April 2024 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

APRIL 2024 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: Yet another 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 — FROM FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS: The heavy fog plaguing the Northern Territories takes a far more deadly and sinister turn.

PROMPT THREE — SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS: Interlopers come face to face with another native animal to the Northern Territories stalking the rockier areas — and unfortunately, these feline beasts have also been warped by the Aurora.

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.

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 several weeks, maybe longer. The fire is stone cold, the dishes in the sink are mouldy — it's possible the place has been ransacked, as if they've gone through the drawers and cupboards looking for something. 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. Interlopers who arrive during the month of April will find themselves waking up in a world filled with freezing cold fog, cold enough that it will feel as if your skin is burning. A kind of cold that will not shake easily. It will be easy to get lost in the fog. Best hope there's someone out here that might come across you to help you find your way.

Soon enough, you'll be able to find a path to town. A little more worse for wear, but alive. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused — battered from the journey. 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 smell it through the fog: the scent of smoke that seems to cling in the still air. Fire. Not just one, but several perhaps. Civilization...?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the foggy mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights, even if it may appear a little eerie in the half-light gloom: 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. Some of them will direct you to the Community Hall, tell you to head there — you've been expected.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building where many people seem to gather: a community hall, by the looks of it. 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. Everyone looks as though they could faint from the cold at any second, damp and shivering.

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, but looks sad. He smiles warmly despite the sadness in him, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Another batch of poor souls from the wilds, this fog has made it so difficult.” 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. The lights are changing things, bringing more of you here. Come, we must get you warm and fed. Mother Nature has not been kind.”

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 and perhaps a rare canister of coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish, instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast. The old man has been busy. And 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 very troubled, thoughtful. Much has been happening. The others from town will eventually trail in too, to eat and warm themselves, and search among the new faces.

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, his mood is... low, mournful. But perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

FROM FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS

WHEN: The month of April.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural/extreme weather; poisonous fog; potential respiratory/lung-related illness/injury; potential burn injuries; themes of peril

A thick fog has descended onto the Northern Territories as April comes, often difficult to navigate in and a kind of cloying damp that often brings a certain kind of wicked chill to Interlopers out travelling in it. The kind that sinks in one’s bones and takes too long to be chased away with heat and dry clothes. Sometimes, it feels almost suffocating, like it’s exhausting to be out in it — as if one might feel more like they’re underwater than on dry land, struggling to breathe if they’re out in it for too long.

It’s certainly a miserable affair for those in this world, the cold was bad enough without this.

And certainly, it can get even worse.

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, the strange thickness of the fog in the pale Spring light, but you notice in certain patches there’s… an almost green tint to the fog. You don’t have time to look at it for long. It descends upon you with a fluid steadiness, silent in its approach.

To touch the fog with bare skin, a hand, even the exposed face — you will be met with a sudden burning pain, far different to the biting cold pain of the rest of the fog. As soon as the green fog comes into contact with you, it slowly begins to burn at you — searing away at any flesh, a slow and terrible experience.

To breathe it in will be an even worse experience: it will feel as if one is slowly inhaling tiny fragments of glass, and each breath will be painful and suffocating. Coughing up blood is likely, and being out in it for too long will bring a slow, agonising death of suffocation.

Heading indoors is the best bet to ensure survival, with plugging up any doors and windows or drafty spaces to ensure the fog doesn’t seep inside. After that, it seems like the only thing you can do is wait it out. Hopefully you're stuck inside with a friendly face, and somewhere with a fire. Otherwise, it's going to be a bad time trapped inside waiting it out. The fog will eventually dissipate, and all that Interlopers will be able to see is the usual cold fog — but that could take hours of waiting.

Burns to the skin can be treated with typical medical care, and bathing the wounds will cleanse them of any lingering poison, but Interlopers should take care of signs of infection in the days afterwards. For those who suffer from inhalation of this green fog, Methuselah will direct them to Reishi mushrooms — known for their antibiotic healing properties and can be found in abundance in the world. Interlopers will find that breathing in the steam from boiling and steeping these mushrooms in water will soothe their lungs and help in the healing process.

SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS

WHEN: April, onwards.
WHERE: Milton wilds; Milton Mines (Lakeside Entrance) area; The Ravine area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: animal attacks, altered wildlife, gore, possible character injury/death, possible animal injury/death.

Certain kinds of wildcats are native to Canada and thus the Northern Territories. They are elusive animals, often keeping to themselves and have largely gone unseen by the Interlopers during their time here in this world. But the world is changing, and it has long been understood that wildlife has been altered due to the Aurora’s influence — particularly with wolves. Unfortunately, these solitary and evasive felines will not remain this way for long.

The wildcats tend to stick to the more mountainous areas of the Northern Territories: Milton’s outskirts being a primary example of this, but also the sheltered and rocky passage Interlopers must take if they are to travel through the mines and down the train tracks that lead into Lakeside. It is here in particular that they make their appearance with the recent footfall between the areas.

For newer Interlopers, it is a frightening sight. For some Interlopers who have been in this world for some time, it is an all too familiar sight to behold but no less terrifying. These beasts are warped by the Aurora and are far bigger and faster than any usual wildcat, with huge, hulking bodies, elongated fangs and unlike wolves: they can climb. Green, glowing smoke curls from their bodies and eyes, a kind of electrical current rippling over their coats with a strange shimmer. They lurk from above and wait for the opportune moment to strike — a far more silent and deadly attack than the wolf packs of last year. But if you’re paying attention, you might be able to spot them before they make their move.

These altered beasts will come no more than three at a time, but will usually attack alone. They will work with a frenzied determination to bring you down and make you their next meal. Cats, after all, are obligate carnivores. They will enjoy giving chase, and running will be the worst thing to do in dealing with them. It is best to stand your ground and try to fight back this way.

They are frightened of flames, and loud noises from gunfire or flares will keep them at a distance — but it’ll take a decent amount of ammunition to take them down, much like their canine counterparts Interlopers already encountered. Taking one down will be no small feat, but there will likely be the reward of a thick, warm pelt for those interested.

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.

FROM FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS

1. Skin open to the elements is at the most risk of being burned, so it's best to wrap up/cover any bare skin. Covered skin would eventually burn if Interlopers spent enough time in the fog to have their clothes saturated by the damp.

2. Breathing in the fog is the most pressing issue for everyone as a whole. The green fog can affect Interlopers who don't breathe.

SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS

1. Bobcat, Canada Lynx, and Cougar are the three kinds of wildcat native to Canada. Due to the Aurora's influence, these wildcats are bigger, faster and stronger than typical wildcats — with Cougars being the largest of the three.

2. Killing them is difficult, but not impossible. Scaring them will be far easier to accomplish than killing them.

3. Wildcat activity will continue onwards from April, but will reduce with the Interlopers' efforts to fight them back.

4. Wildcat is technically edible. But not advised due to parasites. Characters are still welcome to harvest the wildcats they kill, however.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

QUESTIONS

[singmod]

Ask them here.

[solitarysoul]

do the mines count as inside for the purpose of hiding from fog?

shiro ashiya /demon general alciel | the devil is a part timer!

[khatsudoom]

arrival

"Hm. What I would do for a kotatsu right now."

The slender man with twigs in his hair and mud on the khaki pants huddled under his oversized green mantle and nursed a cup of herbal tea that he held between his frozen hands. Well-- not quite frozen, as he still possessed all of his fingers and toes-- but cold enough to make him wonder how he had even gotten this far by himself.

For the first time since he left his home, he was well and truly alone. He had no idea what to do with this.

Instead, he turned to the nearest person.

"The sign I passed on my way in said that this was a town called Milton. But, I know precious little else."

His dark eyes were calm and his tone was unpanicked, as if he had a degree of experience on his side.

Now that he could properly feel his fingers, he set the cup down and reached for his bowl of stew.

"What even is 'Milton?' I'm not a linguist. Where are we, really?"

Froth-Corrupted Lungs

cw: coughing up blood

He had been smart enough to cover his arms and hands when he saw how dense the fog was. Winters in Tokyo were cold, but this land was colder. Ashiya, for all of his worldly experience, still didn't know all of the limits of his human body-- and before long each breath grew ragged and as painful as if he were being stabbed by shards from the inside. A deep cough rattled his lungs and left him starry eyed, and it was only by some miracle that he retained enough of his senses to find the nearest building to hunker down in for a time.

Once inside, he snapped the door shut and sagged against it, still hacking and sputtering as he struggled for air. Something hot, sticky, and wet met his hands, and it was only when he had a moment of reprieve that he realized that it was blood.

"Oh... Where's the peroxide when you need it?"

He asked to himself... And it was only than that he realized that he wasn't alone in the room.

[ooc: feel free to ask questions or hmu at woodrift]

arrival

[flanerie]

"Milton was a poet," Lestat says, looking down at the stranger who spoke to him as he moved by in passing, "Most commonly known for composing Paradise Lost, although a prolific polemicist prior to that. As for where we are, really - " the mimicry of the arrangement of the words a passing entertainment " - perhaps the secret lies in the allusion."

Of course, even all the most ignorant and unstudied have heard of Paradise Lost, even if they misplace the name of its author.

Raylan Givens | Justified

[tinstar]

Arrival

Out in the cold, heading into town

Raylan had always thought he handled the cold well enough. You get enough layers, enough jackets on jackets, you can survive most anything. But as he wakes up in the dusty skeleton cabin, he's sharply aware of how much colder it was than anything he'd ever felt before. Coming up from the tattered rug with an already pained shudder, Raylan groans. The last thing he remembers was being in the middle of a barfight. Sadly, the more drunk than buzz buzz that he'd was already transforming into a hangover. Well shit. A glance around him garners him his wool duster jacket to go over the denim one he woke up wearing, as well as his gun and an empty Jim Beam bottle that he eyes longingly as he gets himself together.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that if he just stayed here, he'd die. Any other questions about where the hell he was or how he got here would have to wait until that problem was solved. So he buttons as much of his jackets up as he can, popping their collars to pull around his neck as best he could and steps out into the inforgiving wind, head down to keep his hat where it belonged. It did little to stop the almost burning cold biting at his bruised and damaged features.

It felt like he had walked for hours, limbs and digits screaming in agnoy, lungs burning with the pushing efforts before he was rewarded with the town sign. MILTON, POP. 947 He sags with relief and almost stumbles as he starts moving again. Almost there. Wherever there was.

Community Hall, warming up

Methuselah has been kind, getting Raylan by a fire with a blanket and a hot bowl of soup but no answers and less explination. Raylan was too cold to argue, too tired to chance being denied the life saving hospitality. But the warmer he got, the more attention to detail he could spare and the people and the place were under a new, soft inspection. Surprisingly, he spots his hat - a nice cream stetson, hanging on a hook, and while he's slow to get it, he's sure it's his. Once settled on his head, he felt a lot better for some reason. Safer.

