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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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?

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. ]

[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?

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.

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 ♥ )

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.

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.]]

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.

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. ]

[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.

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.

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.

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.

the aot peach meme will never die

[dreamsofwings]

Reiner's guesses are fair enough; no one infuriates Eren as much as he does. Jean isn't here to get into it with, but even then, Eren's contempt for Reiner is unmatched. He struggles with it now, of course. He gets it now, why Reiner and the others did what they did.

He just can't forgive it, and he hasn't had the time to cool off. He knows about Liberio, sometime in the future, a basement where he confesses some bullshit to Reiner. He hasn't sorted all of this out in a way that makes sense. Mostly it's scrambled up with his denial of the horror that follows.

But he's still that hollow boy in the basement, sometime in the inevitable future. And he still has the memory of Reiner's hands on his skin — and more than that, a lot more than that. How can he balance that with betrayal?

Who knows.

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down!" Eren shoots back, green eyes flashing. "Just help me put it out!"

The deadly combination of that Old Bear rage and the Lightbringer's fire is worse like this. Eren's temper is too quick to trigger. He's forgotten what Eddie taught him about controlling it. The only control there is now is damage control — if they can even manage that. Eren himself has never managed that for himself. Other people have been running damage control for him for months; they'll do it the rest of his life, and even after that.

At least the fire hasn't spread to another building yet.

"Come on," he says, an order, a demand. It doesn't hold the weight it would — will — when he's older. It's mostly just petulant teenage bullshit. "I think I saw a bucket in that shed over there."

[gascogne]

[Unperturbed by the invasion of his claimed space, D'Artagnan turns a bit for an assessing glance over. The ease in which Hickey speaks of things places him as someone to readily converse with for information if nothing else, and he's presently quite bereft of it. An interrogation is not what he starts with, but a dry comment on the latter calibre of arrivals, a small knitting of his eyebrows marking his confusion of it as well, though he's far more judging in his words.]

I bet they don't last long.

[He trails his spoon through the stew idly a moment, before continuing, nodding over the food table.]

Is the game so scarce?

[And why were that true, he might wonder if only to himself, are they not distributing the meat more rationally, when surely it can be frozen.]

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.]

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.

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?

[nohero]

D'Artagnan is wise to rest his hand where he does. There are few things as dangerous as a confused and frightened animal. And Reiner, despite all his training and resiliency, is both of those things. Utterly confused. Terribly frightened.

At least he doesn't feel cornered. Were that the case, lashing out would be inevitable.

Reiner jerks his head to face the man as he appears. Golden eyes focus, but his pupils remain blown wide with fear and adrenaline. He watches the man's lips move. Watches, and hears nothing. Nothing. Nothing but his own racing thoughts, a litany of panic from which there is no escape.

"I can't hear," he says. His voice is tremulous but perfectly audible, even if he himself cannot hear it. He speaks again, feeling his lips move, his vocal cords vibrate. "I can't hear anything."

[nohero]

It's all Reiner can do not to snap back. He wants to. He wants to say that remaining angry only risks making the fire worse, or risks making a bigger one. He wants to dunk Eren's face in the snow until the boy literally cools off. He wants to grab Eren by the shoulders and—

Fucking hell. What does he want?

Although he knows that a Lightbringer shouldn't let their emotions run high … his own emotions are doing just that. His helpful veneer has splintered in the face of Eren's rage, frustration bubbling to the surface. Because just as no one pisses Eren off like Reiner, no one gets under Reiner's skin like Eren.

It doesn't help that Eren is so much younger now. It makes Reiner himself feel younger, like he's seventeen and full of life instead of twenty-two and dragging himself through it.

"Staying angry will only make it worse," Reiner ultimately says, his voice tight and controlled in a way that reveals he, too, is pissed off. "Take a breath."

That said, he turns and starts marching toward said shed, hoping Eren actually saw something of use. Perhaps he should be quicker about it, but there's only so much Reiner can care about some dilapidated building burning when it feels like his own life is burning around him.

[gascogne]

One eyebrow furrows as the assertions made are unexpected, and were it not for the wavering in Reiner's voice, D'Artagnan might've thought he was simply being informed of an affliction, but perhaps not. He looks off to the side, tongue sliding across his lower lip as he decides what to do, his fingers twitch and he raises one gloved hand a third of the way towards the man's arm before he draws it back awkwardly. But no, he can't very well solely speak to the man for reassurance, and there he goes again, his touch firm but not with any ill-intent.

"What happened?"

He knows it pointless, and it's more to orient himself in this situation than any means of communication. D'Artagnan has an expressive face, though his features often set defaultly to something approximating a scowl or judgment of distaste, and he smiles, awkward and broad, a small nod to show he understands such things. Taking his other hand from his sword, he points to his own ear, and then splays his fingers, his intent to mimic and explosion of sound, and shakes his head slightly. Whatever damaged this man's ears, he'd not heard it. He quirks an eyebrow then, inviting explanation.

[nohero]

There is the barest twitch when D'Artagnan's hand makes contact. But Reiner doesn't flinch away; he's simply so on edge that any contact at all causes a twitch. He meets the other man's eyes, trying to focus on him. A second later, that focus shifts to trying to puzzle out the man's gestures.

To both of their credits, Reiner mostly understands what is being communicated. (Mostly.) He sees a reassuring smile, a nod of understanding. He sees a mimed explosion, but misinterprets it as a question. He sees the questioning look, understanding then that it's his turn to communicate.

At least his words can still be heard. That means the entire community wasn't afflicted by this sudden deafness. (Which is both convenient and worrying. What if it's not a short-term thing…?)

"I didn't hear an explosion," he says, trying to ignore how wrong it is to feel himself speaking without hearing it. "Nothing loud." He takes a deep breath, brow furrowed as he thinks back. "There wasn't anything weird at all. Except for some pie."

Which sound utterly ludicrous, he knows.