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singillppl2023-12-06 12:21 am
singmod) wrote in singillppl2023-12-06 12:21 am
Entry tags:
December 2023 Test Drive Meme
DECEMBER 2023 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 — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.
PROMPT TWO — MISTY FALLS CAVE: The Interlopers go out in search of a hidden cave in the mountains found by Methuselah, which may still contain the hidden stash of a doomsday prepper. However, they get a little more than they bargained for when they venture inside.
PROMPT THREE — SERPENT'S BREATH: Interlopers investigate the mysterious cause of whatever is killing and poisoning the wildlife and vegetation of the area — and discover a supernatural creature is behind it.
ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
WHEN: Mid-Decmber.
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.
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. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in a long time. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are pretty mouldy. 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.
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.
It’s possible you may come across someone here. Another fellow Interloper, 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. Civilisation…?
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 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.
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, even more, still. Just as I thought.” he muses. “I wonder if this is perhaps the new status quo. 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. They bring more of you every so often. 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, 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 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 and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus grilled fish. There's also things like instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast, although newcomers will note from others who have been here some time that this particular feast is less bountiful this time.
Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. 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 is troubled, thoughtful.
He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the time and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.
However, he will speak of something important, and will gladly share with others: “I have been looking for something for you all. There was once a townsfolk I knew of: Matthew. A suspicious, paranoid old miner who was interested in Prepping. He often spoke of the world coming to an end and strived to survive it. He often spoke of a cache hidden in the mountains, where he collected things of value. I have found the place, a hidden cave, but I am unable to get through, myself.”
… Well, he is an old man, after all.
“There are signs outside, so it is promising it is still intact. Perhaps the cache is still there. It might provide something useful for your growing numbers.”
MISTY FALLS CAVE
WHEN: Mid-month, onwards.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: booby traps; claustrophobic situations; potential injury/maiming; potential hyperthermic situations; exploration horror;
Methuselah gives directions to those willing to check out the lead for the old prepper cache. Following the river up from Milton Basin will lead to rugged, difficult pathways up towards Misty Falls — a waterfall, the river source itself. Most of the river is completely frozen with the freezing temperatures, but it is not completely so the closer to the source you go. Misty Falls is certainly idyllic, or it would be perhaps on a fine summer’s day — good for a nice hike. But the place looks desolate in the eternal winter cursing the Northern Territories.
The half-frozen waterfall is a din of sound, but the water itself is incredibly fresh and cooling for those hot and tired from the hike up. Those paying attention might notice a small space between the water and rock, big enough to squeeze through to get behind the waterfall itself. In the small space, the entrance to a small cave can be found. There are faded handmade signs, all in the same hand, reading ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ and it isn’t too far of a stretch to wonder if perhaps this might be the secret stash of the old miner that Methuselah spoke of.
Venturing into the cave will not be an easy task. It seems the old miner was keen to keep any trespassers out, and most of this comes down to the cave itself. The walls of the cave quickly narrow, with only enough space to walk in single file. Jutting stone will easily make those stumble and trip. Occasionally the cave’s passage becomes narrower, meaning one might have to stoop or even crawl to carry on through. Here and there, the uneven floor dips, and your feet will find themselves in shin-deep frigid water. It’s slow-going, even if the actual passage itself isn’t incredibly long.
But perhaps the worst of all is the pressing darkness. A darkness so black even with lanterns switched off, one’s eyes cannot adjust to it. It is smothering, pressing. The air is stale and damp, you feel small — and the cave itself still presses in on you. The miner also kept a few tricks up his sleeve in order to keep out intruders. There are dead-ends, making it easy to get lost. Trip wires are hidden in the darkness, causing small man-made cave-ins to fall upon unsuspecting heads.
It might be safer, saner to give up and turn back. But persevering will see the cave opening up once more, this time widening into a room. The place is fashioned into some crude shelter. There is furniture, lanterns to be lit.
With more light, the miner’s stash is revealed: the painstaking, time-costing work of a paranoid old recluse. Crates of non-perishable foods, MREs, and bottled water. Medicines and basic medical supplies, flares and tools.
A perfect supply of survival goods, ripe for the taking.
SERPENT'S BREATH
WHEN: Throughout the month.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of dead animals; malevolent creature; snakes/serpents; poison/airborne toxins; potential poisonings; potential burn injuries; potential (temporary) blinding.
