October 2025 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

OCTOBER 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 — POWER IN WORDS: Interlopers gather around the campfire and decide to tell stories: only to find their stories begin to come alive right before their very eyes.

PROMPT THREE — FRONTIER COMFORTS: Interlopers come across a surprise baker in Milton, offering up tasty treats — with unexpected effects.

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.

POWER IN WORDS

WHEN: The month of October.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: reality warping; potential fourth-walling; horror monsters/creatures; potential character injury; potential character death.

They say there’s nothing more powerful than stories. Tales of caution told to little children to mind the great and terrible things out in the darkness of the world. Accounts of folk horrors or great adventures to thrill and entertain. Or perhaps stories of valour and hope to help inspire the hearts of the downtrodden and destitute. Words have been spoken over campfires for eons, passed down from lips to lips.

In the Northern Territories, there is plenty of time on one’s hands. The hours seem to crawl by, and there is very little in terms of entertainment to keep one’s mind busy after the chores and business needed to survive is done. Sometimes all there is left to do is to sit by the fire and talk. And with winter quickly approaching, huddling around a fire certainly isn’t a bad idea after all.

And certainly, Interlopers have found themselves compelled to gather around fires as of late. To spend time with their fellow Interlopers, to enjoy the sense of community and togetherness.

Considering the time of year, it’s October — a favourite time of year for some. Halloween draws close, and what better way to celebrate it in a world where nothing much can be celebrated by telling some of your favourite spooky stories for the evening? It feels like as good a time as any, after all.

So you gather around a fire with your fellow Interlopers and begin to tell one another stories. They might be retellings of your favourite horror movies, folktales from your country, stories that freaked you out as a kid. Stories of cryptids or the monsters under the bed. Maybe it might be some supernatural encounter you once experienced. Something to really spook your fellow Interlopers for fun.

… only it isn’t just for fun.

In a world where there are bigger powers at play, there is so much power in words spoken. As you tell your story, something… unexpected happens. Interlopers will find that the horror stories they tell around the fire will start to become a reality. The cryptid from your hometown may just start stalking you from the shadows. The werewolf from that favourite horror film of yours? You hear it howl in the distance. The ghosts you swear you saw once as a kid will appear before you.

You have brought these stories to life, accidentally.

How do you deal with such a thing? Well, how does it end in the story? Your creations only have as much power as the stories that hold them. Stake through the heart for a vampire, a ring of salt for ghosts, silver for werewolves. And you better deal with it quickly, less you become just another victim in the story.

Fortunately, if you’ve talked yourself into a bit of a jam, the monsters you’ve spoken into life will eventually disappear into nothing by the time the sun rises again. You only have to survive the night first.

FRONTIER COMFORTS

WHEN: The month of October.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: altered/magical food items; severely altered/warped behaviours; potential personality switches/animalistic behavioural characteristics; minor body horror; loss of senses; physical age changes; precognition/future visions.

In the month of October, Interlopers have been practically plagued by the delicious scents of homebaking that fill the air in and around Milton. Following their noses, however, has turned up nothing,and no one’s been able to find the source of those smells no matter how hard anyone’s tried to look. Interlopers aren’t exactly living on the most luxurious of diets, and often the most basic and simple of meals is what’s on the table for them in the general day to day. Whatever this is smells practically divine, and no one is immune to being enraptured by them.

One particular day, as you walk around Milton, the scent is particularly strong and this time you’re determined to find the source of the baking. Maybe whoever it is might be in a particularly charitable mood, or might be willing to trade for whatever it is you’re baking.

You see lights on in one of the cabins that had once otherwise been empty, or maybe you’d just never noticed someone lived there. But as you draw closer to the front door, the scents of home cooking are overpowering and you knock, hoping and praying for an answer.

The man who answers the doors isn’t someone you recognise. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about him: he is middle-aged and tall, with a thick beard. Behind him is a busy scene: a roaring fire and the ongoing process of baking. He chuckles at your staring and invites you in. Inside, you find the source of the smell: home-cooked pies of varying types; some more rustic than others, with golden pastry and rich-smelling fillings.

You’re not sure if the man is a fellow Interloper, or perhaps one of the folks from Silverpoint — a Milton native who’s returned home. Or maybe he’s neither. He doesn’t speak much, and only beckons you to pull up a chair at the large kitchen table and eat.

He offers a selection. The choice is yours, Interlopers. But trying out one of these pies might have you biting off more than you can chew.

STALKER’S PIE: A rich pie made with Bear and Wolf meat. Dangerous, mysterious filling. This pie gives the Interloper eating it an animalistic instinct. Your senses are sharp, keen. You hear, smell and see as an animal would. Your nails are sharp like claws, your teeth are now fangs to bear and snap. You see the world in black and white: predator and prey.

PREPPER’S PIE: A dense pie made from foraged vegetables. Rough around the edges. After eating this pie, you feel your mind is clear and untroubled. You feel prepared… in a way you didn’t think possible. For a time, you are able to see things in the immediate future around you. And with that, you are ready for anything.

DOCKWORKER’S PIE: A satisfying pie made from the day's catch. The taste of the sea. As you eat this pie, you feel a sensation of waves washing over you. A gentle rocking, as if you are a vessel on the ocean. With each gentle rock, you feel yourself shift. You’re still you, but another kind of you. Maybe if you’d made another choice, or maybe you hadn’t been chosen. In this world, this timeline, things had gone differently. And now so are you. Different. An alternative version of yourself, rippling through.

BREYERHOUSE PIE: A pie any meateater would love. Lunchbox-ready. Chowing down on this heavy, meat-filled pie reminds you that you too are just meat. And like the game butchered and broken down to make it, the same can be done to you. This pie will temporarily take away one of your five senses: sight, touch, smell, taste or hearing. You may find yourself feeling completely numb to touch; or unable to hear or see anything.

PEACH PIE: A pie filled with sweet, canned peaches. Reminds one of warmer seasons and brighter days. Eating this pie will change your physical age to a younger version of yourself. It will be of a time when things were simpler, happier. The world around you did not feel so empty and terrifying, and you now see it with eyes of wonder and an unbridled heart.

Afterwards, you’ll find you can’t find the man or his cabin again. Once you leave the area and try to return, you’ll find the cabin empty, with no trace of the man or his baking to be found.

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.

POWER IN WORDS

1. While any monsters are fine to bring in, we do ask that players are mindful of bringing in gigantic monsters (ie. Godzilla) that could potentially break the game's setting.

2. Players are welcome to go with monsters from their character's canons, or make up their own ghost stories or go with real-life examples of ghost stories.


FRONTIER COMFORTS

1. The effects of the pies will last between eight hours to a week, depending on how much was consumed. Nothing can be done to alleviate symptoms. You will feel incredibly hungover the day after the effects have subsided, like you've eaten something way too rich, but feel completely fine after that.

2. Dockworker's Pie can be any kind of AU, whether that's a canon AU (ie. Endverse in Supernatural) or a player-made up AU. Genderswaps would also be acceptable in this instance.

3. Peach Pie is flexible in how it can be played out. Characters can keep their normal mind/memories, or they can revert themselves to their literal child stage. Or even an in-between point where they find others around them (ie. CR/canonmates) familiar but can't really truly suss out their current situation.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

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QUESTIONS

[singmod]

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george hodgson | the terror

[manges]

⚓ ARRIVAL
cw: spoilers for The Terror; refs to character death

[ The beast's footsteps drawing nearer on the shale, his own panicked breath and the rush of his heart in his ears as he fumbles with the infernal keys on his shackles. He barely hears the words over his own desperation: You should be still. Stop moving! And then everything is hot and sharp and loud and black, the beast's mouth closes in around him and he does not feel the earth beneath him anymore.

The quiet hush he opens his eyes to is blinding, and he finds himself on his back in soft snow — the slow rock tree boughs in the breeze, like some sweet lullaby. He dare not breathe. But finally he does, a long shuddering breath. He feels as if he awoke from a dream, and he lies for some time — close to weeping.

It is too cold to remain here, and he slowly sits up to look about him. A quiet wood. A word comes to mind: winterstille, winter silence.

He cannot remain here. And so George Hodgson slowly, painfully pulls himself to his feet — his body aching as he turns about him, tries to find a direction to head. His feet carry him, stumbling through the snow. What is this place—? His eyes wide, watering. Vegetation, and the soft smell of smoke lingering high above.

