, having to pry between the rest of his scattering thoughts to make sense. As soon as it does, though, he feels a pang of conflict, stubbornness warring with base need.

The base need wins out, and he reaches out to grab it. Fumbling it over his bony shoulders, he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground.]

Sorry. To, uh- to Bess. For freaking out. [Clearly reluctant, but the shame is real. He doesn't want her to feel like she's done anything wrong, when she was just being friendly. As way of explanation, Mike finishes slipping his arms through the sleeve and holds up his left hand. Two fingers are missing, right down past the knuckle.] A dog did this.

[mundifies]

Mike. [ He nods. ] Niven.

[ He's wincing at the boy's hand. Jesus. That looks rough, and he's not a complete bastard because the poor laddie's down two fingers and he does have an itch to fix it. Regrowing digits is— well, it's not the easiest thing, but not impossible. ]

... Mind if ah huv ah closer look?

[ Oh, you soft shite he's already telling himself. He holds his hands up in a defensive gesture. ]

Nae funny business, ah swear.

[ Well, not really. Sort of. It might be a bit funny, but not in that way. ]

[micycle]

[Mike doesn’t really have a reason to mistrust Niven, not from the interaction so far, but he doesn’t think he could be blamed for his hesitation. Hawkins taught him early to be wary of adults, and he’s carried it with him for years.

Eyes sharp and vigilant, he holds out his hand, still leaning close to the tree for balance. It’s not pretty - clearly a ragged tear and sloppy surgery - but it could be much worse.

See: his leg.]

It doesn’t really hurt much anymore.

arrival

[tedandroses]

Teddy's fallen into a habit of taking long walks, hikes even. Not every day, as they find things to do with themself, but it's a good routine. (…)

Scout needs the exercise whether it's in town or not, and Teddy always did better at home when they got themself out of the damn house. Being around nature, making themself work a little: it quiets their mind down. And that was somewhere they could listen to music and be online if they wanted.

(He's grateful for his guitar, and that it's an acoustic. But seriously. If someone had come up with a unique kind of torture just for Teddy, "getting stuck in a place where you can't listen to even analog media but a couple times a month" would be pretty high on the list.)

The murmurs about likely newcomers haven't escaped her, anyway, and she remembers very well how freaked out and lost she was when she got here. Although Teddy takes care to be well prepared and cautious for wildlife, she does push herself a little further afield, scoping out the edges of the area.

Today seems at first like it's going

Epcot is a theme park at Walt Disney World Resort featuring exciting attractions, international pavilions, award-winning fireworks and seasonal special events.

It seems likely to be a pretty uneventful hike until Scout -- off lead and ahead, because who cares, when it's just them? If something happened, she'd need to be anyway -- picks up a scent, nose to the ground. Teddy freezes for half a second, but everything about Scout's body language is interested, tail flagging her excitement. She's distracted by it for a few moments, following, before lifting her head and looking to Teddy, and Teddy smiles and gives her an 'okay' sign. "What've you got, baby?" she calls. "Go find it."

It doesn't take long to go find; Teddy's been following Scout for only a little ways off the path they'd initially been on when they hear a sharp bark, followed by a -- frankly, gorgeous -- brown and white, waggy but insistent (border collie? maybe?) who's barely in view before it's covering the space to them.

Initially looking a little bemused by the sheer energy barrelling at them, Scout seems to understand the mission the new dog's on and follows at a trot -- makes sense; she's trained to find and retrieve help. Teddy puts two and two together even as she's being herded.

It's not far, through a dense cluster of trees that open up into a clearing, at which point the collie takes off back to what must be its person. A man (probably); dark hair, kind of angular. Definitely not anyone Teddy's seen. Dressed sort of like Teddy was when they got here (or, now, in some ways, but they've picked up a sturdier coat since), so --probably modern and also probably a little freezing.

[ He's getting to his feet when Teddy and Scout get there and Teddy finds themself having to look up (and up). The momentary reconfiguring of him having at least a foot on them is tossed out the window when he speaks: they also weren't expecting the accent. Well. Fair enough, he's liable not to expect theirs. Or probably have had much exposure. ]

No such luck. Your dog hates that plan, as it turns out.

[ Teddy tilts his head, struck by how odd that is as a reply given the givens.]

Were you fixin on being here at all?

arrival!

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy's on his way back from a grouse 'hunt'—setting snares and various box traps originally intended for other species—when the strange dog starts trotting up to him. Even if he's not overly social, he knows of everyone who lives here by now—it's a small community—, and, by extension, which dogs are whose. And he doesn't recognize this one, which means that it could be feral, like Mukhtar was, and therefore definitely is not vaccinated against rabies (...not that... any animal here is...).

It starts barking at him, which Mukhtar only does to indicate a threat, or to strangers that they are unwelcome, and alarm immediately flares in his chest. The dog is wagging its tail, but he can't tell if it's wagging its tail to be friendly or if it's wagging its tail in that wary way he's seen Mukhtar do in tandem with baring his long white teeth.

He reaches for the seldom-used, always-carried gun stuffed into his waistband, draws, and cocks the hammer.

The dog, like a border collie but brown-and-white instead of black-and-white like the dogs on agility shows, starts whining and barking more, frenetically digging at random spots in the ground. Finally, she trots a few strides away from him, as though she's lost interest—but before his shoulders can untense slightly to their normal amount of tension, she looks over her narrow shoulder and barks at him again, then whines.

Like a dog in a children's movie trying to call someone back to its owner. It's clear she wants him to follow her.

Vasiliy follows this time, gun still drawn. Every few strides, the dog stops up and waits. And then they step into a thicket, and there's a man there. Vasiliy stuffs the gun back into the front of his waistband and hurries up to him, not without shooting a look down at the dog, who now stands wagging her tail, panting. ]

Good dog.

—Did you just come here? Are you okay?

[ He's speaking quite a dialect of English, but it seems to be a native one as opposed to Vasiliy's own version of the language he uses to mask his own revealing patterns of intonation and era-typical turns of phrase in his real language: he rattles it off effortlessly, without any deliberate thought. He sounds Scottish or Irish or Welsh. Vasiliy can place him as being from the Islands, but little else. ]