It’s noticed in different ways: perhaps a trail of dead animals stands before you, each one with no particular injury other than what appears to be burned hides and flesh — it is as if the wildlife simply dropped dead, for the most part. Perhaps you notice huge, tunnel-like grooves in the deepest parts of the snow, a few feet in width — as if something long and thick had made its way through to clear a path. More worryingly for some, they might notice trails of rot: destroyed trees, decaying plant life, as if the very earth itself has been scorched in the wake of something passing through, leaving nothing but destruction and devastation.
Something is destroying the flora and fauna of the world. There seems to be no pattern, simply the random trails all over the place. There appears to be no other tracks, other than the long, smooth tunnel-like pathways. Whatever it is, it must be stopped. Resources are so precious in this world, if the beast is allowed to continue then all who live here will soon starve due to lack of animals to hunt and plants to gather.
Following the tunnels is a sure-way to hunt the beast down, although these paths will lead far from town. It is best to go prepared. But soon enough, you may come across the slumbering beast, curled up on the snow or coiled underneath some jutting space of stone along the mountains. You’ll hear and smell it before you see it: the long grumbling snores as it sleeps, and the putrid stench of rot. Everything in you tells you to flee, much like when an animal senses something toxic, or poisoning.
You press on, finally stumbling across the beast: a long, serpent-like dragon, with tremendous horns and fangs, coloured with muted grey scales and huge, glowing, flamed eyes.
The element of surprise will work in your favour to try and kill the beast, but it will give up a good fight. It will take several rounds of fights with it before it will finally be taken down permanently. It moves quickly, with scales like steel. Its eyes and mouth are its weakest spots, as is the soft underbelly of its body — fire will work well on harming this beast, especially with a well aimed shot into its mouth.
Its open mouth is where it holds its most powerful weapon. Not the fangs, no. The very reason why the air smells of rot, why the wildlife lay dead, why the earth decays at your feet: its breath. The beast’s breath is highly toxic, it will burn the skin of those it comes into contact with. Breathing in the fumes will poison those who breathe it in, and will cause a weakening, sickly illness. The breath may even temporarily blind.
These injuries are not fatal, and will heal with time and the basic medical attention available in the world. Victims will require rest for at least a week, depending on how severe the blast of the serpent’s breath. But killing the best will ensure its havoc is brought to an end.
FAQs
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.
1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.
1. The Stoor Worm, or Mester Stoor Worm, was a gigantic evil sea serpent of Orcadian folklore, capable of contaminating plants and destroying animals and humans with its putrid breath. Assipattle, the youngest son of a local farmer, defeated the creature by flinging still-burning peat into its mouth. As it died its teeth fell out to become the islands of Orkney, Shetland and the Faroes, and its body became Iceland.
2. It is possible the harvest the beast once it is killed, particularly for its fangs and skin. The skin/scales will provide ample protection to try to use it for armouring themselves. The fangs would provide useful for crafting knives or weapons.
3. It is... technically possible to eat the meat of the beast. Care should be taken in butchering, however. And it is not advised to eat the head.
no subject
It sends a twinge of guilt and a familiar responsibility through his system. Should he have been there to protect his family? Even if his family happened to be Tim in this case?
"...I think we both know that you do not mean that."
Alfred's voice comes to him in a chiding but gentle tone. The only visible trace of the minute interaction inside his head is the slightest twitch of a grimace on Damian's face.
Then again, he was transported into this world just as swiftly and with just as little power to prevent it. So he hums, thoughtful. It's an odd question from Tim, what to call him, but he supposes he can't fault the logic of it either. When last they spoke, Damian quit being Robin. He still sort of has.]
Robin. Or Damian, I guess.
I know we're in Canada. Milton, specifically, which I believe is just south of Toronto. We're stuck here, under the "protection" of an old man named Methuselah. The local residents seem to have - largely - been either driven out or exterminated by a disaster.
That's about it.
no subject
is tit for tat.]
Nobody knows about Robin.
[As if the dispute here is over the name-- it's not, because there never was a dispute, and besides. Tim curls the fingers on his one good hand. Unfurls them. There's the stamping down of a temper happening here, and he glances away from the boy to show for it.
The stakes are high for him, they always have been. With the clear intention to draw attention to the abject idiocy, Tim plainly states,] And if you're Damian then I don't know you. [People have died for less. It would be too easy, way, wayy too easy, to connect the dots right back to Bruce and then... and all it would take is one other poor sucker from their... world. worlds?