Ready to talk to people. A ragtag bunch to be sure, all differently beaten by either the weather or whatever happens here. After his soup is gone and the feeling back in his fingers and toes, he'll amble towards a friendly face, chin lifting slightly in greeting once his eyes are met with a hopeful and friendly like smile despite the cold burn on the edges of his lips.

"The weather always this bad, or is my timing shit and this a spring special?"

Corrupted Lungs

He had learned to be wary of fog here, still a little scarred from the furiously cold fog that had bitten and tore at him when he arrived, but wariness rarely gave him any kind of speed boost to get him inside before its long reaching skirt brushes in over and around him. And just like before, the pain of it all, that made him writhe with a snarled "Goddamnit," before he's long stepping towards the first open door he can finds, coughing a ragged whooping cough. A cough that he hasn't heard since Kentucky and black lung, and a bitter thought crosses his mind. What a way to die, outside a mine but with the same kinda feeling

Not that he planned on doing anything as stupid as dying. At least not today.

It takes him a few seconds once he gets the door shut behind him to get a good breath, only to notice the fog seeping in. He's barely got enough time to glance around the room to see if anyone else is there before he's swearing again, tearing the sheets off the bed and starting to stuff it into the bottom crease of the door.

"What is this, Evil San Francisco?"

Community Hall

[balancedlight]

Svetlana wasn't exactly prepared to meet people. It's been a harrowing sort of month here, but with one doctor in Lakeside and one in Milton, she doesn't catch many breaks. It's only been a month since she walked into this same community hall, since she warmed her fingers on a soup bowl that seemed to contain exactly what she needed to be back on her feet.

She's a little frazzled today, her hair piled on top of her head in a very messy ponytail, but the hat is what catches her eye. His question gets a laugh and she shakes her head, setting first aid kit on the table.

"I think everyone comes when the weather is terrible," she answers in heavily accented English. "Are you hurt? Feel all of your limbs?"

senku ishigami / dr. stone

[sosoruze]

i. arrival

[Senku awakens disoriented, confused, and cold, all of which are alarming but none so much as the last. The season has changed, but he doesn't know how. Senku Ishigami does not lose time, he'd counted the damn seconds for 3,700 years of petrification! And then there's the voice at the back of his mind, you are the Interloper. It couldn't be the Why-Man, who spoke in a synthetic voice when he (it?) spoke at all. So then...who? What happened to him? Where are the others?

Questions he doesn't really have time to waste dwelling on, he chides himself. It feels like winter, the worst-case scenario he'd counted all those seconds to avoid while he was in stone, but there's nothing for it now. If he wants a chance at surviving he needs to make a fire before he can even deal with a way out of the fog. Which means...searching for wood that isn't too wet to make a bow drill out of, and digging for dry ground to light it in, and hoping not to freeze to death in the process. Not that he hasn't dealt with similarly hopeless scenarios over the last few years, but it's certainly not a comforting notion, and he's on his own again, too.

By the time he accomplishes fire, he's shivering aggressively, teeth chattering as he sits as close as he can to the heat as he can without burning himself. This is off to a terrible start, but he can't give up. After all Byakuya went through to make sure future humanity might have a chance, the Hundred Tales, the platinum, he has to survive.]

J-just...need to think. The fog m-means a sextant's out, and the odds of just f-finding a naturally occurring lodestone are slim at best.

[He rubs at his arms. Come on, stay focused, Ishigami.]

The Vikings ... were s-said to have used a sunstone to navigate in the fog, and m-modern experiments confirmed calcite would work. I c-c-could look for some if there's a...riverbank nearby, but I don't have long before the hypothermia really sets in...shit. This...ten billion percent...sucks.

[Or...he could look up and ask directions from whoever just happened across him. Give him a moment, here. The cold's affecting him enough that he's thinking out loud to stay focused, which means he hasn't quite heard the approach of footsteps.]

ii. froth-corrupted lungs

[Once he's settled into town and recovered himself from the initial strain of arrival, he throws himself into what he's best at -- using science to tackle the most pressing immediate issues. Don't mind him out here gathering a whole mess of leaves and branches into a mound. If someone passes by looking curious about what he's doing, he'll explain:]

I don't like the idea of just avoiding the green fog and hoping it just goes away on its own. We don't know what's causing it, so it's better to take precautions now before it has a chance to get worse and people get trapped out in it.

[Lighting said mound, he continues:]

We can make a gas mask out of leather and activated charcoal, which can trap whatever toxic particles are in that fog so we can breathe safely. I think anyone going out there for supplies should keep one just in case, and this way we can have an option to try to trace where it's coming from or even get a sample of it.

ii

[khatsudoom]

[He shouldn't have even been outside after his recent incident-- but he had quickly learned that Senku was going to be an interesting man to keep an eye on. The level of friendliness and practical intelligence reminded Ashiya of a certain man he had left in Japan. If he closed his eyes, Ashiya could almost hear an energy and fervor that was almost reminiscent of his King.

Ashiya kept such sentiments quiet, and instead focused on two things that were more immediately important: 1) building an adjacent fire for warmth, over which he hoped to brew some tea, and 2) just breathing.

His lungs still shuddered with every breath, but the immediacy of the pain was gone unless the dry, rattling cough that intermittently stalled him pulled all of the air from his lungs and left him both light headed and seeing stars.

This was nothing. At least, nothing worthy of a hospital.]

That's a very... pragmatic idea.

[He said simply, emptying a bottle of water into a simple metal kettle he had found in the disrepair of Milton's shops. The kettle was carefully arranged over the budding fire that he had sparked in the small stack of logs, and Ashiya quickly pulled a pair of enamel cups and a sachet of tea for each.]

It would have been nice to know about this problem sooner, for I would have at least worn a scarf over my face.

john irving | the terror

[extramuralise]

✒︎ i. |  froth-corrupted lungs

[ Lucky him that no skin but his face and left hand only are currently bare, left exposed to the elements, but still, it's enough-- Irving makes it indoors just barely, like a man on the run, shutting the door behind him with one gloved, trembling hand. If there's anyone else inside, he doesn't appear to have yet noticed.

He coughs raggedly into his arm, trying to ignore the bright spots which burst into his vision from the effort, or the flecks of blood that stain his tan sleeve. His bare hand, cupped now within his gloved one in a poor attempt at soothing it, has suffered the worst of the fog's burning for how he'd been using both to protect his face, which thankfully feels no worse than badly sunburned; though the aching sting of it is sharp, and indeed very painful, it doesn't seem deep, whereas the pain in his throat and lungs seems suggestive of far more urgent damage.

Frostbite, scurvy, and maybe even rapidly accelerating consumption now, is that what this all is? He's no surgeon, but he can speculate-- not that these burns feel like frostbite, or anything he'd normally associate with being out in the cold. ]

It'll need some sort of a salve, I think, [ he mutters to himself, looking at his hand, examining what he can of his face in the window's faint reflection. ] Heaven knows if there's anything here I might use.

✑ ii. |  SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS

[ Or maybe Irving's had to shelter himself in a hurry for being pursued by an enormous, mutated wildcat, which has been temporarily distracted by him firing his shotgun into the air (too panicked to take aim), but no doubt resuming chase as soon as its realized, and possibly with reinforcements.

Not much of a shelter, granted, given that he's now trapped and out of ammo, but safe enough for now, at least, assuming the beasts aren't capable of knocking the door in. Irving shivers, surveying the room for anything that might either serve as a weapon, or allow him to shelter here more comfortably. ]

🌊 w i l d c a r d｡

[ Choose your own adventure! Hit me up with anything, or PM / plurk me @ reggiemantle to discuss in further detail. Since I also posted to the previous TDM (got my app months confused 🤪) I'm still more than happy to continue those threads, AND/OR have any new threads here maintain the continuity of our previous thread, or we can simply start fresh; up to you! ]

froth-corrupted lungs.

[mordue]

[ Claudia watches him from the corner of the room that she's bundled into, arms wrapped around her legs, knees pulled to her chest. Her silence accounts for the fact that she's trying to decide how best to make herself known to him, whether she ought to play the little girl or dispense with the charade, her fourteen-year-old appearance notwithstanding.

He starts to talk to himself, which she thinks is awfully stupid of him. He hasn't even looked around – anyone could be in here with him. A bloodthirsty woman with the body of a child, for example. The little girl it is. ]

Mister, did you get caught in that fog?

sansa stark | hbo's game of thrones

[clothed]

SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS | You will feel their teeth on your neck.

Cold. The cold is seeping through her clothes. She remembers jumping from the high walls of Winterfell, breaking her fall with the snow. She remembers Theon behind her, Theon hiding her in the biting cold as Ramsay's men caught up with them, and then— nothing.

Not nothing. An odd sound, like a piercing shriek of birds but unlike any that she'd ever heard before, and lights. Strange lights flutter in the sky like coloured silk, terrifying and beautiful that they make her breath catch in her lungs. She's still on the ground, covered by cold but enough to tell her she's been laid prone for some time. How long has she been lying in the snow? How far had she walked, how did she get away, why does she not remember?

Something soft nudges her palm, jolts her back into her body. Not a predator; if it were, it would have taken to her neck already. Animals can tell when you're awake. No, this one is—

"Lady?" Her direwolf, with the Hound's iron collar still on her neck. Killed a lifetime ago, it feels like. She must be dying, then, seeing things from the shock of exposure. Sansa reaches out to her wolf and she feels, for an eternal second, alive, Lady's breath wet against her cold hands. With a quiet sob, she reaches for her wolf, pulls her close and holds her. If this is death, then she dies with a friend to keep her company.

The quiet doesn't last long. Something bigger than Lady crunches the snow, and the wolf's fur prickles in alarm as the sound approaches. If it's a beast then she's in great trouble; all she has on her is her necklace; the blade needs sharpening and its chain is thin. Very slowly, Sansa turns in the direction of the noise, breath held as still as she can make it. Friend or foe — she'll know when she calls. She fears (she hopes) it's not a beast hunting for its food.

"I mean no harm," she calls out, her voice quailing at the last moment. Under her hands, Lady raises and arches her back. "Point me away from your land and I shall leave."

METHUSELAH'S FEAST | Thus spoke Methuselah.

There is an old man with a sadness to him, and he welcomes her and Lady through his cabin with an inscrutable expression and a bowl of something warm. It smells of salt and other spices, and some meat, and he asks if she needs any help. Sansa shakes her head; Methuselah, he said his name was. A strong-sounding name, a strong-seeming man. She has questions for him, but she is tired, and there are others in this cabin who seem to need his help more. Sansa politely shakes her head, assures him that she's comfortable now, any wounds she has she can clean and tend to herself.