Stumbling, he finds himself a pathway and begins to follow along it. How can this be? They wandered the shade on no such paths or trails. But soon enough, there is movement. His heart skips in panic. The beast? Or something else? He dives for cover behind a tree, a cry half-caught in his throat. He is unarmed. No means to defend himself, at the mercy of such a stranger in this... strange place.

His voice wavers as he calls out: ]

Please, I beg of you—! I am unarmed—! I mean no harm—!

⚓ THE FEAST
cw: themes of starvation/issues with food/eating; religious themes

[ This place is strange, the people within it stranger. A low buzz of noise within these walls. Bodies moving to and fro, and he moves amongst them like a ghost — lost in some haze. His manners almost forget him, and he nods stiffly as he moves to one side to let another past like an afterthought.

The air is warm and the scent of food seems to cling to him, but it turns sour in his stomach and it can only lurch painfully in reply. He finds himself drifting towards the tables regardless, as if his feet carry him without his mind's say-so. There is food. Stews and soup and grilled fish.

He stands, staring at it as other move around him to gather their fill. His eyes grow glossy with tears, and he blinks them back. His mouth waters. He is hungry, and frightened and shamed. He cannot move himself to eat. Perhaps this is Hell, he thinks. Punishment for what he has done, for every wretched thing he has done. As if he could never be clean. As if nothing in this world could cleanse him. ]

⚓ FRONTIER COMFORTS — BREYERHOUSE

[ Even despite the hardships of not being to eat at the Feast, he finds himself powerless to the delectable scents that drift upon the frozen air. And while he is cautious as he steps inside the cabin, removing his cap and not daring to meet the man's eye — his stomach aches terribly at the offerings.

But it seems even a few small bites is enough for whatever magic (dare he say?) to take hold.

He stumbles out of the cabin in a state, gasping and shuddering — the world has gone completely black, as if he were lost in endless night. Nothing has prepared him for this, not even the horrors that enveloped him on the shale and ice, he cannot see.

(They spoke of a sickness upon the snow, where the dazzling could send a man blind. He is afraid.)

He staggers through the snow, arms outstretched. His eyes are open and widen, as if it might help, head turning to sounds nearby. He may accidentally collide into some poor soul in his path, his expression both apologetic and desperate. ]

Please, someone. I— I require assistance. Please.

frontier comforts

[fidior]

[ Little's own relationship with hunger is a strange thing. His need for sustenance now goes deeper than should be possible. There is a darkness nested in the core of his spirit, and he must feed it. Not flesh, not blood, but something else.

And it's this craving that he's perpetually sensitive for, thrilled for, even as much as he hates himself for it. One can't help it, on that instinctive level that goes beyond the concepts of moral and goodness. He once believed that no truly decent man could be swayed to partake in such evils. Now he knows better. And now he has begun to associate people — at least some of them, the ones whose life-forces he thirsts for — with food.

....It's rare that the smell of actual food excites him in such a way. But something tantalising lingers in the air, conjuring forth memories of a time in which Edward did find himself breathless each time he smelled real food in this place, after so long of unbearable starvation. He follows that scent like a child and he eats what's offered to him as though in a dream. He welcomes the idea of enjoying the food, remembering faintly what it is to be a normal man, to feed on normal things and nothing so terrible as what he is cursed to consume now.

But of course there's a punishment. And now he shuffles blindly out into the street, trying not to panic. The loss of his sight is— terrifying, and his heart hammers, head dizzied. He thinks of every dangerous thing with sharp teeth he has ever known — and how, should he find himself in the path of some horror whether natural or unnatural, he would be utterly defenseless. Briefly he wonders about turning to his beast form, but he fears what the animal might do when blind. Lately, his other form has been... wild, bloodthirsty, unstable. No, better he stay as a man. But that means he feels all of a man's terror, nostrils flared, body tense, instinct driving him to stay quiet, unwilling to draw attention to himself.

He makes contact with someone and pulls back quickly, alarmed. But then he's abruptly freezing in place, stunned.

It's been a very, very long time since he heard that distinctive voice, outside of his dreams and nightmares alike. He recognises it as one of his many ghosts, the ones who haunt him perpetually. Surely this is only another transient moment in which one of his lost men flutters before him — close but never close enough. Still, he turns towards that voice, eyes wide, useless but searching all the same, and wounded. A knife twists through his heart, causing the name to come out hoarse and pained. ]

.........George?

frontier comfort

[friendsfordinner]

[ Hickey absolutely knows what the meat of the pie that he eats is. There's wolf in this. He's eaten wolf before, before this place gave him a gift, before he was changed. Idly, he wonders if this is cannibalism now. Wolf cannibalism to add to his supposed crimes.

No matter. It's not like that bothers him any. That's just how the world is. If you're weak, you're prey. It doesn't matter if you're the same species, the same family, there's predator and prey and that's it. And it's the job of the prey to satisfy the predator, to be crushed and killed and turned into fuel. Needless to say, that's not going to be Hickey. That won't be him ever again.

That Stalker's Pie is doing a real weird number on Hickey's psyche. (Though, a real weird number on Hickey's psyche has unfortunately become a bit of the default here.)

He wants to run, to chase, to find something or someone and rip their throat out... then he spots him. Hodgson. The man was always weak. Always less. He hadn't necessarily planned for Hodgson to join their little group but one does not look an opportunity when it is given. And weak, cowardly, desperate for structure Hodgson provided a wonderful opportunity.

Thanks to his Free Runner status, Hickey moves towards the former lieutenant in relative silence, avoiding twigs, avoiding stumbling through the snow. The man isn't looking at him. Odd. But no matter. Hickey stays as quiet as he can, like a fox tracking a rabbit, until he's remarkably close to Hodgson. Only then will he greet the Lieutenant with a simple, ]

Hello there, Hodgeson.

Arrival

[astrogator]

[She has become adept at foraging. It is a necessity; Tayrey needs the calories that she needs, and the more that she can do for herself, the less her own requirements eat into her trade surplus. She strives for efficiency, and never once considers what she's building surplus for, what benefit it brings in a place like this. She's a Tradeliner, she is developing a trading line. When all else has changed, she can cling tight to that hard, bright core of her identity.

So today, she is heading out to forage. She wears her officer's coat still, bright blue wool with shiny silver buttons, but she has more underlayers beneath than anyone would ever need shipside, thick gloves, and a warm grey scarf wrapped over her head and neck. The compact energy pistol stays clipped to her belt. There are dangers out here. She's aware of them. Not aware enough to avoid walking the paths alone. But aware.

In the corner of her eye she spots a figure, sees that hasty dive for shelter. Ari Tayrey takes another step forward before she hears that pleading voice.]

Peace!

[So confident a reassurance that it's almost a command. Her hand moves very deliberately away from the firearm.]

I offer peaceable contract. If you do the same, you have nothing to fear from me. Come on out.

the feast

[gascogne]

[He watches for a moment, a small frown forming ever so slightly, a persistent curiosity at the man's presence, Hodgson all but looking as if he'd found himself in a far less welcoming circumstance than warm food and hospitality that appears to require no payment would bring to any other. No, this man may as well have entered the aftermath of a battle, a scene too incomprehensible to allow anything but quiet madness. D'Artagnan chews on his lip, finally taking a step away from the fish he considers greedily refilling his bowl with, having finished a moderate helping of rabbit stew, his approach slow but not hesitant once he's made his decision. An awkward low vowel noise leaves his mouth first, before he speaks more clearly, his tone without much inflection, droll and even, but his eyes show more obvious concern.]

Are you well, Monsieur?

[D'Artagnan's fingers curl around the edge of the blanket draped at his shoulders as if he may then offer it.]

feast

[extramuralise]

[ Many a time since his own arrival here, well over a year ago, has John Irving often found himself wondering the very same about this place: Perhaps this is Hell.

Because doesn't it make a certain amount of terribly perfect sense, after all? Not that he or any (well, fine, many) of his peers make for necessarily obvious candidates of the eternally Damned and regretfully hell-bound, but who is he — who are they, mere mortals all — to truly determine their own worthiness one way or the other? A large component to even having faith at all is to never know for sure until one's time finally comes, and—

Well.

Irving's time did come, and just look at where he's ended up. Call it what you will, but wherever they are is absolutely no Heaven, and what else is there, really?

Nothing else. Nothing. Edward may think them all now to be some manner of shade or ghost, lost and restless spirits or unholy, undead ghouls that may continue to walk forevermore without ever knowing peace, but Irving knows better: there simply are no such in-betweens, no Limbo, or purgatory, nor lingering, ghostly presence that remains upon the Earth; there is only life, death, and that is all.