Tim refrains from... totally seething over the misstep. Diplomacy and yadda yadda and one day, he'll gather the courage to smack anyone who dares call him a pessimist. He's horribly optimistic, if anything. For example, he sighs and hopes someone has smacked enough sense into this prince to continue the... civility going on here.
(Damn.)
He pushes a small and untouched, now lukewarm plate of food to Damian. The Aurora couldn't have spit Cassie out into the snow? Miss M?
It's Damian.
Robin.
It's Bruce's kid.
Tim's responsibility.]
You can't get your pick from the menu here. There was a blizzard just two weeks ago and game was getting harder to hunt down even before then with winter approaching. It's either this or Navy beans.
[What the fuck are navy beans, hell if he knows. He's sure not in a rush to find out.
Now, bear with him, because Tim knows he hates the answer already. He holds it in for as long as he ca] --okay, how old are you, again? Like, 9?
1/2
Whether Damian could ever be anything but a ticking timebomb. It sends a familiar surge of frustration through Damian's system that is only dampened by the overwhelming exhaustion.
He remembers all too well why he ran away from these people. The judgement, the resentment, the condescension, the blame, the pity - god, the fucking pity. But he's not going to be the one who breaks. So his frown deepens into something of a grimace.]
I gathered that. [His tone is a little sharper than he intends. He doesn't hear Alfred's chiding, but he can feel him hovering, and it makes him want to lose his temper at the apparition. But he doesn't. The only thing worse than going mad is for Tim Drake of all people to be aware of it.] Robin, then. It provides better cover anyway. What should I call you?
[Having a civilian identity was a thinly veiled joke, anyway. He could pretend to be normal for a moment - he'd been taking acting lessons for four years now - but he never had the luxury of experiencing it.
He looks at the food as it's pushed his way. Well, Tim's even more paranoid than he is, he only comes second to their father, so he's pretty sure he can reliably say that the food is safe. Still.
He's about to protest - say he needs food less than the rest of these people, that he can survive for longer on an empty stomach - but when he looks around he can see that he's the only one not eating. So it feels like the petulant excuse of a picky eater more than an actual sacrifice made for the sake of others.
He takes it, wordlessly.] Thanks. I guess.
[Then any time to ruminate over the fact that he said thanks to this twit, any ponderings of sacrifice, Robin, the fact that he's the only one of his father's children that wasn't chosen, the fact that he's a murderer and a monster and Tim is an annoying smug piece of - all of it gets blown away by sheer bafflement at that question.]
2/2
[He looks like Tim struck him across the face.]
Tt. [Angriest TT noise he's ever made. Angrily, he sticks a fork into the food and raises it.] My fourteenth birthday was a couple months ago.
he needs an Adult
His gaze darts here and there, and with the superficial sense that no one is paying them attention specifically, Tim lets himself fall entirely into the role of Deer in Headlights.
Because, apparently, Tim Drake is just kind of dramatic like that, and the residents of Milton won't care much if he just stares at Damian. Stares. And stares.
Damian Wayne has just thanked him and so, truly, this is Hell frozen over. Well. That's it then.
Tim can feel his brain hurt.]
I... am-- [How to put this delicately.
Damian is waving a fork in his face.
Hasn't stabbed him with a fork yet.
(Okay, so maybe Tim's inherent lunacy does drive him to dramatics at times, but come the fuck on this is the perfect time for dramatics--] so not prepared for this.
[He didn't know he could be so overwhelmed.] You're not supposed to be three years younger than me. [--oh my god is he jealous he's not jealous that would be a stupid thing to be jealous of he's just] I'm Tim.
[Oh, to be a fly on the wall.]
--Drake. Sometimes Wayne. The only other person who has ever even heard of Gotham.
(charlie it's always sunny voice) you know what alfred get this guy a cigarette, he's freakin out
And it'd be a waste of food. With a displeased look on his face, he eats just a little bit. It's... meat. He's been a vegetarian for three years, ever since he rescued Batcow, but he can recognize the moral difference between the meat industry and game hunted by starving makeshift survivalists.]
Lucky for the rest of them, really. [Nobody should have to have heard of Gotham. He has a certain fondness for the city, obviously, but it is also... Gotham. That is a bizarre statistical anomaly, assuming he's being serious, since a lot of these people are from Earth. But, logically...