Truthfully, she'd rather not be touched by anyone, save for Lady. A miracle that she's here; Sansa feeds her scraps from her bowl, marvelling at how she's still the same size she was when she last saw her. Large enough, but still lithesome compared to the others; she may still grow yet. If this is a dream, perhaps—

She notices eyes on her. No, not just her— Lady too, who is happy to lap at her fingers for salt. She catches the person's eyes and politely nods at them. "She's behaved, I swear to you. She means no harm."

Claws

[meadqueen]

The woman silhouetted in the fog is wearing a strange combination of things that might look familiar to Sansa - fox fur, finely detailed leather, jangling stone charms - and things that definitely would not - a white knit cap with a bright red leaf or flower pattern, heavy orange mittens. She's armed, a bow on her back and a wide-headed hammer at her belt, but she has her hands raised as she approaches.

“Peace, I do not wish you harm. You are not safe here, there are beasts larger than your companion stalking this fog. I can take you to our village.”

claudia · interview with the vampire

[mordue]

001. methuselah's feast.

[ It's a long time since Claudia has felt cold like this, and longer since she's felt so vulnerable with it. She makes her way to the town in a numb daze, clinging to the thin vestiges of adrenaline left over from Mardi Gras like they're the things keeping her warm, and perhaps they are. She's shivering, teeth-chattering, as she bundles into the warmth. A fourteen year old girl and nothing more, feeling every bit as vulnerable and uncertain as she appears.

She doesn't like it. The feeling of weakness pulls at her like a rusted nail hooked under her skin, digging deep. It's only as the feeling starts to come back to her fingers and toes that she realises what is truly missing. Her senses, usually so attuned and sharp, feel dulled as if by age, but that can't be true. She just gorged on blood, and that can't have been so long ago that she's dessicating already. Someone has placed a bowl of soup in front of her, perhaps out of some feeling of charity, but all it does is make her angry. ]

Mmmmm— [ It's a desperate noise, half-pique and half-frustration, as she tosses her hair back, her hands balled into little fists — and the bowl of soup goes flying away, skidding off the table she's sitting at and sending sprays of hot liquid everywhere. ]

002. from froth-corrupted lungs.

[ A longstanding feud with sunlight keeps Claudia from going outside during the day. She has found a small room for herself to hide in, at least for now, and it does her well; when the fog comes, she watches it ooze through the town from behind a pane of glass. Out of an abundance of caution, she decides not to rush out into it.

It's almost reassuring, then, to watch someone get caught in it, to see them stumble and fall and hack and cough. She hears banging on her door, against which she's painstakingly shoved a heavy chair to keep anyone from just barging in. If it was her, she'd figure a locked door was a polite instruction to go away, but this poor soul just keeps banging. ]

It's locked! [ She calls helpfully, without moving from her spot by the window. ] Didn't your mama teach you what a locked door means?

003. wildcard.

[ feel free to throw something else at me, or PM if you want to plot something out first! ]

methuselah's feast.

[clothed]

[ a waste of food. sansa frowns delicately at the seeming display of ingratitude, but perhaps— she looks young, perhaps as old as arya now. she approaches carefully, picks up the thrown bowl and rights it back on the table. lady licks up what dribbles off the table and onto the floor. ]

The soup isn't to your liking, I take it.

arthur holmwood ✢ anno dracula

[murgatroyd]

arrival.

---

{ The cold is a shock to his system, and there's a brief moment where he wonders if extreme weather is detrimental to his health in his condition. He can feel it, which isn't too peculiar - it takes decades for vampires to grow immunity to the cold, and Arthur has yet to break double digits. It's more bothersome than the London chill, though, and reminds him of hunting wolves in Siberia. A life time ago, that seems.

The fact is that he isn't dead, somehow, not yet. Or he is, and this is the hell he's carved out for himself.

So he moves forward, focusing his senses on what he can as he goes along. Maybe he hears another person somewhere out here in the snow, but eventually the ever-so-slightest hint of civilization hits him, and soon the community hall comes into view.

The food inside is inconsequential to him, but the warmth of the fire is a welcome relief. He throws a blanket over himself, covering up his fine but bloodied clothes, wearily watching the dawn begin to creep up. He will not be leaving to explore the town any time soon. }

sharp claws.

---

{ Arthur may be new to Milton, but the arrival of the cats doesn't strike any deep fear in him. He's hunted large prey plenty of times in his life, he's visited strange and exotic lands and has seen plenty of animals that may cause terror. And besides, is he, himself, not also a preternaturally altered predator?

At least he's not completely delusional. His skills could match a normal wildcat, but a creature like this? It would be reckless to assume the odds are in his favour. But he's not afraid.

He watches one of the cats at night, his dark eyes glinting a little red in whatever light might reach them. The cat watches him back, maybe too stealthy for a human eye to catch right away. With a bit of looking, though, the cat's outline is obvious. What Arthur would do for a gun right now ...

As someone comes up near him, he holds out his arm to get them to still. }

Shh.

{ It's a whispered warning, and he motions to the animal that starts to slowly creep towards them. }

You don't happen to have a weapon, do you?

{ Maybe Arthur can't take it down on his own, but if someone would help, well ... He'd gladly reap the benefits of the kill. It's the hot blood coursing through the cat that interests him more than the pelt. }

wildcard.

---

Choose your own adventure! Arthur will be out and about Milton, though only between sunset and sunrise. #vampirelife Feel free to run into him in any situation, whether listed here as prompts or not.

arrival.

[clothed]

[ it's lady who interrupts the man, drawn to smell of blood underneath. she whines, perhaps thinking the man injured. but she's also a wolf, and blood-smells mean food, though she's trained enough not to lunge at the first bleeding thing set in front of her.

sansa, who has been trying to mend her damaged gloves, notices in time as lady licks the man's face, and rushes to pull her back. ]

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, she didn't mean to wake you, she's— are you bleeding?

Casper Darling | Control/Remedy Connected Universe

[readytosee]

i. arrival | the cabin
This isn't the first time Darling has woken up in a strange place with no memory of how he got here. It's not even the first time recently he's done so. Last he knew, he'd been following a man off into the little section of black void he'd started to call home. After that? Who knows. Darkness again. Perhaps he'd only dreamed of meeting the man? A dream within the dream place, interesting.

But this? This is new. It's certainly a more solid location than he's been in, recently. There are walls, and furniture, and by the smell of it, there was previously food. Too bad the fire place isn't going, as the cabin is freezing. Darling wraps his arms around himself, since his lab coat doesn't give him much warmth, and starts moving around the cabin to inspect it more thoroughly.



ii. arrival | milton
Casper has never been so cold in his life. And he does not do the cold well, he knows that. It's why he wears so many layers all the time. But this time, his sweatervest, blazer, and lab coat are not helping keep away the chill. Which is why, when he sees the sign for the next town, he feels incredibly relieved. Moreso than when he'd found the radio in -- wherever it was he was last.

The scientist manages to stumble a few more steps in the snow before falling to his knees, shivering.



iii. froth-covered lungs
Casper Darling is faced with a dilemma. He wants, very badly, to go back out and study the green fog he can see through the windows from the relative comfort of the Community Hall. But the burn on his palm tells him that coming in direct contact with it would be a poor plan, indeed. Perhaps there is someone with less exposed skin or more experience with this place willing to help him gather some data? If only he had his lab gloves with him. Those go up to the shoulder and would be very helpful, in this case.



iv. wildcard
[not inspired by what you see here? throw something at me! or hmu on plurk at wherethefigslie and we can chat!]

ii.

[desperate_times_right]

It's not every day, even in a place like Milton, that you find a guy in a lab coat slumped over in the snow. Must be that time again.

“Hey, dude. You good?”

He does not look good.

la'an noonien-singh | star trek: strange new worlds

[rescapee]

i. arrival

[ Waking up in the snow when she'd expected to be aboard the Enterprise was jarring, to say the least. La'an had leaped to her feet, scrambling for a weapon that wouldn't work. The special phaser rifle that was specially designed to kill the Gorn no longer even turned on, despite being fully functioning what seemed like moments ago. It hadn't made sense then, and no clarity has come to her in the ten minutes she's been trudging through the snowy forest, her red and black combat uniform standing out like a neon sign.

You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design. The words filter up through a hazy recollection of darkness, sending a spike of fear up her spine as she walks, her boots packing down the crisp snow. Surely it must have been a dream, an effect of some sort of transporter malfunction combined with an old memory of the insults lobbed at her as a child. Augment. Monster. She's been accused of being something unnatural her entire life, so surely this must be some sort of repressed trauma resurfacing at an inopportune moment.

There must have been some issue with the transporter, depositing her elsewhere on Parnassus Beta instead of back on the Enterprise, perhaps on a part of the planet experiencing winter. Except she's inexplicably missing some of her gear, which makes a simple transporter accident seem far less likely; her utility belt is empty, with communicator, grenades, phaser, and all the rest missing. At least she can be certain this isn't some new trick by the Gorn — they despise the cold and would never abandon prey like this. But then what is going on, and where are the crew and civilians she'd been protecting? Finding them and ensuring their safety remains as much of a priority as figuring out what the hell has happened to her.

The sound of someone (or something) approaching reaches her and she turns toward the sound, useless weapon raised and ready to react the second she knows what's coming. ]

ii. methuselah's feast

[ Finding the little town feels too easy, and she realizes why as she enters and finds her way to that central building with others who appear as equally lost. There is something wrong with her being there, yes, but more than that, there is something wrong for all of them. The sparsely populated town, the many people who have suddenly found their way here, the old man who cannot answer their questions to anything resembling satisfaction. La'an isn't sure she can trust him, but since there's no telling where (or when) she might be, she can't even be certain if the man would understand the possible implications of whatever atmospheric phenomena the Flare might be.

There are far too many uncertainties for her liking, but as she slowly begins to thaw from the bitter cold outside, she has to be grateful for the warm shelter and the food. She loads a plate with potatoes, meat, and vegetables, and takes a seat as far from the fire as she can get while still benefiting from its warmth and the ability to listen in on snippets of conversation. As the night wears on and she fully realizes just how wrong the situation is, she'll move on to coffee, determined to keep her mind alert while she wishes deep down she could indulge in something stronger.

This isn't the Gorn. Her people aren't here. Whatever else, she at least knows those things to be true. ]

notes

( Yes, the first victim of the Darkwalker returns! Sort of. She's from a much later canonpoint [season 2 finale] and has absolutely no memory of this place because this version has never been to Milton. Game veterans, please come and do your best to freak her out by telling her she's been here before and died horribly... It's fine, everything is fine. )

ii.

[meadqueen]

[La’an has surely noticed many people here staring at her by now, but this is one who had only met her in death.