Fallibility and mortality separate mankind from being among the truly Divine, which means no man can be entirely pure of sin; all men are, by simple merit of their existence, made up of parts both sacred and profane, and it is God and only God who can ultimately decides what the sum of those very parts totals up to.

In any case, this particular path of inner turmoil is one that is, to Irving, very well-trodden and familiar, although less so the way Hodgson currently happens to be walking it— to be sure, Irving still has quite a lot to be caught up on as far as his dear friend is concerned, but that is also neither here nor there from the first moment he happens to spy Hodgson sitting within the makeshift dining hall. ]

George.

[ It takes him a moment to properly get his muscles to respond, but then Irving rushes over to Hodgson's table, putting a trembling hand upon his friend's shoulder. ]

George, is it— i-is it really you, old friend?

Arrival

[wanderwolf]

[It’s the movement that catches Shao Anjun’s attention, even before the sound. It’s instinct, he’s found, embedded so deeply in his psyche that no civilizing force could ever have removed it: a predator notices quick, sudden movements because that is the way prey moves. His gaze whips to the left to follow the small spray of snow up from the ground, the low-slung branches of a tree that are now shaking from more than just the wind. He can tell without any conscious analysis that whatever moved was something big, much bigger than a bird or squirrel, and he begins to move closer to see what it was.

Then comes the voice. Trembling, terrified. Shao Anjun’s shoulders tense, but it’s not the tension of a beast coiling muscles for an attack. Even one who is born to be a predator needs not become a predator.]

It’s all right. I am not here to harm you. Please, will you come out?

[His own voice is very soft and gentle, like one trying to reassure a frightened child or perhaps a nervy horse. If Hodgeson does come out to get a look at him, he will see a man in a long cloak lined with fur, his long hair bound up with a jade guan headpiece. His hands, ears and the tip of his nose are red from the cold and his eyes are narrowed against the wind-blown snow, but his expression is calm and nonthreatening.]

arrival

[notarat]

[ There's two people getting startled here now - because usually when something moves out here, it's not a person, it's just trouble. Billy can feel something tensing inside of him at the idea of having to deal with said trouble, his lungs growing so hot, that familiar burning sensation that grows with his own fear--

-- and it's only the fact that he's gotten so, so much practice with trying to control the strange ability this place has given him that saves him from accidentally setting Hodgson on fire. He manages to push the anxiety down right before he hears the voice. Before Billy realizes that it is a person, and a familiar voice at that. Even if he may not have heard the lieutenant's voice for quite some time now, he's spent enough time around it that it immediately rings familiar, even now.

(Not even necessarily in a good way, because-- really, does he have to deal with three of them now? Again?

Thankfully exasperation is not strong enough of an emotion here to summon his power.)

Billy sucks in a deep breath, then exhales it, making sure he's fully pushed down the burning emotion from a moment ago before he says, trying to sound calm: ]

I am aware, Mr. Hodgson.

[ Granted, him sounding calm probably isn't helping the fact that he is - to the other man - very much a dead man walking. Billy may be looking a lot healthier than he had during that last while, still thin but no longer gaunt on the verge of death, but he is very much standing here. Looking in the other's direction. Alive. ]

arrival!

[m1895]

[ 'Summer', as it can be defined in a place where there is always snow, has largely come to an end. Vasiliy still goes out and checks the snares he sets in the same few frosted meadows to expand their flock every few days anyway, grabbing handfuls of lichen and whatever greenery manages to persist in their arctic clime and stuffing it into the saddlebags strapped to the back of the young caribou that dutifully follows him as he traipses along. Lyudmila, as they named her, is about a year and a half now, and still growing; the larger she gets, the more she eats, and it's good for her to have roughage in addition to the mixture of deer corn and whatever cereals they're able to scrounge for her.

He's returning from one such routine patrol when he hears the voice, and sees a man crouched in the snow behind a tree like a soldier looking for cover from enemy fire a moment later, his shocking blue eyes wide with fear. He's dressed like Edward Little and Francis Crozier were, and Vasiliy has somehow encountered so many Englishmen by this point that he's able to recognize the accent as a bourgeois one. An officer's, most likely.

Still, that doesn't stop him from offering aid—estimated social pedigree is simply a part of the most basic impressions he forms of a stranger, hailing from an environment in which it meant almost everything. Vasiliy, who has not found any ptarmigan on this particular outing, raises both hands, showcasing their emptiness. ]

Hey. Hey. It is okay. You have just come here?

the feast. cw discussion of disordered eating and emeto mentions throughout thread

[faa]

[ Freddie generally makes a point of avoiding the feast Methuselah holds for the newcomers to this place, which is a loss—but it's also a loss of the misery of having to retch it all back up, and that, combined with the shame and self-hatred, is a solid motive to avoid. He knows, at least, what tends to set him off; here there often isn't enough food for him to eat himself to the point of pain and sickness, even if he still brings much of it back up for reasons he can't explain. Instead he tends to meet new arrivals through other avenues; with how small Milton is, that's not particularly difficult. You usually end up bumping into everyone here sooner or later.

Today, though, Freddie's decided to traipse into the proverbial danger zone, because he's trying to get Togo used to larger groups of people. He doesn't know much about dogs, and he's largely flying blind, but the best way to get him to overcome his uneasiness would logically seem to be gradually increased doses of exposure.

The wolfdog is on a leash—well, the rope Freddie has made into one, attached to a makeshift collar with a little tag he painstakingly made by cutting out a piece from a discarded soda can and bearing down hard enough with an old pen to emboss it with the dog's name and his—because he's very large, the largest of his litter as Freddie was told, and quite strong. He also tends to pull, and Freddie has no idea what to do about that, but for once his weight works in his favor, solidly rooting him to the ground when the dog pulls against his hold. Even a sled dog can't pull that much on its own.

He has no intention of approaching the table where the usual spread of food has been laid out; he doesn't trust himself not to grab something and start the chain reaction, and judging by the look in Togo's icy blue eyes, the dog probably can't be trusted not to jump up and also take something. But he's not so far away that he doesn't catch notice of the man who stands there without taking anything, his face covered in lesions that look somewhere between severe windburn and cold sores, his pale lips chapped in a way that looks horrendously painful.

He's dressed in the same peacoat that Irving and Fitzjames wear. Maybe another man has filtered in from the expedition‐that would make those sores windburn, then. It would explain the way he's—blinking back tears. Something twists deep in Freddie's core; there's a lump in his throat with the pain of acute empathy. He knows the feeling, or something close enough to it. He knows that paralysis.

That's enough for him to finally approach the table. He has a distraction now, and for once there's something he's more focused on than available food in his near periphery.

Freddie approaches from the side, not wanting to startle the man, and speaks up quietly—the last thing he wants, when he has a moment like this, is for people's attention to be drawn to it. Even someone approaching him like this would be painful, even if the intervention would ultimately be for his own good. ]

Hey. [ He lets a beat pass for the man to register his presence. ] You look cold. Why don't you come sit by the fire? You'll have all night to eat. It's not going anywhere.

frontier comforts

[gildedlife]

[James has, finally, returned to Milton, after having been in Silverpoint for quite some time. He'd done so for a few reasons, one of which having been the upcoming feast, but as it turned out the trip had taken a little longer than expected and so James ends up missing the whole thing entirely.

That isn't terribly disappointing, and so instead he spends a little time refamiliarizing himself with the town, wandering through the outskirts at first and then closer to the cabins. Scout leads the way, as she usually does, and it's her ears perking up and her footsteps stopping that first alerts James that there's something up ahead. He can't see who--or what--immediately, but then he hears the voice.]

Lieutenant Hodgson?

[Surprise and hope equally color his tone as James strides forward past Scout, and sure enough, there's the lieutenant--somehow, another one of them has found themselves here--but there's clearly something wrong. Something beyond the simple shock of arriving here.]

Arrival

[moralabsolutism]

[Rorschach hears someone calling out in a rather desperate voice that he means no harm. He pauses a moment in his walking, figuring this must be a new Interloper who has arrived. Who else would sound that frightened?]

Won't hurt you.

[The deep, gruff voice that has little emotion to it really isn't all that reassuring. But he does mean what he says. Rorschach won't hurt Hodgson unless he has to,]

Gren | The Wolf Among Us

[murderpotato]

arrival
hey toto, we're not in kansas anymore

Whose woods these are, Gren doesn't give a fuck.

