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

[fissure]

cw: hunting-related violence and animal suffering; blood; dissociation/cognitive dissonance; emesis/vomiting

When last Prior had seen Chloe — properly seen her — he'd still stalked Milton like a lone figure, not that of a (typical) wolf but perhaps more a sheep of brackish wool. At some point after, during a particularly sedate hunt of a fawnless young doe he'd picked from amidst a small herd, a switch had flipped within him.

It wasn't a particularly clean shot, in some part due to Prior's own hesitation. After years on the front lines of a brutal, bloody war, he should have known better, but mistakes happen even in the most careful circumstances, and he was (at least) humane enough to see its suffering end. But walking up on the wailing, frightened, maimed creature, gruesome with its own vital fluids, it hadn't been a doe Prior had seen, but a woman instead. No one person he recognized, but like that of every woman he'd known, from his mother who birthed him, to Sarah who promised herself to him, to Chloe who had given quietly and generously in ways never demanded, but always appreciated.

He should have felt the need to end it. To do the right thing. Instead, Prior had stood for too long in the snow, skinning knife in hand, glazed over as the doe had continued to hurt, continued to writhe and call to them all manner of hungry beasts.

The... person who had taken over that day – a fractured piece of Prior devoid of pain and compassion, the parts of him made harsh by a cruel, unjust world – wasn't unknowable or foreign, but shared few interests with his gentler contemporary.

The Other Prior had done what this version couldn't, and whether it had been shame or stress or trauma or bad luck altogether that had kept everything at bay, the Billy Prior that Chloe knows enough to recognize now hasn't returned until now. To him, one moment ago had been that doe. Not months had passed.

He heaves all the more, reeling until Prior's knees find the crunching ground, face the color of an agonized beet while he wheezes past the great waves of sickness.

"Chloe, it's fine," he gasps, too proud to be truthful. The half-mangled pie is still in hand, but the moment Prior tries to acknowledge it by offering it, he's forced to turn his head away and gag. "It's not– the damn pie," Prior growls, not at her, but in general as he fights off... whatever it is he calls this.

A reawakening, perhaps, in the rudest manner possible.

[desperate_times_right]

It does not look fine. Still a bit wolf-brained, running on instinct, Chloe tears the pie plate out of Billy’s hands and throws it like a frisbee into the forest behind the cabin. As soon as it’s left her hand this registers as a bad idea - someone else could eat it or it could draw in scavengers - but it's a little late for that now.

“Don’t eat anything here that's cooked by someone you don't know, that's rule number fucking one!”

Though now that she thinks about it, he’d arrived some time after the most egregious incidents, with the mushrooms that had temporarily paralyzed her arms and the tea that had forced her to tell the truth.

She moves to help, try to get him to stand, but stops knelt next to him on the ground, frozen in indecision. Billy Prior is not the only one who has changed in the months that have passed since they've last seen one another. Chloe has been touched by the Darkwalker in a way that has made her into what one of their contemporaries had described as a monster who hunts interlopers. She can't feel a power from him, but if she starts draining the life from him he can't exactly fight back in this state.

She winds up just sitting there as he heaves next to her.

[fissure]

Of course, there are a great number of things Prior should know, least of which is rule number one. While he had certainly stumbled through his beginnings in Milton, there had been no shortage of warnings all around, including tales of past meals that hadn't agreed with the Interlopers in the strangest of ways. He'd been told of humans turning to animals turning to humans over again, and were he to see it with his own eyes now (something he's yet to observe himself), he wouldn't be surprised, per se. Not after all he'd seen here. But in the time since last he was aware, it's clear some has changed, even if the beats feel familiar enough.

Muzzy from the effort, when he finishes his retching, it's surely ended because Chloe had freed him of the pie. Not the fault of the pie, not even the fault of the doe, but Prior was (and remains) stricken nonetheless.

Butt to the ground finally, he groans at the acidic burn and wipes dutifully at his mouth. Nothing's come up but bile, inexplicably bizarre, as is Prior's stomach deciding to hold fast what he'd gobbled down in another state altogether. Swaying in the snow, he swallows and winces and finally finds his voice.

"Bloody hell," he manages, over-hot from the coughing but chilled from the sweat evaporating. He mists from his bare skin from the effort, the bulk of the heat pouring from his face along with his slowly evening breaths. "Must look a real mess if it's got you out here half-dressed." He quirks a smile, adding, "Not that I'm complaining," but for once its got none of the charm Prior often plies against others.