There’s a bit of fear in her voice when she speaks, mindful of tales of draugr:] La’an? La’an Noonien-Singh?

squalo superbi // katekyo hitman reborn!

[sharktrash]

--1. arrival

a)

[ The ground is soft. ]

[ And cold. Extremely cold. Squalo sits upright with a wheeze, eyes wide, and looks around frantically, trying to make sense of the suddenly white landscape around him, large snowflakes slowly landing on him as if determined to bury him in minutes. ]

[ He'd been... in a battle. He thought he was a goner for sure -- though as he glances to his side, his sword appears intact despite the fact that he vividly remembers it shattering right before -- ]

[ He glances down and pats over his chest, relieved not to find any sort of a gaping hole there (as if he would be alive enough to panic if there was). He's not dressed for this weather, in fact, leather is notoriously bad in cold climates, and he feels a sting against his skin from his artificial arm, despite all the insulation in place to make sure it's functional in a variety of environments. ]

Fuck!!

[ He yells into the sky, hastily picking himself up and dragging himself off -- any direction will do, as long as he's moving, which will hopefully keep him from freezing over long enough to improve his situation. ]


b)

[ Mercifully, he can still move his toes by the time he finds some kind of an abandoned hut and wraps himself in a moth-eaten blanket. His efforts to start a fire are, unfortunately, unsuccessful, and he startles when he hears the door open again. He bristles and turns, apparently not quite in the mood for sharing. ]

--hey!! I found it first!


c)

[ He's just about mcfucking had it by the time he makes it into the town. He's wrapped up in some old blankets and curtains that he's apparently scavenged on the way, shuddering, and there's probably icicles hanging under his nose. At some point he'd stopped swearing to save energy and also help keep the inside of his mouth warmer than the outside, but once he's finally indoors and near a fire, he's unloading it all at once. Someone familiar with Earth languages might notice a thicker Italian accent slipping in. ]

Motherfucking COCKSUCKERS think this is bloody HILARIOUS, huh?! I'm gonna fucking find them and pull their fucking spines out of their fucking nostrils--

[ He settles down somewhat once he hears the old man's explanation which apparently confirms that it's not whoever he thought that had kidnapped him, but he still looks mad as a roughly handled pillowcase full of bees as he settles right next to the fireplace with a mug of warm broth in his... hand. He'd stripped off the artificial one to let his arm warm up quicker, and the mechanical hand with a forearm shell and straps can be seen laying in front of him, partly covered by the blanket, but considering how touchy he's been so far it may be best not to mention it. ]

What?


--2. sharp claws, yawning maws

[ It's definitely going to take some days to convince Squalo to leave the warmth of the community hall, but he seems more interested when he hears of the dangers outside. He's managed to scrounge up some more appropriate clothing, though he still appears to be very much out of his comfort zone. He must be used to much warmer weather. ]

[ Still, he accepts the task to escort someone to one of the more remote spots that apparently go through the wild cats' territory, and he seems pleased enough with the possibility of a fight... except so far, you've encountered none on your journey, and you're already halfway to the destination. ]

Hey, this sucks! I've got better things to do than play fuckin' Frozen Farmville, 'nd it's been days already! Think they're doing this on purpose? Y'know, boring us to death before we can starve or succumb to the lack of proper coffee? 'Cause I'm starting to think that's the endgame these trashbags got figured out--

[ (It's because his voice is so loud it works as an attempt to scare them off yelling, it seems, and he's been bitching non-stop since you left. Go figure.) ]


--3. wildcard

[ wanna do sth else? hit me up here or @ jigglyballs ! ]

I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT KHR THE OTHER DAY! ...1c

[khatsudoom]

I was about to say that I admire your... Creative choice in words.

[Ashiya tacitly said nothing about the multitudes before him-- the prosthetic arm, the aggressive looking maw on the man, and the sheer (though impressive) audacity on the man. Instead, he sat there in his oversized, heavy cape and nurses his own bowl of broth.

It was simple and warming. Perhaps the only thing in town that was.]

May I suggest that you save it for the actual culprit? Mister Methuselah is too helpful to be the guilty party here.

levi ackerman // attack on titan

[wingbound]

--1. arrival

a)

[ Levi has the luck to wake up in a building -- a small hut, really, and "luck" is questionable considering he can make out narrow patches of the sky between the old decks and wallboards, but it beats being out there in the open. The last thing he remembers is an explosion going off in front of him -- but he can't find any injuries on his person, aside from the fact that he's apparently been blown into a whole other damn biosphere. ]

[ He's at least familiar with the concept of winter, even if he found out about snow more recently than that. His coat isn't too bad for the weather, but of course with his small size he still feels rather cold. He's looking for something more to bundle up before trying to scout ahead and figure out where the hell he is, when he hears the creaky door open and close again, and ducks into a dark corner, holding his breath. ]

[ As soon as you enter the next room, something presses into your back. It could be a knife, or a mere plank, but unless you want to find out, it's probably best to-- ]

Stay calm. [ The voice is low and even, almost tired sounding. ] Who are you? Do you know where we are?


b)

[ Once he smells the smoke, it's easy enough to track it back to civilisation... or what's left of it. Levi stays on the outskirts at first, moving between buildings like a shadow, unsure if the people inhabiting the town are friendly or not. He wouldn't want to paint a target on his back by just waltzing into a crowd of Marleyans -- but it doesn't seem like that's the case. ]

[ He still looks rather surly and suspicious when he finally enters the town hall, but he does thank for the food and water before settling in a corner somewhere with fewer people. He doesn't seem in a rush to eat just yet, however... in fact, he seems to be watching the few people nearby who have the same soup he does. If you catch him staring, he holds the eye contact somewhat unsettlingly, but maybe it's just his blank expression and scarce blinks that create that impression. ]

Go on. You first.

[ Well. Guess he doesn't quite trust the host just yet, despite acting civil enough. ]


--2. from froth-corrupted lungs

[ While it would be hard-pressing to call him "friendly", Levi seems to... warm up to fellow Interlopers quickly enough. He doesn't complain about helping, seeks out things to do within the community, and finally admits to being "a kind of" a scout back home. His (so far) successful trips out and back seem to support that claim. He knows what he's doing, and he seems quite good at it. ]

[ Whatever his experience, however, it doesn't seem like poison fog is part of it. ]

[ At first, it seems normal enough, though he notices that he returns more tired than before. He reasons that it may be due to the cold. He hates the weird sensation of suffocating while out in the fog too long; it reminds him of darkness and small rooms and the smell of decay, and he works it out by scrubbing the community hall clean with whatever supplies he's managed to scrounge up during odd hours of the night before setting out again in the morning. ]

[ On the day he finally encounters the green-tinted fog, he's not alone. Whether it's someone who came out to explore or patrol with him, or perhaps someone new he's picked up before heading back to base, he's got an extra person to worry about -- and that's exactly what he does; he seems alarmed the moment he spots that weird coloring in the mist. ]

[ As far as he know, Zeke isn't here, but that doesn't mean similar bullshit doesn't exist here. ]

...Get inside, now. Hold your breath if it catches up.

[ He doesn't seem too concerned about himself -- he does still retreat, of course, but he makes sure you're running in front, and might even throw you into whatever building seems secure enough not to let the fog in. ]

[ Through all that, however, it seems he did end up drawing in a lungful himself. As he slams the door shut, half-collapsing against it in the process, he starts coughing. ]


--3. wildcard

[ don't see the prompt you want? surprise me or hit me up @ jigglyballs ! ]

Arrival - B

[aetherialshackles]

[He is distribuiting food, not eating, but he also raises an eyebrow in Levi's direction and approaches him with the bowl still in his hands. He knows not everyone can be happy of eating meat of all things, but there's something tthat suggest the researcher that's not why the other still has to eat there.

He holds the stare with his weirdly glowy red eyes, even if with the light in the hall mostly hide it, then sits down and takes a generous spoonful from his bowl and bringing it to his mouth.]

It's... not bad. I know it's not the best kind of food and I'm aware meat isn't for everyone but... [A small shrug. The meat he used to eat was created magically, Erichthonios is still not over the idea of killing inn order of eating but... this is life now.] We need all the energy we can get to survive out there.

[A pause as he glances in the table's direction, squinting his eyes in a specific direction.]

The instant mashed potatoes are especiallly foul, I think it's because the boxed stuff tells you to add milk and I don't think you can find any around here- but at least it's filling! Anyway- I'm Erichthonios, been here for a few months... who am I speaking with?

Trixie | Deadwood

[wishiwasatree]

[CW: prostitution, drug use, general old timey western horribleness towards women]

I. A Very Cold Prostitute

It was summer in the camp, and though the winters in the Black Hills are about as harsh as they come, the summers are hot and bright and dusty. All this to say that Trixie the Whore isn't dressed for her sudden arrival in the Northwest Territories, her underthings barely even present let alone functional to be traipsing about in the woods. Her threadbare shawl gets pulled tight around her shoulders, hoping to cover up any unmentionables that might fall out with her stomping and tripping and general mucking about while she tries to find someone to help.

Her assumption of what happened to her is bleak -- someone doped her up and dumped her in the middle of nowhere, but to hell with them, she's going to live to spite them all.

II. Methuselah's Feast

So it's not Deadwood, that's a surprise. It's not even Sioux Territory, let alone somewhere United States-adjacent. Trixie hates that she isn't bothered by the fact that she's been dragged away from camp without her say-so, but it's fairly typical for her to not be given any choice about where she goes or when. There's food here, and it looks more like a real town and not some dirty camp filled with hoopleheads and would-be prospectors.

She's completely overwhelmed by everything, but it looks like she won't have a pimp breathing down her neck and tracking her every little move. Maybe she can...clean or something? Cook? How hard is it to make a stew? That bearded man looks like he could use a little company...maybe his bed is cold.

III. Sharp Claws, Yawning Maws

The people here have been real generous in offering clothing to the half-dressed old-timey prostitute. In turn she's happy to sit with her rifle and pick off the ornery wildlife if they happen to come too close to the edge of town. She's not a bad shot; maybe not the best there is, but she can scare a cougar off with the best of them.

ii

[friendsfordinner]

"You're new," Hickey points out, as he slides into a seat next to Trixie. Which is good. New people mean that they come in with no preconceived notions. New people didn't see Jopson punching him and would have questions about that. New people are a fresh new start. They're malleable. And that's what Hickey needs right now.