He awakens in the snow in the middle of the wilderness, and the shock of going from the sweltering New York heatwave to the bone-deep chill of this lonely place is like a slap to the face. He had been dressed for a record-high summer, for 103 even after the sun went down, and the icy bite of the wind here cut through the thin material of his jacket and his clothes like they weren't even there. When Gren pushes himself up from the ground with the only arm that he's got left, the snow falling off of him in sheets as though he'd been laying there for a long while, he's surrounded by an endless, endless expanse of white only broken by whatever hints of brown and evergreen are visible through the heavy blanket of snowfall.

"What the fuck?"

If he didn't know better, he might have thought that he was dreaming of the old country, of those wild places near Heorot that he had once called home. The similarity is so obvious and distinct that it almost hurts, quick like a knife between the ribs. Or maybe that's just the wind chill?

Either way, it's not the old country, and he's definitely not dreaming, and what the actual fuck is going on here? How could he be in New York one minute, then through the goddamn looking glass the next?

There's one other thing that he knows, right down to the marrow of his chilled bones-- he should be able to drop his glamour and slip right back into his real form, one that's much more suited for this northern climate than a human one. Should, and can't, like he's... like he's just human. Like this is his body and always has been.

"What the fuck." Said softer, and with feeling. His guts are cold for a reason that has nothing to do with the weather.

But his internal freaking the fuck out aside, this situation? This is a poor goddamn situation to be in, he knows enough about the cold and what it does to humans to know that calling himself ill-prepared for this would be an understatement. He needs a lot more insulation for this kind of weather, he's out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but summer clothes, this is the kind of situation that ends with a very unfortunate hiker finding a body during the spring thaw and a very shitty newspaper article about the dangers of getting lost in the woods.

A more than cursory look around reveals smoke in the sky-- and where there's smoke, there's probably people. Or, at least, there's fire, and with this cold, he'd take it either way.

Gren-- once ruiner of mead halls, wrecker of kings, now some asshole with very weather-inappropriate attire-- does the only reasonable thing that he can in this shit of a situation and heads towards the distant trail of rising smoke.

It'll be a long trek.

methuselah's feast
bake on 350 until thawed

Gren has finally managed to drag his sorry ass in from the overwhelming cold of whatever bullshit northern tundra he's found himself in, and is taking advantage of the hospitality of this one old-ass guy for lack of any other viable option. He's still got a lot of questions, figures he's probably going to get about zero satisfying answers to them, and has ultimately decided that he needs to pick his battles. And the battle that he's picking right now is the one where he sorts out his fucking frostbite, because being dropped woefully unprepared into the worst kind of winter wonderland from the middle of summer in New York is a recipe for getting your extremities frozen off. And he's unfortunately already short on that front, what with the whole missing arm thing. Thanks, Bigby.

He's parked his beanpole ass in front of that merrily crackling fire and holds his sole remaining hand-- fucking thanks a lot, Bigby-- out towards the flames to slowly thaw himself out. It's slow going, and it takes a while for the faintly blue-grey tinge to start to leach out of his fingers, out of his cheeks and ears and other exposed areas. The canister of hot coffee that he's got sitting with him helps, a little warmth on the inside to drive the chill out of his marrow, but it really could use a shot or two of something stronger. Fuck, what wouldn't Gren do for a drink right now. He'd like nothing more than to cut that coffee with a little whiskey and drink it until this whole situation doesn't seem as fucked up.

(But he doesn't need the whiskey like he did in New York, a little part of him can't help but notice. Back in New York, his hearing was so acute that it felt like the world was continually trying to burrow its way into his skull via the ear canal, and the easiest way to dull it out was through the liberal application of cheap liquor. Here, his ears are human, the population density is low, and the world outside is so quiet that it's almost eerie.)

Now that he's not worried about the imminent risk of death via hypothermia, Gren has the time to really consider his current predicament. He's far from even the not-really-home that he's used to, a newcomer like the old man Methuselah so helpfully said, and he's... different, on a fundamental level. Changed in a way that shouldn't be possible without some seriously heavy mojo, and who the fuck is throwing that kind of juice around? Who the fuck cares enough about him to do any of this to him?

Glaring into the fire like it's personally offended him probably won't give him any answers, but that's kind of just what his face does when he's thinking things through. Resting bitch face is too passive; this is active bitch face, a bitch face with purpose.

power in words
gren makes terrible decisions: more news at 11

Exactly zero people who know Gren would call him a social creature-- were it still an option and he hadn't been locked into his human glamour, he'd have seriously considered dropping back into his real form and fucking off into the woods, nary to be seen again. But that possibility is firmly off the table, so he's as drawn to the warmth of the fireside for the same reasons as everyone else. And in the long, dark evenings, people do what people have always done. They talk.

Stories are the name of the game. Gren could stay quiet and just hang around the fringes, keep warm and only marginally pay attention to whatever bullshit everyone is going on about. But, well... stories are kind of their thing, as Fables, aren't they? So when the conversation rolls around to him, the new guy that hasn't been saying much, he could tell them all to fuck off and get their entertainment somewhere else. But fuck it-- he's been given hospitality, given food and shelter and warmth, and there are rules about that kind of thing. You have to give something back.

So. A story.

"Listen."

Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon, he could have said, if he was a pretentious fuck. He's only slightly less of a fuck, so he says instead,

"I know a story, a real fuckin' old one." Just like Gren, this story is old-- old as balls. "A long time ago, in a place that ain't all that much different from this, there was a king who'd gotten real rich and powerful off the spoils of war, like kings fuckin' do. He was mighty among men and all that shit, and he decided that it was about time that people paid more attention to him, so he went out into unconquered territory and fuckin' sat his ass down right on some prime real estate. Had his men build him up a hall so big and fine that it was the envy of all the other kings, a hall of all halls. And he decided that the best thing to do when you get a sweet new place is to throw the fuckin' rager to end all ragers."

Does this story sound familiar to anybody?

"So these fuckers throw the kind of party that only a bunch of assholes in the middle of the fuckin' woods can throw, and they think they don't have to care about how loud they are because they own everything the light touches or whatever. But they were wrong, because they weren't the first people to live here and they weren't alone."

Beyond the light and warmth of the fire, the evening is dark and quiet. Who knows what kind of things lurked around where it was too dark to see?

"And one of those nights after they'd all fallen asleep, drunk as shit, the monster that lived in the moors stalked his way into the hall and found them, and snatched them up, one by one. Took thirty of them and dropped them right down his fuckin' gullet, and didn't leave anything behind but some guts and cracked bones and the gristly bits."

A mistake, really. Do you have any idea how hard it is to pass thirty rib cages? He had indigestion all night, and a terrible morning, too.

"And he came back again and again, until the monster ruled the hall at night."

Was there something out there in the darkness, watching them with strange eyes and sharp teeth and all the malice of a monster? Or, maybe, with the malice of a guy who hadn't been able to sleep since a bunch of drunk Nordic fuckers moved in.

[markingnight]

[ Ironeye had never heard this particular story, and yet like many tales that had survived the years, what it touched on was elemental. Old things. Fear of the darkness, of the creatures that walked before man could crawl. He'd kept quiet most of the night, reclining in the low crook of a tree limb. He was just close enough to the campfire that the flickering light glinted gold off the scales of his cloak... and no closer.

Yet now he paused. His head turned toward where the trees seemed to gather together, crowns bowed, whispering their disapprovals. ]

What did the monster do with his new home?

[ Unusual for a story to end with a happy ending for the beast. Most times some hero came along, angling for some generous reward.

Monsters, after all, were meant to be slain. ]

Arrival

[wanderwolf]

[He can hear the approach of the stranger before he sees him: the shuffling, arrhythmic sound of footsteps moving through new snow, the rustle of pine needles as a body brushes past them. In other weather and to other people, this noise might go completely unnoticed, soft as it is. But new snowfall blunts and muffles all other sound in the world, and Shao Anjun is very attuned to noises like these.

So as Gren breaks out from a cluster of conifers, he will spot a man already headed toward him across a relatively barren stretch of hillside. He’s dressed far more appropriately for this climate than Gren is, with a thick cloak lined with fur pulled tight around his shoulders and tough, point-toed boots that allow him to move nimbly through the snow. His expression is one of concern as he approaches, one hand raised palm-forward to show that he is unarmed.]

Sir, may I assist you?

reiner braun | attack on titan

[nohero]

Power in Words

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…!

