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

Comments

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?

[manges]

[ Hodgson equally freezes, as if the sound of his name spoken by such an achingly familiar voice has him wondering if perhaps he may have lost all senses, not just his sight. He's stuck still, he dares not breathe. It can't be, can it?

But he cannot mistake that voice.

The last time he'd laid eyes on Edward Little, he'd stood atop a small slope, staring across the shale. He hadn't been able to look, for the most part. He'd stood apart from the others, shame coiling tightly in his chest, when they'd come for their Captain, sent by that torrid and vile man Hickey.

Edward was to march south. And Hickey sent them on that march up the ridge, chained to the boat sledge to— yes, he knows. He knows. He can't be anything else, now.

And yet even the shame remains in death. It makes him close to weeping, and he can feel his eyes grow glossy. Edward, here. And he is sorry, so deeply sorry. If he had been braver, if he had been better— perhaps they might not have been truly scattered to the winds. ]

... E-Edward?

[ He breathes out the name, shamed and uncertain all at once. He wants to reach out, and yet his limbs are still frozen. ]

Have I — have I gone— [ He cannot finish the sentence. He swallows, his head shaking. ] Is it you, truly?

[fidior]

[ The uncertain gasp of his own name confirms it. Before him is George Hodgson — and of course, in this place, it may be a cruel trick. It might be something that only sounds like his friend. It might even be a dream. It could be any number of things. There is no true sense to be made of the fact that Edward has encountered several of their party over the past two years since his own arrival to this place.

It does not matter, to him. Whatever form the ghost of Terror's second lieutenant may be, Little will only welcome him.

And so he reaches out, one hand first — gloved fingers blindly seeking contact and finding it at the side of Hodgson's arm. There, his hand curls, grasps onto the material of his clothing, and his second soon brushes the other man's chest, patting it careful and awkward, as though casting a feeler. No, George hasn't gone mad. This is real. ]

Yes. Yes, it's me. It's all right. It's Edward.

[ His hands tighten against clothing, and he gives an odd sound, certainly no laugh, but an emotional, stuttering exhale. ]

I cannot see you. Something has— happened to my sight. But you're there.

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.

[manges]

[ His head twitches in the direction of the voice, and he stills himself — instantly curbs his ever-increasing breaths of panic. His sight may be lost to immeasurable darkness, but that darkness has grown even darker. This must be Hell, if he is to be imprisoned in it with so-called 'Cornelius Hickey'.

And the devil has come out of nowhere. It stuns him into silence for a long beat before he can find any words. He swallows, eyebrows lifting. ]

And what am I to call you, then?

[ He keeps is tone even, subdued. But there's wariness. He must be careful, when he is in such a poor state. He cannot see, and he is in no fit state — his body is weak and sick. He has had no time to recover himself. ]

Surely not Cornelius Hickey, the poor soul left to rot in Regent's canal.

[friendsfordinner]

[ He's scared. That's what Hickey realizes as the silence lingers between him and Hodgson. Hodgson is scared. It's such a delightful feeling to be looking at someone, to watch them, and know that they're frightened of you. As he should be, of course. Hodgson is weak. Always has, always will be. He's the sort of animal that needs a strong leader, someone to run the pack—whether that someone be Crozier or Hickey.

Idly, he wonders which leader the man will fall behind now. Because of course that will happen. Hickey can't think of a reason why it wouldn't. ]

Cornelius Hickey will suffice. It's a good a name as any. [ And really, names don't matter in the end. What only matters is what you do. ] Besides, I've used it for so long, might as well keep it up here.

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.

cw: period-relevant racism, sorry.

[manges]

[ A woman. Speaking Queen's English. Not one of those natives, like Lady Silence. He'd been afraid, once. That they should come upon their camp, like the six hundred Comanche screamers — it's all so laughable now. Their enemy far more insidious, from within.

He cannot believe his ears, and he emergences from his hiding place in a stunned disbelief — no matter what the words. He is a dishevelled mess of a man in what remains of his uniform, unshaven and battered by the polar winds. Hodgson stares for the longest moment, dazed. Peace, she had called. The word is so foreign to him now. ]

Madam. [ He almost forgets himself. He struggles to grasp words. ] I am... I appear to be in most unfortunate circumstances.

no worries, it's very canonical!

[astrogator]

[Unfortunate would be an understatement. Tayrey tries to keep the shock from her face as she takes a good look at him, but she doesn't entirely succeed. The energy pistol is forgotten - he looks as if a strong breeze might knock him down; she's not worried about being overpowered. She had called Milton a failed colony when she first arrived. The harsh conditions, dwindling population, lack of technology. Arilanna Tayrey had been to a failed colony, once, as part of an evacuation effort. She'd had to stand firm while people clutched at her coat and offered her all they had in return for a seat on a shuttle out. It had left its mark. This man doesn't look like those desperate frontiersmen who had tried to bargain with her. He looks worse.

She swings her backpack down from her shoulder and begins rummaging in it, pulling out the blanket that she keeps at the bottom in case of such emergencies. She holds it out to him.]

Here. This will keep you warm. If you come with me, I'll take you to a place where you can get a change of clothes and a hot meal, yes?

[Her own principles mean she won't accept what she sees as charity, but if there were ever someone in need of it, here he is. Tayrey doesn't offer him empty reassurances about being safe now, or his trials being over. She can't offer that. Food and shelter will have to be enough for now.]

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.]

cw: references to cannibalism

[manges]

[ He chewed slowly, with his mouth closed. The meat upon a fine china plate, as if he could ignore what it was he ate. The last meal, he readied himself to do the same — the poor doctor carved upon the table. But his Captain had shook his head, and later he had understood why.