"It's odd, yeah, we know. Just focus on eating something and getting in some water and I'll answer whatever questions you've got about this place. Though, fair warning, some answers might not help."

dream ▹ the sandman

[dreamaturgy]

𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙡 & 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙪𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙨

⟪ it’s the chilling, eerie accusation that jerks him awake. interloper. the voice is disembodied at best, eldritch-woven, and wrong. if dream of the endless isn’t an intrinsic part of nature’s design, of the universe’s, nothing is… but then again, dream also doesn’t sleep, and the way his eyes flutter open now, a touch of awareness seeping through his senses, kind of invalidates billions of years of what he knew to be true.

the air is sharp, each breath a dagger through his chest. frigid winds whistle through cracks in the stone; he’s in a cave, dark and stale and cold, and he feels it, not just a concept but a tangible, physical affliction. his flimsy clothes cling hard and frozen to his skin, and dream of the endless shivers, bone-deep chills laced with a hint of terror that lodges itself in his too-tight throat. he’s felt like this before. not like this this, but close enough, terrified and bare in too many ways, utterly alone, and powerless. the dreaming suffered his absence then, for a hundred years. the dreamers did, too, but that’s just the thing; gone is the connection to his realm, and dream rises on shaky knees, a groan that reverberates, a knot seizing in his stomach.

lucienne. alone, again. probably wondering where he is. he can’t fail her a second time, not like this, and it’s the one thought that prompts him to emerge from the cave’s darkness, only to be welcomed by biting winds that force his eyes to a squint.

anyone passing by might notice a goth-looking man clad in black and seemingly unsteady on his feet, staring dumbstruck at the frostbite on his hand like he just felt, for the first time, the weight of his own mortality. ⟫

𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙥 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙬𝙨

⟪ dream’s breath comes in ragged puffs, steps crunching against the snow. he’s never felt — or heard — his teeth chattering before, and it’s one of the many new sensations he’s acquainting himself with now, unsettling in ways he can’t begin to fathom. the cold makes it kind of difficult to think, for one, and he keeps wondering, somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he’ll even survive the hour.

probably not, if the growl in the not-so-far distance is any indication. the beast crouches with unnatural grace between nearby trees, stalking some prey that dream can’t fully see. he’s seen this kind of mise-en-scène a thousand times before, only a spectator — the stuff of nightmares, and all that. but it’s not quite the same when you’re the one creating them. when you know, for certain, that dreamers always emerge unscathed from their slumber. this isn’t a dream. this might not even be the waking world, for all he knows, a foreign plane unknown, but he has enough experience with this kind of terror-shaped creature to guess that running is the last thing anyone should do.

the beast’s muscles coil beneath its skin. whoever’s on the other side makes a move to flee, and dream decides to make himself known, half-aware that he’ll essentially become another prey. old habits die hard. he’s much too used to governing these fiends, and not nearly used enough to being the master of nothing at all. ⟫

Hold your ground.

⟪ his voice brooks no disobedience, steady and oddly calm, each syllable articulated with meaning. it’s enough to distract the beast, caught between two meals, though aside from its ears, its body doesn’t flinch. not yet, anyway. ⟫

Move, and you will surely invite a chase you are not prepared to win.

𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙝'𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩

⟪ he has died. somehow. in some way. it’s the only explanation that makes sense, and honestly, the only explanation he’s willing to entertain, at least for now. because a dead morpheus doesn’t mean an abandoned realm. it doesn’t mean the entirety of the collective unconscious left to fend for itself. it doesn’t mean chaos, another failure. it simply means that another aspect of himself took over and, in the grand scheme of things, maybe it isn’t such a terrible thing.

it just wasn’t a conscious choice, and that’s what unnerves him. mostly. the disconnect is still too raw, beating heavy and hollow behind his sternum, new and old sensations mingling with a multitude of trajectories he has no idea how to navigate. is this how humans feel? daily. confused. angry. lost. and so, so weak.

he stares into the fire as though it holds secret answers, a frown pursing his lips aggrieved, his palms gripping a hot cup of tea for dear life. his skin burns still from the merciless bite of the cold, cuts and blisters scattered across his body — most hidden.

but he’s warm — or warmer, anyway. at least for now. ⟫

𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚

⟪ this is super tentative because i'll probably never be NOT nervous playing this dumb eldritch but!! the premise sounds really cool so i'm giving it a shot! wildcards also welcome if you fancy different prompts! ⟫

𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙝'𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩

[burying]

[ With the feast in full swing, the Community Hall is packed with bodies of new Interlopers finding their way in from the wilds. It feels a little more hectic, than usual — the freezing fog has made things far more difficult and complicated. Methuselah seems far more busy, and those helping with the newcomers are rushed off their feet.

Kieren brings more fuel for the fire. There's a need to keep it going, keep it hot, in hopes of thawing out bodies from the fog. He doesn't feel the heat, the dead don't feel, but he supposes that it's probably best to just keep flinging wood on it for the ones that do feel. He swerves through the Hall, arms laden with firewood — making his way down towards the fire.

There's a awkward pause as he draws near to find a man staring so intensely into the flames. Kieren shifts his weight from foot to foot, his mouth a thin line for a moment. Christ alive. It's a rough one. ]

Hey. [ It's a stupid question. But he asks it all the same. ] You alright?

[assistant_janitor]

arrival: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

"Dammit."

From her brain to her lips in no time flat, Jesse's sitting up and looking around and taking stock. The cold, abandoned room: none of this matches the Oldest House or the Overview Motel, which rings a shrill alarm bell inside of her (mind and gut) and has her checking over herself.

She can feel her connection to her OOPs severed, the powers that once were as easy as breathing no longer at her disposal. The fact that there's still a familiar weight at her hip, that's a comfort, and she'll pull the Service Weapon into her hands, try to feel for the command to change its form before realizing that it's vanished. It feels loaded, though, and that's a godsend, a single comfort as she gets to her feet and starts looking around.

She's in better shape than she could be, given the jacket she wears, but not by much. It's not made to help against the kind of weather in here or out there, but Jesse's no stranger to being cold or lost or exploring alien landscapes, which is why she sucks in a breath and heads for the door.

"Any idea what's going on?"

But the familiar feeling of Polaris, still thankfully within, makes it clear that she is just as lost as Jesse is, a new and unpleasant experience to be sure. But she's gone without Polaris being able to guide her before, most of her life if she's honest, and she can do it again. Thus she sets out.

Anyone encountering her on the road will get a companion willing to cover your back and help you if needed, even if she's a little wary of sharing details beyond her name.

Once she hits town, she's going to be just as reticent about her past, but everyone feels better when they're no longer freezing and they get some food in them.

from froth corrupted lungs

Jesse reacts to the fog perhaps faster than most, what with having dealt with a certain pernicious fungus in the Oldest House. Thus as soon as the burning feeling starts, she hightails it- into a building, and then she's going to try and treat it as soon as she can. Getting her to medical assistance might take a little coaxing, but not too much; she's just not used to people taking care of her.

Once the news about the green fog comes out, Jesse will be in the first group of those willing to go out and get some of the healing mushroom for others, even if she happened to miss that particular part of the fun herself. Her people are in danger. There's only one answer for what to do.

sharp claws, yawning maws

It's not like Jesse hasn't faced dangerous, non-human threats before, but she can admit that these things are fricking terrifying. If there's a need to go out while they're prowling, she'll be there with her gun out ready to tango.

"Is there anything in this place that isn't trying to kill us?" A pause as she considers the Oldest House. Specifically, some of the items in the Panopticon.

Like the fridge. And the duckie.

"Forget I said anything."

arrival

[readytosee]

Well. Dr. Darling looks better than in the final message he sent out. Much more clothed, anyway, back in his standard bow tie/sweater vest/lab coat combination. (And a blazer, he's very thankful he has the blazer on under his lap coat, given the current weather.)

He's sitting by the fire trying to be less-than-freezing when he sees a familiar shock of red hair, wincing a little. Jesse isn't the best person he could run into here, given their odd history. But not the worst.

"Your guess is as good as mine, honestly."

Whiterose | Mr Robot

[zhangisdead]

[ hello, whiterose is a Really Terrible Person. on top of that, she dies by suicide in canon. her canon point is the moment she pulls the trigger - literally. ]

methuselah's feast

[ When she opens her eyes to a world of white, she thinks her project succeeded. This is a new world. Elliot chose as she imagined he would. Then she takes inventory of the facts and realizes that if this is indeed a new world, it's another one that's incorrect. This is not her beloved China. Chen is not waiting for her behind the trunk of a dormant tree. She is more alone than she's ever been, in a very literal sense.

Well. She can't stay here and die of frostbite if she has any hope of moving on to the next world. (Is that how this will work? Or must she build a new machine here?) Whiterose heads in the direction of what looks like a collection of buildings. On the way, she notices other people heading there as well. Good. She can get information from them, or from whoever is in the... little village.

She makes it to the community hall and scans the room like she would any other back in her birth world: as if she owns the very air everyone breathes. In her mother's white dress, she is the picture of the puppetmaster behind the curtain. People mill about the hall, chatting or not, holding food or hot drinks and evidently relieved to at the very least be someplace warm and safe.

Well. She'll partake too. She pours herself a cup of coffee, wincing at the taste, so far from the exceptionally high quality brews she's used to. ]

Well, [ she says to no one in particular. ] I suppose this is to be expected of a place that's clearly not at its best.


from froth-corrupted lungs

[ Whiterose ducks into the nearest building and slams the door shut behind her, breathing heavily and coughing now and then. This world is far, far removed from her birth world, and her station is the exact opposite of what it was before. Tattered clothing, a patchwork skirt, layers upon layers of hand-me-downs that serve their purpose and keep her warm-- and now this fog.
This is not what she worked for. This is another world gone wrong.

Still, whether there is already someone in there or they come in after her, she does not meet them with animosity. ]

Has this happened before? How long will this last? Is not the bitter cold enough for us to endure!


wildcard

[ I'm up for p much anything! Hmu at plurk at punnyinpink if you want to hash things out! ]

[guidemyway]

[OOC: Ruby here also has some themes of suicide. Surely they'll get along just great.]

[Ruby was only a part time resident in town since they had travelled to the mines last month, as such it was getting a little harder for her to pick out who was new and who had been here longer.

But when she heard Whiterose speak up like that she couldn't help but give a little giggle that was capped off with a snort.]

Hey- Hey. We may not look like much, but we've got it where it counts.

...Unfortunately a whole lot of guts and heart is not apparently going to cook a good meal.

scotswood 🚄 original

[scotswood]

—maybe you're the same as me.

( you are the interloper. )

No shit.

( The comment comes from Scotswood's lips before she even thinks about it, dry and unamused and definitely more reflex than actual conversation. She knows the score, or at least she knows the general idea here.

It's impossible to ignore the differences. The way her gut twists, the chill down her spine, the urge to flinch and draw away from the weak trickle of sunlight. The lack of any information in advance of being sent here (HQ are a lot of things, but even they don't just toss one of their people into a new world without any information). She draws in a sharp breath between her teeth, sends thanks to the sky that her hair tie is on her wrist, and pulls her hair out of her face before she moves.