Reiner is sprinting through the woods, a massive creature hot on his tail. It shouldn't be here. There are no Titans in this world. It should not be here.

And yet, it is. A three-meter-tall naked humanoid (with no sexual organs) is thundering through the woods, its nostrils flared, saucer-sized eyes searching for Reiner.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If Reiner had his ODM gear, this would be easy. If he could transform, this would be even easier. But he can't. He has what he always has on him: a rifle, a combat knife, years of training in how to kill these things, and a very tenuous grasp on summoning fire. None of which can help him when he's on the run.

Spotting a tree with low branches, he rushes toward it and begins climbing at breakneck speed, only stopping when he's well above the creature's head. It waits below him, huge limbs reaching toward his perch, features twisted in a caricature of humanity.

Maybe now he has time to breathe.

… Or now could be the moment he spots someone nearby, still on the ground.

"CLIMB!" he hollers, knowing the Titan won't understand him. "CLIMB UP, NOW!"

Frontier Comforts

In retrospect, Reiner should have known better than to trust some stranger handing out delicious pies. But, well. Hindsight and all. In the present, he has enough to contend with…

Maybe you find him after he's consumed peach pie. He's visibly younger, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with a robust build and a clean-shaven face. There is no air of exhaustion to him, no signs of life having beaten him down. If anything, he seems ready to take on the world. He's outgoing. Self-assured. Determined. Strong in mind and body.

Or maybe you find him after he's consumed breyerhouse pie. He's resting a hand on the side of an empty building, trembling slightly. His eyes are wide, darting this way and that. Call out, and he doesn't respond: he can't hear a thing.

Or maybe you find him when there's something … off about him, after he consumed dockworker's pie. Is it something in his demeanor? Something in the way he speaks? Or is it something more obvious, a visual tell? (Maybe he's missing the Titan scars on his face. Maybe the scars are there, but in a different pattern.) Whatever the case, something has changed.

( ooc: for dockworker's pie, would prefer to plot out the au! please hmu by pm, on plurk @ bicepsbrigade, or @ me in the game discord if you're interested ♥ )

breyerhouse pie

[gascogne]

After his second attempt at getting the man's attention, D'Artagnan strides closer with little caution for the potential danger of approaching a strange that appears in distress and unfocused, as if a skittish rabbit with his quickly roaming gaze, despite the size of him. Pausing only when he's slipped into Reiner's line of sight, D'Artagnan leans against the wall, arms crossed at his ribs in an unthreatening manner, or so he hopes, eyebrows raised as he speaks again, though not much louder, oblivious to the actual problem.

"You alright?"

A closer glance has him laying his hand at the pommel of his sword, ready to engage should this have been a poor choice to accost a man who may be disturbed.

d'artagnan | the musketeers

[gascogne]

1. arrival

[It's difficult to know how long he'd been tromping through the woods, the low hazy sunlight making discernment of it impossible, along with persistent stray thoughts of where he is and how he'd come to be here. D'Artagnan can't recall time in between entering the garrison over cobbles under scattered dirt and straw in the bright, warm summer and awakening in the forest, with more snow than he's ever seen in his life. Unfathomable, he's attempted to push those thoughts aside, and continue on, a need to keep moving though his feet have more than half frozen in their thin leather boots, and he shivers almost violently as he steps through another close copse of trees, arms folded tightly under his ribs, the rapier at his hip scraping across the layer of hard ice on top of the snowdrifts as the end bounces between that and his calf. Sniffling loudly, he emerges with a bit of stumble onto what he thinks is a clearing, until he's brushed his greasy limp hair from his eyes and understands it to be a road of a sort, wider than he might expect. Pausing only a moment, he looks from one end to the other, any footsteps or hoofprints, carriage tracks, all would be buried under continual snow. He turns left, and continues on, pace steady at first, and slowing as the cold penetrates deeper. Shortly, in the distance, there is smoke, and that fuels a brief warming in his chest and the will to move quicker, and once he's taken a small incline, a odd sign proclaiming a place unfamiliar in the valley, and not far beyond it, a person. Thank God.]

You there!

[His attempt at a commanding presence is thwarted by both his appearance, a tall gangly young man in worn leather and half open flowing linen shirt, stiff with icy bits where sweat dampened places have frozen, and the gravelly ragged quality to his voice that makes it more a rough whisper than a shout, but perhaps it carries far enough in the desolate cold.]

What place is this?


2. methuselah's feast

[D'Artagnan shifts uncomfortably, occasional shivers still running through his thin frame, pulling a graciously provided blanket close over one shoulder. He's taken up residence at the end of one of the food tables, perched on the top near the edge with one foot braced on a backwards chair, next to a selection of water bottle he keeps glancing at with odd curiosity, upper lip lifted at one side in confusion, an eyebrow twitching at the crinkling noise they make when someone plucks on from the collection. He's yet to take one himself, but a bowl of half-eaten stew rests on his thigh, fingers curled loosely around it. He holds a spoon in his fist and gestures with it, pointing at the stew, when anyone enters his space long enough to speak with them.]

Have you had any of this?

[Low and quiet with a bit of a rasp to it, his tone verges the slightest bit toward incredulity, his expectations of freely provided food much, much lower.]

It's quite good.


3. frontier comforts, prepper's pie

[Simplistic foods with basic ingredients are all what D'Artagnan is used to, and the fare generally available in Milton hasn't given him any pause, except for the quality being a sight better than some he's found at home. He's content for the most part, if not an abundance, it's absolutely serviceable, yet the scents of something enticing continue to plague him for hours as he explores the town, and eventually, he's made his way inside this man's home and accepted hospitality without question. The lack of conversation makes it a rather boring meal, and he excuses himself, arguably rudely but he would claim otherwise, taking the remaining slice of pie with him, wrapped in a somewhat dusty cloth he'd pilfered from an empty cabin, choosing to eat outside despite the cold, for more of Milton beckons.

A man who runs on instinct and intuition, and not without an air of overconfidence, D'Artagnan takes little notice of his shifting towards something more approaching a prescience. Not until such instances of déjà vu are more clear and obvious in that he moves with ease to avoid pitfalls or cracking steps, a particularly slick patch of ice, what might've been an accidental literal run-in with another person, pausing at times for confused reflections on it when often he can be a very awkward person and prone to such bad luck or misfortunes. Hours in, his confidence and conviction has no bounds, and he may accost someone eagerly with a proposal to go hunting, certain he'll be able to track any game without error, smirk smugly as he issues a dry and monotonous warning for a small or humorous disaster nearly averted, or simply rush in to contend with a larger peril set to befall an unsuspected interloper.]


4. wildcard
whatever else, general milton things, campfire stories and cryptids, other pies from either side of the effects, etc. pm for questions or just throw me something.
canon point 1.08, basic permissions here.

methuselah's feast

[friendsfordinner]

Best eat as much as you can now, [ Hickey muses, as he sits down right next to D'Artagnan, close enough like they would be best friends instead of two men meeting for the first time. Personal space, what's that. Sounds fake. Hickey certainly doesn't believe in it.

He acts with an ease and a calmness that shows he's used to the community hall and used to these events in general. Other people might be thrown off by suddenly arriving in a frozen barren wasteland but nah. Not Hickey. He's been here long enough to adjust. ]

A warm meal's hard to come by here. After this, you'll most likely have to cook for yourself. And a large amount of people arrive here, not knowing how to make a fire.

Billy Prior | The Regeneration Trilogy

[fissure]

Power in Words

cw: description of real world events relating to war, including (but not limited to): chemical warfare, death, guns, physical & emotional trauma, violence; specific trauma related to the eyes; social manipulation

Arriving with a smile as thin as a razor, as a man who belongs, Billy Prior takes a seat very near the blazing warmth of the fire. Those who have been in and around Milton for some time may recognize the man: The pale, proud face, the blond hair hair and its slight curl, the ice-like eyes that keep their sharp focus, and the officer's coat that bears its significance in deep wool and shining buttons, all belonging to a once-familiar visage skulking between cabins and copses.

Given the opportunity, he seizes the ear of the small audience, sharing a tale of a time and place altogether detached, but still very much a part of Prior:

It's a great war he speaks of, (later, dubbed The Great War, as if anything great could come of such things): Ypres, a city in Belgium, is being held at great cost. Where dirt and debris once sunk boots inches deep into sucking mud, winter has paused the churning of the earth. In the frosty layer every manner of gruesome solidifies into one horrific crunch underfoot.