Still. His mind whirs like a computer pushed into overdrive as he tries to process the implications. Three years younger. If he thinks too much about Tim's age, the universe threatens to explode based on the sheer logical error of it all, but even still he's pretty sure that's not right.]
...What do you mean by three years?
[Tim does look a little different, but it has been a few months. His behavior's a little off too... More unsure than Damian's used to. The two of them aren't friends - obviously - but he is used to a little less hesitance.]
What's the last thing you remember? [That should have been his first question, he realizes.]
no subject
Later, (there's plenty of time to chew over every word said in Milton) he'll wonder if the skepticism is due to Damian's Damianness or his own himness. Both are minefields he's in no mood to dither in.]
I don't see how it would matter. [He will not be the weak link in this family where information is power.] You didn't notice anything off about the age difference. I did. Our timelines won't align.
[Under his jacket he knows he's got goosebumps. It's a blessing that it's his secret to know. Tim can't... he can't have the League of Assassins gloating over his scheme, devils of conceit on his shoulder. It's not fair. Tim knows it's not fair. It's not fair to paint Damian, now more grown, now more-- human, as an extension of that creep of a grandfather.
But he does. So sue him.
Tim scratches idly at the cast. Shakes his head and that shaggy hair.] That could be a good thing.
[So much hope almost feels like a betrayal to his true self. But who needs true selves when there's lives at stake.]
There's a lot more to worry about than purposely violating the prime directive. So, did Bats ever manage to take you camping? [It's sad that he doesn't have to clarify which Bat, huh.]
no subject
Tim doesn't trust him. It's a rather sudden realization, and he realizes he should have figured that all along. He can't entirely blame him or fault him for it - in fact, Damian shouldn't have entered into this under the illusion that Tim could be trusted.
He takes another bite of his meal, willing his temper down to a simmering heat. He's not going to be the one who breaks.]
I didn't need him to teach me wilderness survival, and I definitely don't need pointers from you.
[He, naturally, assumes Tim meant their mutual father, who Damian is very pissed at right at the moment. And his father... had tried to take him camping during one of his rare attempts at bonding, he hadn't really learned much that he didn't already know.]
no subject
As in, Damian is still a dick. Shocking. There's some dumb, numb feeling of disappointment but Tim's quick at turning it sideways and inwards: frankly, he should've known better.]
Whatever.
[Note to self to protect his broken arm, he doesn't need a repeat of Hickey's ill tempered bout against him. Tim looks elsewhere, his own hunger beginning to unsettle him.
If all goes well, the rabbits should be enough to actually feed them by late February. It's a numbers game. It'a downright gross to think of them all in an early February freeze. Tim's not convinced that the--
Anyway, he's not thinking about that right now.
Lazily, he says,] You see the bulletin board yet?
i forgot about the broken arm sob
He remembers the way that other version of him had hunted Jon like an animal, the way his Titans (they were never his) had all turned against him. Hmm.
He adds it to the mental list of Tim's weaknesses. In case he has to beat some sense into him at any point.
But he looks down at the food, and finishes a mouthful of food that feels entirely tasteless to him.]
Yes. You're raising rabbits to slaughter them. [It's a judgmental way to put it, and he's aware of the necessity. Still. He likes rabbits. Even though plenty of them are an invasive species that breed too fast for the local environment to sustain. He feels he should clarify, before they start fighting again, so with a slight scowl he admits...] It's a decent idea. Your handwriting remains absolutely atrocious.
it's okay so did he, hence breaking it 2.5 more times
blame Flash.
And as much as he yearns for company, and he's entertained the daydream of Bart or Cassie or Kon giving him shit for trying to farm only to then eat a face full of snow when they ultimately find themselves normal... well, daydreams are just that.
Unproductive.
Tim can't seem to relax his shoulders all the way; it's not like he was keeping himself anything but busy, and yet here to his side is now the living reminder of why he will never be allowed to slack, to be anything other than better.]
...huh?
[...okay, but, like.
Starting now.
Tim combs through the facts staring him right in the face. The facts that wear a scowl, but which... try. And--
Damian's not exactly a meat-lover, huh.
Well--
tough.
(Tough to digest a... compliment, from the twerp, and he just knows the criticism is only building up.)]
The bulletin board.
[And chickenshit scrawl and all.]
It's actually pretty accurate as a snapshot of the people of Milton. I think that makes you the youngest. You can capitalize on that.