The dread gnawing in the pit of her stomach can wait. Right now, she needs to figure out what is going on. Cupboards with doors left hanging open, shelves bare but for a thick layer of dust, and the distinct musk of mould which has Scotswood wrinkling her nose. That something has gone wrong is obvious, not just in her appearing here, but in whatever caused this house to be evacuated. )

... Dammit.

( There's nothing more to be found here, so Scotswood takes the first door she finds — thankfully, the kitchen connects directly to the outside — and immediately wishes she had been anywhere but central Texas before she arrived here.

It's fucking freezing, and her clothes aren't exactly made to block out the chill. She glances back, wondering if it might not be better to hunker back down in that house, join the people who went rummaging through the place and do the same, try to find a coat or at least a blanket. Or does she dip further into this pea soup and pray she happens to be a few yards from actual civilisation?

Her steps stutter, torn between forward and back, until something moves in the fog and her attention flies towards it. A shadow, moving. A vaguely humanoid??? shape?

Fuck it. Good enough. )

Hey! HEY! ( She picks up her pace, the hope of assistance, or answers, or maybe even both, enough to help her brace against the cold. ) Over here!

( She's waving and everything! )

—we see things they'll never see.

( Arriving here? Fucking sucked, thanks for that. Scotswood doesn't exactly settle after she arrives, either. Everything she finds out another point in the HQ may be bastards, but even they wouldn't sanction this column. No one who recognises her call sign. People from places that weren't even close to dying.

It's all so... random. And things haven't felt truly random in a long, long time.

She spends another day braving the fog, because although being soaked by damp mist is annoying, sitting around and waiting for the pieces to come together is worse. She doubts it's going to be an easy, all sorted by the weekend, affair, but she's used to that now.

It can't be as bad as her first deployment, right?

She walks slowly, the thick fog shrouding everything from her sight, the humidity making the cold even more pronounced despite the fact she's long since grabbed some appropriate clothing for the weather.

She swears under her breath, picks her way through the settlement with careful steps, reaching out to steady herself against a nearby building when the ground beneath her gets thick with mud and slip.

It's then she sees it. Kind of. A shimmer. A soft shift of colour at the periphery of her vision which she almost writes off as just a trick of this shitty weather, at least until she hears the scream.

Ah, fuck. Her head snaps around, and it's still too damn foggy to make out just who made that noise, but there is definitely someone stumbling, shifting right by the weird green shit. ...Is it getting bigger? She doesn't hang around to figure that out, lifting her feet out of the mud and charging towards the blossoming green.

And, more importantly, the person in trouble. )

Come on!

( She reaches a gloved hand for their arm, attempting to grab and drag the person with her. Where? Who the fuck knows. Maybe that building she was leaning on. )

—wildcard / info.

( hit me with anything! feel free to DM me to discuss things.
And here's your TL;DR because OC: she is a worldhopping agent who works for a multiversal HQ (don't look at me I am shit at naming organisations) which is tasked with saving worlds from their apocalypses. she's physically 17 and technically dead, but has been working for HQ for at least 20 years. NEGL I am still hashing out details so this is more voicetesty than anything. )

[aetherialshackles]

[It is fucking freezing, yes, but Erich is lucky enough to be a lightbringer so he doesn't feel the cold as he used to. And he wanders through the woods often enough to know how to navigate the area, at least- if he meets wolves, he's also quick enough to climb trees nowadays. He's a survival expert- at least compared to what he started as.

Anyway, he is braving the cold, despite everything, because the Feast is about to begin and he knows more people are bound to arrive to Snowville soon enough, if he can find and direct some of them to Milton then it'll be for the best, right? that's why he has a couple of basic coats under his arms and is using a piece of chalk to mark some trees with arrows to show the new interlopers where to go- hopefully it'll be useful for someone, right?

And apparently his trip had at least some meaning, since he does hear someone calling his name and when he turns his head he finds himself looking at someone who clearly isn't dressed for the weather.]

Oh, HEY! [He starts walking in her direction, offering a small smile and sliding the chalk in his pocket. Erich is just a tall man with bright orange hair, red eyes and... dressed pretty much like a priest with a silly bright blue jacket, pink gloves and a green hat, not the best mesh of colors but beggars can't be picky.] You just arrived, I assume? Here, pick one- it's cold out there. [Congrats on stating the absolute obvious, Erich.]

🏴‍☠️ Jack Rackham | Black Sails

[calicoat]

1. Arrival;

a – in the snow;

[ Jack comes to slowly, nestled beneath a tree outlining a sort of clearing – not that it happens to be all that clear, with all the snow. It isn’t the creeping daylight that pulls him from his rest, but the cold. His clothing, while layered and attention catching with a smart little scarf and bright yellow coat, are made with lighter fabrics, linen and cotton, meant to be breathable in warmer climates. But it is evident, quite quickly, that he’s not in Nassau anymore.

He scrambles to his feet, snarling at the snow beneath him as if he means to intimidate it into retreat, and when that doesn’t work, he looks around. Trees, snow, and in the distance, smoke. The pirate calls out, loudly, ]

Hello? Is anyone out there? Anne?

[ If there’s smoke, there’s someone. He shoves his hands into his armpits to warm them, and sets off in the direction of what he hopes is some measure of civilization. ]

b – at the feast;

Is it always so hard to get a straight answer out of him?

[ Jack asks with his mouth full, jabbing his fork in the air, in Methuselah’s general direction. He'd tried interrogating the man before fixing his plate, until it quickly became clear that his efforts were futile. It’s a good thing for everyone that he’s starving, then, and wolfing down what he can, while he can, until he’s turned over to the wolves. By the looks of some of the others around here, that may not be strictly a figure of speech. ]

If he knows to have all this prepared, he must know how we’ve suddenly arrived halfway across the world, yes?

b. Corrupted lungs;

[ Cold is not something that Jack Rackham deals with very well, even in the best of circumstances. As a young man, he left England for the Caribbean, never to look back. The weather where he was born was not the reason, but it was among many that made the decision an easy one. It’s been more than a decade now, so he’s gotten used to feeling the sun on his skin, even during the cooler months.

All this to say, he’s not having a very good time here. He's not just trudging through snow, something he thought he would never have to do again, but fighting with the air itself. It’s so thick with cold, it’s like falling into a lake through the ice, as if his lungs are filled with piercing cold themselves. As he traverses through the place, back towards a modest cabin (more of a shack, really) that he’s posted himself up in, he has to breathe through the mittens he’s scrounged up, to keep the air from freezing him from the inside out.

He’s looking down at his feet, making sure that he doesn’t slip on the ice, instead of up at the sickly-looking haze, and doesn’t realize until his lungs are suddenly burning, with a sudden, wild heat that brings him to his knees. Even after the mist drifts elsewhere, Jack hacks and coughs, spitting blood onto the snow, and clawing at the ground to right himself and finding only (you guessed it) more goddamn snow. When he looks up, still wheezing with the pained expression of a dying animal, there’s a figure, dark and obscured through the heavy fog, but human, or at least something like it. ]

Over here! [ More coughing, more blood. Fuck, it burns. ] A hand, [ hack ] if you would.

c. Sharp claws;

You’re bleeding, it’ll smell you.

[ That’s his justification for keeping the door closed, when someone asks for entrance, on account of a crazed wildcat prowling around, because as long as he stays here and stays quiet, it doesn’t have to be his problem. And that is how he’d prefer it, because he’s not so sure this little shack will hold up to a large cat attack, if it’s got a mind to get in.

...but someone getting mauled and bleeding out even more right in front of his door could invite more. He rubs his temples, and asks through the door: ]

It is close?

d. wildcard;

[ or choose your own adventure! You can PM me or hit me up at dorsquee if you have any questions or want to plot something! ]

1a.

[mordue]

[ Claudia heard him shouting. She thinks about hiding, stalking him through the trees, making a kill. She's hungry, after all – she always is, a little. But the situation is so far removed from normal that she knows it'd be smarter not to be alone. She has no idea where she is, and killing the only living breathing thing she's seen in hours would only put her at a disadvantage.

But she follows him for a little while anyway, just to make sure he's trustworthy. His mind is, as far as she can tell, completely devoid of thought, which is enough for her to keep her guard up. If only she'd been able to travel, to learn more about her kind and her own limitations – maybe that would have explained why his thoughts are untouchable to her.

Eventually, after a little while, Claudia makes herself known, making her footsteps louder as she crunches through the thick snow and dead branches at her feet. She clears her throat, too, to catch his attention. ]

I'm not her.

[ Anne. He'd called for her; Claudia heard him holler the name. His wife? His sister? ]

Maddy Perez | Euphoria

[somethingintangible]

a. arrival
[ When Maddy wakes up, she's inside a stranger, freezing building, in a place she doesn't recognize. She gets unsteadily to her feet, looking around, only to freeze when she sees someone standing directly in the door way.

She glares at you, and leans back. ]

Who the fuck are you?!

b. from froth-corrupted lungs.
[ Maddy doesn't know a lot about Milton, and to be honest, she doesn't really trust anyone.

But that doesn't mean she's just going to leave people to die. She's been around long enough, just in the past few days, to know what it means when the green-tinted fog starts to roll in. She's found somewhere to hide, in an abandoned shed, but peering out the window, she sees someone out wandering around.

Perhaps unwisely, she opens the door. ]

Hey! [ She coughs loudly, accidentally breathing in the fog she calls out. ] Get over here, dumbass!

c. sharp claws
[ One night, all Interlopers will be treated to a loud, hysterical shriek that rings out through the night, loud and clear.

Follow the sound and see a terrified Maddy being pursued wildly by a cat. Help her??? ]

claws

[meadqueen]

[Randvi hears the shrieking and crashing through snow and underbrush, but can't see anything in the fog.

She holds up an arrow, letting her alarm rush fire down its length.]