"You stop wanting to look after a while," Prior says, a manner of glibness entirely out of sorts with the subject at hand. "Whether it's ice or spectacles or bones, you don't look because the moment you do–"

From the forest, the report of a shot. A heavy rifle, if anything, and Prior raises a hand, gesturing into the darkness between the trees as if a perfect illustration of his point.

"That's the way you survive it: You've got to see, yes, but only what you must. Through any means necessary," the young man explains eagerly. There's a wildness in his wide eyes, the whites flaring as he spins his unfortunate yarn. Going on, a few more shots whizz in the trees. He has no idea he's inviting this chaos when he says, "You look, but you don't look because the moment you do, you can't unsee the things man is made to do."

Underfoot, his boot squishes something and it certainly doesn't feel the same as the snow they're used to. Behind, several more reports of gunfire – a hunting team, perhaps? Prior is busy plucking a part of something altogether too pink and vital from beneath his foot, lifting a soft orb fit with the very same striking blue shade as his own irises.

It's offered, palm flat, to the collected group at large, Prior's smile now wide and quite manic.

"Anyone fancy a gobstopper?"

Dockworker's Pie

cw: mentions of dissociative states; descriptions of emesis/vomit/vomiting

It wouldn't be his first choice, or even his last choice for that matter, but Prior clutches the Dockworker's Pie in his hands nevertheless, the thick pastry familiar beneath his fingertips. Having escaped a coastal town and a lifetime of casting the same family lines into the sea, he'd sooner starve than savor the salty despair made into a reminder of home.

If he'd done the choosing, it wouldn't have been this, but he hasn't done the choosing, has he? Simply coming to with a pie in hand isn't a choice and in staring down at the hearty bites taken, he feels the churn of his stomach.

"Fucking hell," he gags, the back of his fist coming up to his mouth. Where he was pale before, he might as well be green now as he turns and heaves at the ground. Nothing comes up, but it doesn't stop his body trying, bent double on himself at the belt-line with the half-eaten pie held as far at arm's length as possible.

It's nothing against the food, and certainly not meant as an insult to the host, but nevertheless, Prior is making every attempt to paint the ground with it.

Wildcard!

The obligatory "anything goes" option, with a caveat that I'm less interested in the Stalker's Pie and Peach Pie, but would still play them with someone who is eager to explore these specific themes. Note that a Breyerhouse Pie will trigger mutism 100% of the time.

[[OOC: Billy Prior is a fictional World War I era British soldier from The Regeneration Trilogy by Pat Barker. He has appeared in-game once before. If you have any questions or want to request plotting or starters, feel free to PM this account.]]

Power in words

[nicehobbit]

As a Hobbit, Frodo may be particularly susceptible to the urge to gather around the fires for stories. He greets any newcomer with a warm smile, whether he knows them or not, and so Billy obviously gets that too.

And as a Hobbit, he has no experience with war, not even the kind before the technological advancements of the 20th century. While he's not ignorant of the war approaching his friends back home, he was always so caught up with his own problems and it was such a distant concept. Billy's story remains the same.

That is, until the first shot rings through the trees. He flinches, and leans down to make himself even smaller on the log. As Billy says, the last thing he wants to do is look, especially when there is only more and more noise. This isn't right. There are weapons on this island but people generally try not to use them, wary of wasting precious resources. Who could it be that is shooting?

Wondering about that keeps his mind occupied and he doesn't realise what Billy is doing until the orb resting on that open palm is more or less right in front of his face. It takes a second for him to properly register what he's looking at, but as soon as he does his face turns pale, and his stomach turns as he straightens up with a jerk, then stumbles onto his feet to back away.

"Wh-where did that come from?"

That was not here before.

Aviendha | Wheel of Time

[fardareismai]

i. arrival

[For a woman who grew up in a desert the cold and dampness of the North is a shock. One that the cadin'sor a garment made for the dust and hot sun keeps her unprepared for. The snow she's had to trample through soaks in and it's only in that moment that she understands the abundance of water that it is, though she'd not heard of any wetlander location like this. The way the light reflects off the snow is unnaturally bright and though she typically veils only to fight, as it tradition, a glance around her shows that she's still alone and pulls her hood down and veil up trying to deflect some of the sun in any way she can to deal with the brightness.

Footsteps are easier to track in the woods then they are in the sands of the waste back home. Quickly deciding that finding people is her only chance of survival she follows only her heart starts to jump when it she comes across one. Internally she reaches for the source of her powers only to find it empty, powerless, though she doesn't have time to process the loss instead she's made the wrong choice instead of going for the spear on her back. Adapting to changes will cost her dearly if this person is hostile and her eyes are sharp as she watches for signs.]

Is there a place to escape this water nearby?

[She doesn't know a word for snow.]

ii. methuselah's feast

[The communal nature of living back home means that Aviendha takes to the offerings of blankets and food kindly. Not a though of disregarding the help though she knows she'll have to so something for it sooner or later. Her bones far too chilled to want to avoid anything that can involve drying off or warming up. What should wouldn't give for a sweat tent right now, even if it was with a long shift of tending the coals for the Wise ones. After spending time on a ship she'd once thought that any land would be better then water, but she's not convinced of that anymore.]

Is there an ocean near by that the fish come from?

[She'd not understood the terrain, but fish are familiar enough in her travels away from the waste. She takes another bite of the soup, feeling the warmth coat her throat and start to warm her from the inside. It's a comfort she'd not known she needed.]

I've never seen a place like this.


iii. power in words

[The pull of communal fire is welcoming and warm. Sitting at at a spot as close to the flame without putting herself in an absurd position is a learned skill from nights in the desert. Aviendha herself has always enjoyed the community of her clan and then her sisters. The company this time is at least better then the Wise One's lessons around them as of late and so she listens to stories they tell yet unaware of the strange goings on that may happen in the area. When it's hurt turn it's not scary stories of imagination she goes for, but of the shadow itself. Different Shadowspawn.]

Along the north runs the blight. Overtaken by the shadow. Trollocs are beasts mixed with men. That walk on two legs and carry weapons but can't speak but they're bloodthirsty. One or two are no problem for they're quite dumb as rocks but...

[There's a pause a shiver down her spine.]

An army of them lead by a Fade. A snakelike mouth and no eyes. They can battle like the best of warriors.

iv. wildcard

ooc: feel free to wildcard me wherever. also up for the pie prompt with any of them. pm for contact. Aviendha is from a warrior clan in the desert so this whole snow and cold thing is a whole new experience.

iii

[gascogne]

[Less mindful of the fire, D'Artagnan has one foot near too close to the flame, and he can feel it through the worn sole of his boot. Having made do with a blanket from the gathering hall earlier, he's since ransacked one of the abandoned cabins and come across an odd black coat, one not so heavy as he might imagine needed for the warmth of it, a bit too short in the sleeves and too broad, with a strange fastening he plays with idly, trailing the zipper up and down its broken line, for he's worn it open, his own thinner leather jacket beneath. The woman speaks of impossible creatures, as many had before her, and he remains quiet for he's nothing to share himself, no tales of great beasts or dark legends, and he might at best talk of wolves slaughtering the sleep in the field. As such, he tends towards a snorting repudiation of what he feels are exaggerated or contradictory statements.]

These Trollocs, they're bloodthirsty and stupid beasts, but they've managed to sort out weapons?

eren jaeger | attack on titan

[dreamsofwings]

A; METHUSELAH'S FEAST

Eren doesn't always come to these; he's not even always here. He spends more time at the coast, and the trek between the two takes forever and is a pain in the ass. But sometimes he still makes it. This month he's here when new interlopers show up.

He's not immediately friendly, but if anyone asks him questions, he won't hesitate to answer them. Ask him about the food, the location, or why he looks so haunted. Whatever you like!

He might watch someone as they walk away from Methuselah with no answers and say, "Good luck getting anything out of him. He never tells us shit."

If someone looks uncertain about the food, he'll say, "It's rabbit. It's not the greatest thing ever, but it's pretty good."

B; FRONTIER COMFORTS

I; PREPPER'S PIE
Eren is already so used to time working differently in his head that at first, he doesn't notice anything much going on. Same shit, maybe different day? But he feels so…grounded, somehow. He almost feels more like he might have at home, though of course his powers are blocked from him.

It lends him a bit of precognition, almost. Somewhere in the forest, someone else is walking. Maybe he saves them from a pitfall that he couldn't possibly have known was there.

"You should be more careful," he says, but he isn't really scolding. He's not usually a helpful person, but he can see things so clearly. The only way to get through is to band together. For now, he knows that.