The truth is, this front is what little armor Prior can scrape together in the aftermath of his crisis, a small piece meant to prove he's not as helpless or afraid as he looks, while still acknowledging he knows he can't do this alone.

[desperate_times_right]

“Yeah.” Chloe smiles too, though hers is also a pale approximation of her usual charm. “Got my tits out just for you.”

In this cold, the thin material of her shirt isn't leaving much to the imagination.

She has so many questions - they don't know much about what happens to people who disappear, or has he simply been hiding out in the wilderness somewhere? - but doesn't want to overwhelm him in whatever his current state is. Also she gets sick in the sun and is still nervous about being human in public after what had happened last month when everyone had lost their minds once again to the Darkwalker.

“Do you want to come back to my place? I’ve got a bit of ginger I can boil up for you. Ease your stomach.”

[fissure]

It would be impossible for any version of Prior not to look, especially when invited, and so he does. Mouth acrid, he huffs and smiles and tries not to think of sweet Sarah back home with equally pert nipples and beautiful breasts, heavier than they look. Ease his stomach, indeed. Instead, all Chloe's guarded kindness does is tighten a noose-like grip around Prior's neck, and churn what little fish and crust some version of him has forced deep down.

"Yes," he agrees, despite himself, putting a hand to the cold, crisp earth to leverage himself back to standing. There's a small melted area where he'd drooled out his guts, another where his ass had started the process of sinking in. He stumbles around them, towards Chloe, raking and twisting until his coat's freed of his shoulders and placed upon hers. It's not as much chivalry as practicality, wherein Prior feels he's already on fire, and Chloe's breasts tell enough about the cold stalking her.

He knows where to go, at least, and coughs deeply into his hand as they start off.

"When is this?" As he asks, he looks around to note the temperature of the sky, the packing of the snow. Even in the Northern Territories seasons change and their trained eyes have been prepped to know the difference. If it hasn't been a year, it's been months, at least.

[desperate_times_right]

Chloe pulls the coat around her shoulders, grateful for the warmth. If Enola really has to keep fucking with her, she could at least have given Chloe that power Kieren had that made it so he never felt cold. Though at least this time she does have clothing on underneath. Even if it's insufficient for the weather the gym clothes and jelly sandals are better than having to do the walk home barefoot wearing only the jacket of a kid who’s all of five foot nothing.

“It's fall,” Chloe says as they walk, and if she seems pleased about it that's because polar summer is not a great time when you can't go out in the sunlight without falling ill. “October, I think. I haven't seen you in nearly a year.”

[fissure]

"A year," Prior says, steps stuttering briefly in Chloe's wake. He moves to catch up quickly, already feeling the cold trying to seize his body. He crosses his arms over himself, less to keep the warmth in, and more so to contain the feeling he has of being split apart by the knowledge.

He rubs a hand down his face, fingers mottled red and white from the cold. "That's a long time time to be gone..." And gone where? If he'd been out in all of that – the wildness – he doesn't feel the rigors of that time. Instead, he senses he's very much himself again, even if the person he represents at current isn't the most popular version to him.

It does answer the question that would come next: Had she seen the other version of him? Deciding she hadn't, if she hadn't seen him at all, Prior lets the relief wash over him even if the rest of it is worth worry.

"I don't remember a damn thing about it." The last bit is probably more important, anyway.

[desperate_times_right]

“People disappear all the time.” Chloe doesn't mean to sound callous about it, but a lot of the people she's been close to in this place have disappeared on her at this point. It's better than the alternative, if they're missing.

“Enola showed us the bodies of everyone who died, so I knew you weren't dead. I was hoping you'd gone home.”

That's where she's always wanted to think those people go.

She squints at him, eyes hurting in the light.

“You don't remember anything at all?”

[fissure]

There's a great amount more to be processed through Chloe's words than Prior's expecting and he burps back another wave of nausea, turning his head away to puff out a long, putrid-feeling breath. The idea of going home is like acid in his stomach and he clutches a hand at his abdomen in response to how everything roils unpleasantly beneath his skin.

"No, nothing," he finally responds, voice taking on a hardness he doesn't appreciate hearing but one he knows he needs, and one Chloe should hear. "If I was here–" Prior stops short of having anything more to say, his hand splaying across his center to feel for starvation or weakness. It's all the same as it was – thin, yes, but not malnourished – and he once more finds himself fighting against the upheaval of the dockworker's pie.

"I wasn't there or here. I was– nowhere."

[desperate_times_right]

It isn't exactly what she wants to hear, considering how long she's been here herself. Too many people that she cares about are gone in the way Billy was.