Run toward me!

jason todd ( dc comics )

[reneger]

i. arrival

( jason wakes up in a field of snow. remnants of what had been his red hood helmet holding some of the snow, but most of it falls straight down onto his face, covering him in a thin layer that slowly begins melting before jason jerks himself upright. there's no warning: he's conked out one moment, and the next he's upright, one hand swiftly raises to start pressing the catch on the back of his hood to pull it off, while the other stays lamely at his side. the hood drops, pieces of it breaking off into the snow, and before it even manages to leave its mark in the snow, that same hand's got a goddamn knife in it, raised and pointed menacingly in the direction he'd heard - something off in.

he's still down on the ground, hunched forward, but the irritated scowl twisting down the corners of his mouth makes it clear he's alert and already pissed. )

I'm not in the mood for games. ( his voice is quiet, but loud enough to carry into the nearby trees. is he talking to the trees? a wolf? a person? who knows. )

ii. froth-corrupted lungs

( the color of the green fog alone is enough to raise suspicion. he's already tensing up just watching it roll in, because that's never a good sign. there are a few buildings around, but they're all crap, nothing as far as he's come across is built to seal itself up entirely, which means - they'll just have to make do. luckily for jason, he's covered from head to toe in fabric aside from his head. it's just his face that's beginning to get ruddy with burns by the time he's rushing by someone who's turned away from the rolling fog. there's no hesitation before he's wrapping an arm around their midsection, pulling them in close so he can either bend down and shove them up over his shoulder or, if they're small enough, just shove them in under his arm and keep running.

lets out the breath he'd been holding, because they're far enough out of it currently there's no immediate concern about breathing it in. and clearly it's more important to, )

You ever stop and think, "Damn, I should keep an eye on what's going on? Maybe keep myself from turning into an ugly fucked up corpse?" 'cause you sure as hell should. Idiot.

( there's an old shack not too far away that he's headed towards. they'll have to figure out how to block themselves in safely once they've made it. )

iii. wildcard

( throw whatever at me! or hit me up via pm or crowbars and we can plot something out. )

i

[questioningmermaids]

[ Figures in the snow aren't exactly common. The problem is that figures in the snow--underneath--well, they're not uncommon, either, so if March sees a kind of snowy lump with a red motorcycle-type helmet, yeah, he's gonna stop and stare for a while.

Probably he should help the figure up. Probably. He doesn't, though, just kind of trying to figure out what the hell that helmet is until the figure suddenly bolts awake and scares the living shit out of him. It's not the knife, it's the movement--although the knife doesn't help--and Holland March jumps about ten feet into the air and lets out an incredibly feminine sounding gasp of a shriek as drops the firewood he's been carrying. ]

Jesus--

[ God, his heart rate. ]

--no games, no games. Not a Parcheesi board in sight, put the knife down.

Logan | XMCU

[lasttoolong]

FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS
cw: animal death, gore

It's been a long time since Logan felt cold like this. He hadn't realised, until it was lost, how much he owed his ability to survive in the wilderness to the simple existence of his healing factor, keeping him warm, healing the small injuries and the heavy grinding exhaustion of exposure. He's so damn tired -- and not all of that is about the cold, a fact he's mostly ignoring. But it's not like he can just sit around complaining. He has things to do. He can't just sit around while he can be useful.

He's out in the forest, stooping to check a rabbit snare, when he spots the patch of eerie green in the heavy fog that hangs between the skinny pillars of the trees. The fog is deep and dangerous as it is, enough to pull someone off the trail and get them lost in the snow and the plunging temperatures, but the green -- that's just weird. Sinister. It puts Logan's hackles up. He straightens and moves towards it, carefully, nostrils unconsciously flaring as he takes in breaths of the burning air, hands fisted at his sides. The bandages wound around his knuckles are tight, straining. His gaze catches on something on the ground -- a rabbit lying on the crust of snow in the green fog, white fur scalded away and bloodied froth seeping from it's mouth. Nearby, there's a dead bird.

Logan's bad feeling is only getting worse when he hears the snap of a breaking branch underfoot and becomes aware that he's not alone. Without turning, he holds out a bandaged hand, stalling.

"Don't move. Something's wrong." He edges a little closer to the green haze in the air, uncanny against the grey-white-black of the forest. Then another catches his eye, to his right. And another patch, where he was sure there hadn't been anything before.

"Shit," he snarls. "We’re surrounded."

SHARP CLAWS
cw: animal death, injury, gore

There are a few things Logan’s good at, and none of them are very pretty. But he’s willing to get down and get doing them for the good of this unfortunate little community, conscious that he needs to do something, anything, or he’s going to end up going to a real dark place -- somewhere he's been before and doesn't want to go to again.

When he starts hearing about the cats, he knows what he has to do. He gets together some meagre supplies -- he doesn't need much, but he needs more, these days, than he's used to -- and heads out into the rocky slopes around Lakeside to do a little hunting of the beasts that mean to hunt the Interlopers.

It's early when he comes back into Milton, close to dawn in the freezing fog, when the world is white and dead. His borrowed clothes are worse for wear, his shirt and undershirt slashed across chest and belly, across the thigh. Blood has dried black on him in splatters and arcs, but most of it isn't his. Most, but not all. The bandages wound around his knuckles are dirty, rust-colored and he limps, slightly, as he comes in.

But he's not alone. Raw pelts are rolled up and stacked, tied secure to the pack on his back. And he's dragging, by the scruff, the body of a half-frozen cougar, young and lean and gutted from throat to hip, leaving a bloodied track in the snow behind him.

WILDCARD

[ OOC: Up for anything and everything else not mentioned here! I'm happy to handwave CR or introductions, assuming Logan's been hanging around for a little bit. If we had a thread in the previous TDM, I'm cool with using that continuity or starting something new, whichever is more fun! FYI: I might not be able to get back to tags until the weekend. Logan's tags and threads may also contain themes of degenerative terminal illness due to the loss of his healing factor, please do let me know if you would rather not deal with that. Hit me up at laetificat for plotting and things! ]

sharp claws.

[clothed]

It's the smell that wakes her up: not just the wet iron scent of blood, but the raw stench of fresh kill. She comes fully awake at the same time Lady pricks her ears up and turns her nose to the side doors, where a rugged, bloodied man limps in dragging a dead wildbeast behind him.

She's up and quiet on her feet, drawing her coat - and it's her own coat, fashioned in the northern way, as familiar as it is warm - tight at the neck. She stares at him, and he stares back for a moment. Then she approaches, carrying herself the way her mother had always taught her, especially when meeting with the hunters and gamekeepers of the castle.

Respect the men who serve your house. She's not Lady Stark here, and he's not hers to command, but this - she understands what he means.

"It'll need to drain before the blood cures in the veins," she tells him, stepping just close enough to look at the animal. He likely already knows; the remaining viscera threatens to slop from the wide cut and onto the floor, blood sluggish but still wet. With the cold they should be able to clean the meat from it before it spoils. If it can be eaten; if not, then at least it can feed the kept animals. "And your wounds will need cleaning, new and old. I can help with your wounds, if you'll permit me."

Doc Holliday | Wynonna Earp | OTA

[thering]

the doctor is in the building.

Under any other circumstance, one might hesitate before approaching a cowboy fitted out with a black hat and a period-appropriate moustache, especially when he's holding a scalpel in his cold, steady hand. If anything else, he looks like he might be a far better shot than a nurse with half-decent bedside manner. But he's got a stack of clean, folded, small white squareish face towels next to him, a coil of suture thread and a curved needle on top of it, a basin of water by his feet, and for a man with a revolver in his gun belt hanging on the side of his hip, his touch is uncharacteristically gentle, as is his low, quiet tone of voice.

He helps out as best he can with fog-kissed skin, flesh torn by claws and teeth, and frostbitten extremities. Cleans out the fresh wounds and wraps up anything raw and exposed. At the Community Hall he could have applied numerous trades and lent a hand where it was needed. Could have helped out with preparing food, boarding up the parts of the walls and windows that need reinforcing, skinned a dead cougar to put its fur to better use, or setting up more cots. Maybe at some point late in the evening, he would be able to get around to one or more of these things. But sitting by the fire getting blood on his hands, around his ring and under his nails, the time passes too quickly as more and more people filter in to busy himself with any other work.

At some point, he ought to eat. Ask more questions other than 'how are you feeling?' or 'what got you?' But these trivial little things seem to have fallen off to the wayside. Mother Nature is a cruel mistress. They must all abide by her whims first.

[clothed]

The thing about being raised as a daughter of a great house is that you learn, very early on, to pick out important people in a room. Sansa thought she knew this lesson well, especially when she was in King's Landing, but she's since learned that power isn't just in pretty clothes and handsome men who borrow their names from their ancestors.

Importance is more often in the hands of people who either act, or move people to act. She's met plenty of men who pretend at importance. Met her fair share of men who were important, too important to be kept alive.

The man by the fire has a thin knife in one hand and a stillness in the other, the fire warming his color enough for Sansa to see the lines of his face. The basin at his feet, the clean towels, the coil of thread and curved needle - all marks of a learned healer, or even a Maester if they exist in this world.

This is not her house. These are not her people. But Sansa means to make herself useful here, and the favour of an important man is just as valuable as any gold she might earn to keep her place.

She has other reasons, too.

"You should eat." She brings over a small tray, enough to fit a decent-sized bowl and a saucer full of small bread rolls. A paper cup of something bitter, too, though she'd been told it could be sweetened; they say it warms the stomach to drink. "Forgive my presumptions, I'm new here. But you've been treating people, and I've not seen you take so much as a sip of water yet."

makoto edamura 》great pretender 》ota

[edamamepon]

》arrival

[ I. A sudden rush of cold air, audible and loudly gasped inwards, has Makoto startling awake. Sitting up, chest heaving before he even notices the white nothingness around him, he slaps his own cheek hard enough for the skin to redden. The sting of warmth is nice, the pain is not, and he doesn't wake up from this dream. Makoto's eyes dart as he scrambles to his feet and circles once, twice. Fog, fog, and more fog.

He's lucky enough to be wearing a plain cardigan, though it offers little more defense against the weather as the patterned button up beneath it does. Makoto is the very definition of a very lost tourist; pink tropical leaves splashed against dark blue. A lone smudge of dark brown hair and Hawaii against the chalky blank canvas of this new world. He tugs the ends of his oversized sleeves over his hands as they rise to either side of his mouth.

Following another sharp inhale, he yells as loud as his chilling lungs can muster-- ]

Hello!? [ A pause, his voice cracking on the next word-- ] Anyone?

Help mee-- [ The howl of a wolf in the far distance cuts the sound abruptly with a squeak, smothered by a miserable and trailing whimper of fear. It winds down into a harsh shiver. His eyes are darting off again into the fog, as if squinting hard enough would warn him of danger.

He's alone. There is no scraping or growling. But he can't stay here, he decides. And moving should warm him up, Makoto remembers that much. How long can a human live in this weather again? That, he doesn't remember. The fabric of his colorful shirt crumples pathetically as his arms cross in a vain attempt to hold on to whatever meager warmth he arrived with as he takes a step away. His teeth chatter the farther he trudges along.

II. Focused on cautious steps, his gaze remains on feet he can no longer feel. There are no further attempts at yelling. Though anyone he runs into in the fog or while checking an abandoned cabin will get a yelp. Another person after struggling alone startles him enough that his feet slip out from beneath him. The biting cold ground and uneven terrain rush to greet him if there is no attempt to save him from the snow and ground's harsh reception. Either way, Makoto winces and braces for impact. His fingers feel like icicles, too sluggish to save him the potential bruises.