Another time, he might pull someone out of the way of falling roof tiles or branches. He acts like it's not a big deal; this is normal to him, but it's probably not normal to other people.

Or insert other situation and we'll roll with it.

II; PEACH PIE
Speaking of weird time issues! The peach pie only ages Eren down a few years, but a few years when you've fucked your head with too many memories and timelines is a big difference. Younger Eren is still very recognisable. He still has the anger issues, and the habit of looking off into the distance like he isn't seeing what's in front of him (those time issues started early, okay).

He's uncertain about this place, so he gets a little of the rundown from people he recognises. He still knows everyone he's met here, even if he gets fuzzy about how he knows people. But where he'd be standoffish, now he's actually helpful. If you find him in Milton, he'll help you carry supplies if you drop them or struggle. He's clumsy about things like hunting (he doesn't remember how to use a gun), but he's…well, he's not helpful. He's the opposite of that, but not on purpose.

"Sorry, I didn't think that much noise would scare a deer!" he'll say to whoever else is on this hunting trip. He can set traps fine, but the rest is shaky. He might fumble with his rifle trying to reload it. Save him from himself.

Unfortunately, he still has those aurora feats. That means that at some point, he gets mad at who even knows what, and fire breaks out. He's immediately wide-eyed and startled.

"Shit. Shit, is this my fault? How do I put it out? Hey, you! Help me get some water!" he calls to the nearest person. Luckily, all that went up is some dilapidated building. Could have been worse, but…better get it under control, yeah?

Or bring your own situation!

C; WILDCARD

[ Something else you have in mind? Hit me. I'm open to doing the AU pie thing if that's ya jam. Otherwise, Eren has been trying to find/build/man a boat to get the fuck off this island. He has a post on the bulletin board that your character is welcome to have seen!

If you'd like to hand wave that your character encountered 15yo Eren at some point but talk to 20yo Eren about it, let's do that too. ]

of course it's PEACHES… aots and their dang peaches…

[nohero]

What did Eren get mad at? Reiner has two guesses, staring with "Reiner" and ending with "Braun."

It's not that Reiner was trying to piss Eren off. If anything, he's been attempting to play nice. Attempting, because trying to be nice while Eren has been trying to bite his metaphorical head off is a damn struggle. (And Reiner suspects it's only metaphorical because Eren can't transform.)

A part of him resents this younger Eren for remembering. Why couldn't the pie have pushed Eren back a little further? Why couldn't he have seen the Eren who looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky? Like he was a hero? Then Reiner recoils with self-loathing and puts such thoughts aside, focusing on what he has to work with.

That being: a volatile Eren Jaeger who fucking hates him.

Still, Reiner has tried to play nice. Tried to help Eren out. Tried to make things clearer when Eren seems confused or disoriented. Tried, and tried, and tried.

And what does he get from his efforts? A merrily burning building.

"Calm down, Eren!" Reiner barks. A split-second later, he realizes what a stupid approach that was.

Shao Anjun | OC

[wanderwolf]

Arrival

[Shao Anjun is no stranger to wandering in cold, unforgiving wilderness. It’s in his blood, you might say - in his heritage, even if he might wish to deny it.

And so he’s not entirely thrown for a loop when he wakes up under the partial cover of a tall pine tree, head pillowed on the fur collar of his cloak and hands tucked in close to his chest for warmth. It’s cold and snowy, and the sky through the canopy has the foggy, lead-colored quality of a storm that plans to settle in and stay a while. He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know how he got here. But he’s not without options.

The first thing he tries to do is transform, naturally. His lupine form is much better adapted to the cold than his human form will ever be, no matter how well he bundles himself up. He sits on his knees beneath the tree, takes a deep breath, and relaxes into it -

Pain shoots through his head, brief and tight as a vice around his temples. The muscles in his arms and legs seize before they can surge forward into the easy might of the wolf body, and his spine is set alight before it can elongate into its larger, more powerful form. He gasps, falls forward and only just manages to catch himself before his head hits the ground. That’s - strange. Unexpected, in this weather. Could his curse be flaring up again?

Well, then. His wolf form is not accessible right now. He will have to do this in his human form. It’s inconvenient, but not impossible. He stands, carefully, stretching out the stiffness in his joints and brushing snow and dirt off of his robe. He breathes in again, and this time he pays more attention to the smells, the tastes in the air. Cold lances down his throat and into his chest, not invigorating but not yet painful. And there’s also - pine sap, turpentine, low humidity despite the snowfall: this must be somewhere fairly high-altitude. There’s a smell that he can identify as animal, but he’d need a wolf’s nose to know much more than that, and, as a gust of wind blows from what must be the north, there’s… wood smoke?

Wood smoke. Not the sudden overwhelming stench of a distant forest fire, but just the tiniest tendril of dry, persistently burning logs threading itself through the wind: a controlled, man-made fire. And where there’s man-made fire, there must be men, and all of the things men need to survive, like food, and liquid water, and shelter.

Satisfied that he’s at least found a starting point, Shao Anjun sets off toward the smell of civilization. But he isn’t walking blindly toward whatever he may find - never. Just because it’s civilization doesn’t mean it’s safe. So he’s got his eyes and ears open, every sense alert. If you come upon him while he walks, you can be sure he’ll notice you unless you’re really, really stealthy.]

Feast

[Civilization turns out to be a small, very run-down collection of houses, the partially depopulated remains of a village. The people he meets look strange to him: they remind him of the semu, the “people with colored eyes” that he’s occasionally met in his dealings with the government at home. They don’t belong to any of the steppe people, he thinks, nor to the greater population of farmers, lords and merchants who live in the empire. But far be it from him to judge them for that, because they are also friendly and welcoming, and generous with their food and shelter. Soon he’s in their large meeting hall and, after thanking their apparent leader, he takes a seat among them.

Anyone who meets Shao Anjun now will see a man in his thirties wearing a warm, wide-sleeved robe, a thick cloak with fur around the collar, and sturdy, point-toed boots. His hair is very long, but it is tied up in a braid and topknot, fastened with a jade guan. His demeanor is upright and very polite; he bows formally to everyone who speaks with him. His voice is quiet and calm and reassuring to listen to.

If you catch him later in the meal, you will see him standing up from the table and retreating to a less-crowded corner to take stock of what has come with him to this place. He takes a brown leather satchel out from under his cloak, opens it with care, and begins setting out an array of bundled herbs, bottles, leather pouches and sachets. Anyone who comes close enough will hear him murmur the names of some of these items as he lays them out.]

Ginseng root, jujube seed, and honeysuckle… ah, but the goji berries are running low… the dangshen got a bit wet, better to dry it overnight…

Feast

[meadqueen]

[The man is obviously not Norse, but there is something about him that feels familiar, like he is also disconnected from time here.

Randvi approaches from the left side to see what he's doing - her vision is limited due to the patch covering her missing right eye - and speaks so as not to startle him.]

I do not recognize these. Did you arrive with provisions?

Hornet | Hollow Knight: Silksong

[weavered]

METHUSELAH'S FEAST

So she has returned.

She clutches her needle tight as she makes her way into town. The cold still permeates through her carapace, causing her to shiver as she walks the path slowly. Would she meet with those she knows? Who remains? When Hornet finally enters town, it’s as if she never left. Nothing seemed different but she is certain it is.

Why would she be brought back? She had plenty to attend to through her journey in Pharloom, grimacing internally as she recalls her last know whereabouts. (Bilewater. She shudders to think about how the water became so infested.) Well, at least the community hall still feels welcoming.

Once she passes Methuselah, she moves immediately to the table filled with food, pushing a chair near by and climbing up on it.

“At least there is still warmth here,” she says as she starts to pour herself tea. “Can you tell me what happened with the Forest Talkers?”

Hopefully they had some information to spare.

POWER IN WORDS

This was not what she had anticipated when she sat around the fire, speaking of bugs long lost and stories she heard as a child. Before her, a Mistake crawls upon the ground. A lost soul, wriggling mass of infection and despair, it seemed to have sprung up from the ground. Hornet knew these things were easily dispatched, but what else could there be if the bugs from the Soul Sanctum were here?

“Poor soul,” she says as she watches it crawl. “You will not find hope here. No body or Soul to save you.”

It was unfortunate knowing this thing was what was left of some of the scholars of Hallownest.

“It will not take much to kill,” she says to whomever is beside her. “Though if the Mistakes are here Follies surely follow.”