Chloe had managed, mainly through her distrust of so many others in Milton, to never even hear about the other Prior, so the other things he's hinting at mostly pass her by.

“I'm sorry. Though I don't know if being back here is really any better than that. Here we are.”

She gestures toward the house, then moves ahead of him to unlock the door.

“Things here have been weird.”

[fissure]

He won't be so troublesome and pedantic to point out that things are always weird in this strange pocket out of time, simply trusting that if Chloe's saying as much, it must be true and also particularly extreme. She's the calm, collected type, not apt to raise alarms where unneeded, and perhaps even a little under-cautious from Prior's perspective, not because she can't handle what might come along, but because he very much feels the whole town is willing to do whatever is immaculately necessary in order to assure none of them spend even a moment not blindingly unaware of the peril (or suffering directly from it).

"I should say, I prefer this to nothing, but I have a doctor friend who might point out that it's the only way it could be." Nothing, after all, doesn't allow for regret or concern or wariness or anything at all. It's only in a state of being that a person can think or feel. And in Prior's case, not always that.

He follows her inside, familiar enough to wander, but not feeling bold enough to go far. Prior's been over before and catalogs for changes, figuring there must always be some. For his own part, he'll need to find his way back to his own cabin and see if anything remains, or if he'll be out of luck and starting all over again.

"We should be worried about this– strangeness, I take it." Weird is an uncommon word – more and more so since the war – and it's too bizarre in Prior's mouth, perhaps his mother speaking through him to say it sounds like a low word in a harsh, accusatory whisper.

"Do you have any clues to– whatever might be triggering that?"

[desperate_times_right]

Chloe hangs her red shoulder bag and Prior’s coat on hooks installed by the door, then kicks off her shoes and walks barefoot into her kitchen.

The change to the house that is easiest to notice is that every window here on the main floor has sheets of dark fabric pinned over it; homemade blackout curtains to keep any sliver of sunlight from sneaking indoors.

She fills a kettle with water and puts it on the stove and stokes the fire in its belly before picking up one of the two cups laid out next to it and extending it to Prior in case he wants to rinse out his mouth.

“Enola was handing out her magical gifts again, but this time for some people the Darkwalker hijacked it, gave them a sliver of its hunger. It's caused a lot of problems.”

She's not the only one who has killed with this new power.

[fissure]

He takes the cup, seemingly understanding the point, swishing water around that he then spits into the fire with a passive sizzling. As he wipes at his chin, mopping away the water that dribbled down, he considers Chloe's words, the implications perhaps a bit more than he's willing to grapple with at the moment.

"I imagine it would," he says, lowly, eyes drifting away from her to take in more of the sights. The darkness reads more welcoming than it probably should, but after being rendered practically snow blind so often by the outside world, it feels something of a relief this time. Not to mention, he feels it gives Chloe less access to his expressions, most of which aren't as stoic or even as Prior would hope them to be.

"Speaking from experience, then?" There's no judgement, although Prior gestures to the house as a whole, meaning the changes that have been made, probably not only because Chloe isn't feeling the intrusion of the outside world at this moment, but because they're necessary.

[desperate_times_right]

Chloe makes a face, but there's no point in hiding it now. Not after the people she’d hurt and killed here, with witnesses.

“Sunlight makes me sick. Polar summer was not a good time.”

Of course this year they'd had the full 24 hours of daylight treatment instead of the previous year’s miserable long night.

“And that's the least awful side effect. If I'm ever in the same room as Enola it's on sight.”

[fissure]

He can see how she grapples with it, but also that it's been worn long enough into her that Chloe is reserved. It keeps him of asking after cures – Is it even an ailment, or simply a curse? – although he does step forward to place both hands on her biceps, squeezing gently.

"I've heard of things like it happening. It sounds miserable, but I'm glad to see you're bearing it. I'll help if I can. Like you helped me." He doesn't say it often because he has few people here, but of those he does value, there are few things Prior wouldn't do when asked, and plenty he'll do just because it's the right thing. He only prefers people don't notice, or if they do, they keep it to themselves.

[desperate_times_right]

Chloe shakes her head, warring between her constant hunger and the grounding comfort of a firm touch. Prior’s been gone for so long that he doesn't know to be afraid of her.

“I could really hurt you. I could kill you. The first time someone like me drained the life out of someone, a guy called us monsters who hunt interlopers. Maybe it's true.”

As difficult as it is to do so when she's openly acknowledging her new nature, she meets his eyes.

“I do appreciate it, though. You don't owe me anything.”