Caught or pushing himself back up, he'll look sheepish and his words will be stilted by the cold. ]

Wow, what a place to meet, right? Wherever this place is anyway.

[ III. Milton is the place that draws the lucky interlopers in. So in time, Makoto discovers the sign and the town at the end of the path. His pace picks up, stiffened by the cold and carried by legs that look as though they barely got him this far. But anyone along the way still gets a smile and a shivery nod. He would wave, but he doesn't, because he can't feel his hands anymore.

Once inside, and once Makoto has exchanged pleasantries and thanks with Methuselah, and once he no longer looks like he's about to cry-- he is an entirely different being than he was outside in the snow.

By the coffee, under his breath-- ] ... I wonder if it's instant. [ --Even as he eventually relents and takes the gamble on its quality-- ]

[ He hasn't braved a taste, but the feel of it in his hands is what matters more for now. Makoto is content not to leave the blanket burrito he's gotten himself wrapped up in on a cot that he hopes has no owner yet. Alternating between losing himself in thought as he eats and offering up smiles or greetings to anyone that wanders too close. His optimism is in tact, though above all else he can't really hide how drained he is when he looks over at anyone-- ] Well, at least the food isn't so bad.

ii

[notarat]

[ It really is unfortunate that Makoto just happens to run into someone when the streets are more quiet than they usually are, with the thick cold fog and all. But considering the only problem Billy has with the fog is the lack of visibility rather than the cold itself, he is still going out in it, almost getting a little startled himself when a figure suddenly appears from the mist with a yelp.

Thankfully he realises quickly enough that it's just another person. Not one Billy recognizes, which makes him wonder if this is a new person. He may not know everyone in town personally, but he's good at keeping an ear and an eye out, and the person who just collapsed to the ground - sorry, bud, the Victorian lack of physical contact really does not make it instinctive to reach out to catch someone else if they fall - seems entirely unfamiliar.

And the thing Makoto says as he's slowly trying to peel himself off the ground is also.. something.

It makes Billy blink twice, but then he speaks up with: ]

Are you alright?

[ Let's establish this first.. ]

Steve Harrington | Stranger Things

[mrmom]

FROM FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS

Steve wakes freezing.

It's not unusual, to be honest. He's racked up his fair share of nightmares at this point in his life, and sure, one might expect him to wake up sweating, gasping for air - the gasping for air part is true, but most nights, he wakes up cold. It's always cold, no matter the setting: the Byers house, dropping ten degrees as the wall opens to the maw of a monster; the tunnels, shielding Dustin as the dogs charge at them; the basement of the mall, miles of cold, steel tunnels with no way out.

And then, of course, there's the Upside Down.

He remembers it like an itch under his skin, something he can't wash out no matter how many times he scrubs. Cold, numbingly so. Dead. The air was dead, you could feel it, and the creatures there soulless. He'd coughed up black grime for a week after the gates had cracked open fissures to the other side, hoping that there weren't any spores or some shit in his lungs.

But, back to the point at hand. Steve wakes up freezing, and he stays freezing. He's not in the Upside Down, despite the wild, wheeling terror that grips him for a moment before the vestiges of sleep clear from his groggy mind - no, he's somewhere else entirely. Not his bed, not Hawkins, hell, maybe not even Indiana because the bitingly cold air feels like it must be further north. Wisconsin, maybe? How the hell did he end up there?

Steve takes quick stock of his surroundings - he didn't feel concussed, which had to be a good sign, right? - but he's otherwise alone in snowy woods on the cold, damp ground. The snow is starting to soak through his jeans, so he stands, patting down his pockets - not much a pack of Lucky Strikes, a lighter, his car keys, and his wallet were going to do for him. The car keys, at least, have a small pocket knife dangling from them (mostly so Steve can slice open mail). His real survival kit is stashed in the false bottom of the trunk of his Beemer, but his car is nowhere in sight.

At least he's wearing a jacket - well, it's no winter coat, but the bomber is better than nothing - which he draws up tight, unearthing a handkerchief from the inside pocket (sidenote: he should have washed it, but tying that around his neck to stop the chill from gnawing at him there is again, better than nothing). There's nothing to indicate which direction he should head, as Steve turns a slow circle - North, East, South, West - before he sighs and starts trudging through the brush, ice crunching under his sneakers.

Wildcard
down for whatever, dealer's choice!

hello! sorry it took me a hot minute to get to this

[satanicpanics]

It’s always cold here, the bitter type of cold that settles into your bones and never goes away, but the fog that’s rolled in is almost otherworldly in comparison. It’s so cold that it burns--the type of weather that no one should be out in at all, but that’s not really how things work here in the Northern Territories. There's always someone out there.

Eddie is a man on a mission. He hasn’t always been the only one here from home, but now that Max has disappeared, and in this bitter fog—he couldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t go looking for her. People disappear all the time, but no one seems to question it half as much as Eddie does. Where do they go when they leave neither hide or hair behind? The familiar feeling that he could have done something to prevent it is already settling in, a nasty curl in his stomach that nothing really relieves. His only real comfort is that the Darkwalker hasn’t claimed another victim, at least as far as any of them can tell so far. So he wraps himself up—a coat two sizes too big, borrowed gloves, a scarf that’s seen better days looped over his nose and mouth—and sets out on his search, never straying too far from the path. He’ll never find it again otherwise.

Eventually, he hears the sound of the footsteps in the snow, and he pauses. Whirls around, squints, just barely manages to make out another figure, poorly dressed for the weather—clearly someone new, or someone lost.

“Hey,” he calls. “When I say you’re gonna freeze your ass off out here, I mean it literal—“ He pauses as the figure comes into view. He’d know that hair anywhere.

“Harrington?”

His eyes widen in a mixture of disbelief and hesitation, like he’s holding back, waiting for something to prove him wrong. He waits one moment, then two, and with a bark of laughter that almost sounds like relief, pulls the scarf down beneath his chin. While the face face beneath is thinner and gaunter than it ever was back home, the grin is still wide and lopsided.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” he breathes out. “Are you insane? You need to get the hell out of this fog.”

He doesn’t explain, doesn’t stop make sure Steve actually remembers him this time, doesn’t even explain that he’s been looking for him as well for the last four months. He merely grabs the other man by the arm and begins to pull him back in the direction he came.

“You in one piece?”

Hornet | Hollow Knight

[weavered]

[Arrival]

The cold was a new sensation - at least regarding the feeling of cold. Sure, the winds of the Howling Cliffs were cold, Deepnest, at times, was as well, but it did not seep through her carapace as it does now. Hornet pulls one arm in, drawing closer her red cloak as she tries to keep herself warm. Her shivering does not go unnoticed as she trudges forward, deciding that whatever this white substance is? She hates it. The climate was nothing like she was used to from Hallownest. She drags her needle through the snow, keeping it as close as she can so she may defend herself from beast and bug. She worries about her ability to move, to fend off an oncoming attack with how high the snow is upon her legs - her movement slow and sluggish compared to her normally quick nature.

She stops to lean against a large tree, resting against it as she attempts to catch her breath. The fog has made traversing through the forest difficult, something she had not anticipated when she woke, but now she knows better. Now that she was resting, doing her best to keep the questions from overwhelming her. Right now she needed to focus on surviving, on finding shelter so she can then build a fire to keep her warm. Something more than the wandering she was doing. The eerie silence was enough where she could hear something moving in the snow nearby. She could not tell the direction, but she draws her needle up and is ready for combat - at least as ready as she will ever be.

"Stay back." She says harshly, continuing to listen for movement. "Come no closer."

Hopefully, they understood her.

[Community Hall]

She must have the same idea as the others - get as close to the fire as possible to thaw out. The biting cold was enough to nearly take her under, exhaustion written in her posture as she rubs her hands together to help speed up the warming process. Once sufficiently warm, she stands, and walks over to the table littered with food. It's nothing that she is familiar with, and she wonders if she can even consume any of it - which leads to her next question: How will she survive? She jumps up onto the nearest chair easily, standing on the tips of her feet as she looks over the spread in wonder and worry. Food she isn't sure she can eat, how fitting for an unknown harsh wilderness where she is unfamiliar with the terrain.

Hornet, at the very least, takes up a canister of tea, sipping it slowly and enjoying the warmth as it spreads inside of her. It was not like tea she's had, but it certainly is a familiar idea that she could forgo her worries and simply drink. Besides, she's watched the strange, tall creatures with interest and no one has batted an eye at the food and drink, some even going to far to eat with little regard. It must be trusted as no one has seemed to keel over with pain.

She sits on the chair, holding the canister of tea, swinging her legs over the side of the chair idly, and considers her next move. She's warm now, but the moment she goes back outside she will be met with the harsh reality that is the cold and snow. She tilts her head, frustration building before she sets the canister down and hops back off the chair, approaching the first creature she sees.

"You." Polite as ever. "Can you tell me where I can find something like that?" She points to the one who calls himself Methuselah. She realizes that her question is vague, and clarifies, "The warm cloth and fuzzy things he wears. How do I obtain it?"

[Sharp Claws, Yawning Maws]

She's still getting used to walking through the snow. Her short stature compared to the taller creatures makes it difficult at times, but her lighter weight gives her an advantage of staying on top of the powder (well, sort of at any rate). Despite this, the lynx comes out of no where, arriving with a fierce growl as it leaps at Hornet with claws out, ready to strike. She barely dodges the cat, needle at the ready as she skids back. The cat starts to circle her, keeping it's distance, but clearly ready for a fight. Hornet shifts, weighing her options. She could run, but the creature would chase and that may end her prematurely. Staying and fighting would at least give her a chance to survive, but the lynx was large, larger than she had anticipated.

Though, she has never seen a cat before prior to this, so her expectations about size are skewed.

Instead of waiting for the cat to make it's move, she leaps forward, slashing the needle at it, barely missing it's leg as the cat leaps back in the snow. She doesn't let up, pushing forward, stabbing out and slashing trying to pin the cat down. It moves to her side, blood splattered in the white snow from a hit she managed to land, before it swipes at her. She blocks it with her needle, claws extending out and curling around the metal as it tries to get to her.

She might be strong, but the lynx is stronger, quick to push her back, and down, the needle now between it's jaws as she tries to hold it back. She's too proud to ask for help, but should someone be nearby-- "Do something now while I have it distracted!"

Before she becomes it's next meal!

community hall

[meadqueen]

The voice from nowhere startles Randvi, and it takes her a moment to find the source. Looking down at the - child? Elf? Elf child? - being, then puzzling through her question, she removes her own hat, a white knit cap emblazoned with red maple leaves, and holds it out to demonstrate.

“As these? There is a communal cache of them here in the hall, though you may find them a bit large.”