And if her stories have truly come to life, then the Soul Master must be here.

WILD CARD: MILTON MESSAGE BOARD

Hornet looks up at the message board, as if she’s trying to find something. Any thing that indicates people she knew when she first arrived are still here. Notes about food, aid, possible information, meetings— there’s so much on the board and yet…she can’t seem to find what she’s looking for.

Then again, she can only reach so much considering the board is beyond her height if she does not stand on a box. Thankfully, the box is still there, just moved enough for humans to access the board. She glances at the note in her hand, written in her native script, and nods. An ask for supplies, and help finding someone. She drags the box over, locates and empty space, and pins it to the board.

“Hopefully he’s still here.”

[Have any other ideas? Find her around Milton just getting her feet wet again! You can drop a top level or reach me at redfielding] Spoilers for Act One of Silksong may be in comments.]

Power in words

[fardareismai]

Listening to the stories told around the fire some of them are more confusing things she's heard. In fact, she might have thought Hornet herself some sort of shadow spawn if not for the way the rest of the Interlopers had been treating her. So she's mostly tried to avoid staring, purposefully looking away in an unnatural sort of way, distinctly uncomfortable.

Then she's spoken to and she looks to Hollow and then the creature on the ground. Her hand goes to the spear at her back reaching for it though she doesn't do anything with it instead glancing back at Hollow.

"Mistakes? Follies? What are the meaning of all this..."

Castiel | Supernatural

[theroadpaved]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

[ Arrival ]

[Something is wrong.

Warding, curses, enochian runes- the magic of these comes from without. Castiel can feel them act upon him and his vessel, can feel all their interlocking teeth and hear the clicking of their operation, even if he can't always tell how to disable it. This magic isn't the same. This magic feels very old, older even than he, and it seeps into his vessel like droplets of water finding the microscopic holes in porous rock, changing him from within, rendering him (however temporarily) mortal.

And freaking cold.

He can't stay in this cabin, even if it's a comfort compared to the biting winds outside. There's no food, no water, no fuel. He'll need to leave, and so will anyone else who has found themselves in this cabin with him.

Castiel emerges from the bedroom with a musty coat, holding it out to the other form who had woken alongside him in the cabin. He's got clothes on enough, however much was available for him to take.] There wasn't much. Put this on, we'll need to leave at sunrise.

[ Methuselah's Feast ]

[Castiel can't help it; he keeps watching the man as he makes his rounds amongst the other...survivors? Trespassers? He still isn't sure what exactly he -and those in his same situation- should be considered. His entrapment, or mistaken encroachment, or whatever into this alternate Earth dimension notwithstanding-

That's not Methusela.

Or that's not the Methusela Castiel knows of. Maybe he was named after the original, but the naming convention that birthed it in the first place fell out of vogue at least a thousand years ago, he's sure. He's pretty sure. Maybe some fundies still have it, or- maybe this is Methusela, a version of him, an alternate version of Noah's father, still alive after centuries.

The man is kind but not inclined to speak. He does seem very busy. And the staring is probably unsettling, but Castiel's never been one for propriety and after the day he's had? He's not inclined to learn.]

POWER IN WORDS

[Listening to stories around a campfire is a human tradition as old as humanity itself, and there's a lot to be learned about a person by the tales they tell. Castiel does a lot more listening than talking, sipping whatever warm drink is provided to him as he huddles close to the flame, still adjusting to now days of mortality bearing down on him without a solution in sight, and takes in one particular frightening story, expression screwing up in his usual I don't get what the fuck you mean scrunch.] And children in these seasonal camps tell that story to each other for...fun. [Because bro that sounds more like something Dean and Sam face on the regular and they have very plainly and clearly told Cas that the things they face on the regular are nightmare fuel for the average human.]

power in words

[brushoff]

[ For someone who is usually a grumpy, standoffish, 'dresses like the sun will burn him alive' fussbudget during the day, Dorian thrives at night. He's wearing probably too little clothing for the weather, but this shirt can show off a bit of his chest and a hoe never gets cold. He's much more animated, happily listening in to the stories as well as telling a few of his own.

At Castiel's question, Dorian gives him a wide, charming little smirk of a smile as he points out, ]

Adults do too. There's a certain power in the unknown, of knowing that despite what we all know of the world, every island we've charted and every discovery we've made, some things simply can't be explained. And some of those things might just try to kill you.

[ There's a moment before, ] Now. I've got three choices for you to choose from. A murderous mist, a ravenous rock star, or a haunted hotel. Take your pick!

Connor Wolf | Fables

[wolf_lover]

A. Arrival

Connor has no idea that it's been months since he was last in Milton. As far as he knows, it's the same day as when he went out to the woods to go hunt in his wolf form. When he wakes up in the snow, he thinks perhaps he just passed out for a second or two. He can smell which way Milton is and trots that way, headed for the home he shares with his father Bigby. If he encounters anyone in the woods as they make their way towards town, he'll happily trot up to them, much more of a big puppy than an intimidating son of the Big Bad Wolf.

Once he gets back to town, he goes home to grab some clothes and immediately goes back out. He waves at the nearest person that's out in the snow. "Hey! Have you seen Bigby or Snow White around?"

B. Power In Words

You'd think a kid who grew up among literal fairy tales would be a bit better at telling a story. But perhaps it is for that exact reason Connor isn't all that talented with spinning a yarn. Most of them either hit too close to home or feature people that he actually knows. When he starts talking, he just goes with the first thing that pops into his head.

"Uh, once upon a time, in World War II, the Nazis got a hold of Frankenstein's monster. They decided they were gonna use him to help win the war. But, uh, it turns out the Allies figured out what was happening and sent in a platoon of soldiers to deal with him. Among them was the Wolf Man..." Well, this is going to turn into quite the tale once the actual version of Frankenstein and a werewolf start showing up.

C. Frontier Comforts cw: reference to child death

When Connor stumbles across a stranger offering up delicious smelling food, he really should know better than to accept given how many times in fairy tales eating food given by a stranger can do something to a person. Alas, Connor may have gotten his good looks from his mother but not her brains. So he impulsively eats a peach pie.

Soon, he's reduced to the age of ten and wandering back out into the snow.

He's got to find the rest of his pack. After all, he's got to be the leader of his siblings now that Darien is....is dead. It's still hard to think about, the fact that his brother is never coming home again. He's always been the leader of the cubs. It's not something that comes naturally to Connor with the kind of personality he has. He's always been a follower, the second-in-command. Well, he's all alone right now, so he has to be brave so he can find the rest of them all.

Soon, he approaches someone who looks like they might be trustworthy. Connor is polite as he asks, "'Scuse me, can you help me find my family?"

Alternately, it's also very easy to get him to shift into his wolf form due to still being in possession of his Moon Touched power. Being a shapeshifter from birth, Connor and his siblings have always had an interesting startle reflex: when they get surprised or scared, they shift into their wolf forms and/or take off in flight. Given Milton's a pretty creepy place even at the best of times, it's not long before something sets Connor off, and suddenly instead of a ten year old boy there's a brown wolf puppy with oversized paws yelping in terror at whatever just freaked him out. No, he will not want to change back until he's sure whatever he's deemed as a threat has passed. Instead, he's going to run over to whoever is near and start whining, wanting a grown-up to take care of this problem.

D. Wildcard

[Connor was here in Milton once before and has the Moon Touched Aurora Feat. Feel free to encounter him in either human or wolf form. As a note, canonly, he bears quite a close resemblance to his mother Snow White, so feel free to mistake them for siblings given Fables don't age most of the time once they reach their prime.

If you would like a custom starter or to do one of the prompts differently, gimme a poke at Light_shade .lightshade]

arrival;

[powersuited]

Snow's a frequent face around Milton, and not just because she and Bigby have been living together since some of the more terrifying events had driven them together — certainly not because their scents cling to each other for anyone who happens to have more heightened senses thanks to the Aurora. But the fact that she's in possession of better smell and hearing means that Connor's voice is recognizable to her long before it would be within earshot of normal range.

Whatever she's doing can wait; nothing feels as important as making her way to wherever he is, and she stops a short distance away, mostly to look at him as he inquires about her and Bigby's whereabouts with another Interloper. This is the first time she's seen him since his disappearance, since she'd started to suspect the truth

"Connor?" He is Bigby's, she knows that much, but she wonders if she'll have the certainty of him being hers, too, as soon as she looks into his eyes. Bigby may not have been able to confirm it, but she thinks she'll know, one way or another.