He is slow to respond, as if he doesn't quite register he's being addressed. He is dishevelled and unkempt in the remains of his lieutenant's uniform; dirtied and windswept fabric and dull brass buttons. But his eyes flutter in belated realisation, and although he doesn't quite look at the man his head tilts slightly — not quite a nod, as if he is unsure of himself. ]

I admit, sir— [ Something else flutters in him, faint recognition: a Frenchman? Hodgson swallows, continues. ] I have had a— terribly strange time, as of late.

[ He breathes out, slow and dazed. He is a dead man, a damned man. ]

I was considering the last meal I had.

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?

[manges]

[ He head lurches slightly, eyes widening in fright and for a long moment he is afraid. Too afraid to look, too afraid of what he might see. The last vision of him has never left him. How could it? To see what remained of his dear friend — butchered and broken and gone. All thanks to that fiend, that so-called 'Cornelius Hickey'.

He hears his name called and he knows that voice to be John Irving, but he fears it be some ghost sent to haunt him, some demon to torment him. He had sent the man off with that fiend, sent him off to be butchered. And he must exist with that failure, that shame — one of the many he carries with him now.

But he feels a hand his shoulder, and the fear that keeps him in place crumbles and he wishes to weep. His eyelids flutter and he slowly musters up what little courage he has to look up, eyes widening. There is no monstrous sight, no defaced person. There is simply John and Hodgson shudders, eyes glossy. ]

John. [ Far more hale than he remembers. He is dishevelled and unshaven and weak in comparison, his skin sore from the bite of the cold and wind. It does not make sense. And he is sorry, so terribly sorry. His voice is a faint whisper. ] Oh, but John — you are dead.

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.]

cw: period-relevant racism/bias

[manges]

[ The voice is soothing, calming. Friendly. He considers for a long moment about coming out from his hiding spot but when he does, he moves slow and cautious as his cold and aching joints can move him. The sight of the man before him has him freezing, bristling as he takes in his face and he curses himself for admitting he was unarmed.

It does not make sense that such a man like him would be in this place. There is naught but the Expedition and the Netsilik. And as non-threatening as he may appear, George is immediately on the defensive. ]

You understand me, yes? [ He speaks slow, firmly — amazed the man could even speak English at all. ] Stay back, sir. I have no quarrel with you.

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. ]

[manges]

[ It's calm. Almost too calm. He waits, holding his breath as he waits to see who it might be before him. The voice calls out and George stares, more horrified than when he'd laid his sights upon the creature broaching the hill. He looks as though he's seen a ghost, as he peers round to look.

Or, not a ghost, perhaps. He does not know what name this creature claims — the one that stands and breathes and talks like William Gibson. ]

Mr. Gibson. [ And yet he calls him by his name, anyways. He breathes out the name with a shudder, his eyes wide and face pale. No, no it can't be. The man is dead. Devoured, discarded. But then... so is he. Devoured and discarded by the creature. ] I— I am—

[ He is much different from the last he saw him. ]

It cannot be you, can it?

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?

[manges]

[ He does not recognise the man. He is far too hale to be a member of the Expedition, and George knows better — help was not coming for them. They were on their own, to head south. Even then, he does not even get to follow that order. He stares with a kind of dazed look, disbelief and amazement all in one.

Slow to stand, cautious despite himself — he is a shabby state. The remains of his uniform that still cling to him dishevelled and dirty, his face wounded by the cold. How can this be? How can this man be here?

For the longest time, he does not know what to say. When he speaks, it's hesitant, unsure. ]

I am... not sure. I am— out of sorts. [ Is the man some kind of psychopomp, perhaps? He is dead, after all. What else could he be? ] There were no trees, before. Only ice and shale.

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.

cw: and a side order of cannibalism uwu

[manges]

[ The others are eating: reaching, helping themselves to their fill. His nose tells him that what lies before him is hearty, filling. Hot. The food is certainly a more plainer fair than what would fill the fine china plates of the officer's dinners, but it is a welcome sight for those around him.

Some of it certain is what it appears: grilled fish, the teas and coffees. But there is plenty he cannot be sure; plenty that he fears his nose is wrong, what his mind tells him it could be. There are trays of grilled meats, soup and stew — and of course he can see the sparse vegetables within them, but there is meat.

(He would chew carefully, cut off a tiny piece and press it to his mouth. Doctor Goodsir had butchered Gibson, Mr Diggle had cooked him. The meat was undistinguishable, and if he kept it upon his plate and chewed carefully then— then maybe it would remove him from what it all was.)

And now this feast stares back at him. Bountiful, filling. This scene is so... normal. He feels shame for what he has done, shame for what his mind dares to tarnish such charity. He is so very hungry, and yet he cannot partake.

His head jerks a little at the voice, and he blinks a few times — fighting back the glossiness to them. He turns, stiffly — slow to register the words, even slower to find his own to reply. ]

... Thank you. [ There is a stiff nod of his head, eyelids fluttering with a sense of relief. ] I— yes. I believe that... that would be a fine idea.

[ At least, he agrees. He is cold, and sore, even if his stomach lurches painfully. The movement is awkward, a shuffling as he looks to find the direction of the fireplace to head that way. ]

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.]

[manges]

... Commander? [ He freezes at the voice, his blood gone cold and his heart filled with joy all in one beat. He knows the Commander is dead, they found him in the rock — not he, but the others. Hickey had helped himself to the man's boots.

But to hear his voice is a comfort, even if he cannot see the man. He moves, cautious — turns his head towards the sound of the voice. But his eyes, blinking and wide, cannot seem to find him. ]

Is that truly you? I am— I cannot find you.

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,]