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

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?

[extramuralise]

Oh--

[ Irving jumps, startled, good hand pressed to his heart as he whips around quickly to see where this new voice has spoken from. The girl in the corner is not immediately obvious to his line of sight, as the room is not a bright one, and his eyes still sting from the outdoors, but eventually his gaze lands on her small, curled shape. ]

Goodness, I-I'd even not realized this building was already occupied-- please have my apologies, miss, I truly hope that I've not frightened you.

[ Being a Victorian man who has now just found himself alone(?) in an enclosed space with a very young girl, Irving keeps his distance, still standing by the door cradling his burnt hand.

However, it then occurs to him ask: ]

Have you... are you injured?

[mordue]

No, sir, I think I'm alright.

[ She wants to giggle, wants to slap a hand over her mouth in a paltry attempt to hide it. He has no reason to think anything of her but what she appears to be, but it's funny anyway, the way it's always funny when you hide a secret and rub it in someone's face. But her face stays straight – maybe a little too straight. ]

Did you get hurt out there? Is it a fire? It don't smell like smoke.

[extramuralise]

[ Though he's hesitant to attempt making any kind of direct eye contact with the girl, if only for propriety's sake, Irving does chance his gaze carefully in her direction, anxious to at least confirm that she is, indeed, unhurt— after all, as long as the two of them are more or less trapped in here together, doesn't that effectively make him the one responsible for their safety? A girl of her apparent age may not exactly be a child according to most 19th century standards, but she is still a very young (seeming) girl nonetheless. ]

Good, that's good to hear, [ he nods and breathes out slowly, having to simply trust, for now, that she's telling the truth, since he's hardly going to be conducting his own inspection to confirm. ] I'm afraid I'd be rather ill-equipped to assist much with treating anything particularly serious, seeing as I'm not a surgeon.

[ A simple burn he should likely be able to handle, though, at least assuming it still responds to treatment the way most burns are meant to; suddenly not even that feels like something Irving can take for granted anymore. ]

Not a fire, no, [ he adds quickly in answer to her question, looking vaguely troubled for his own inability to account for what actually caused the burn. Impossible it could truly be from the fog, but what else? Frostbite? ] Although perhaps we'd do well to light one before it becomes even colder.

FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS.

[clothed]

Let me see it.

[ she doesn't mean to spook him, if she does; she's sheltered in the empty cabin just before the fog had fully descended, hastily plugging caps in the windows and cracks in the wall with what she can. her fingertips seem singed, after she'd brushed against the green fog, but they will heal, she thinks. lady is curled around her skirt, hesitant but teeth bared, sansa's hand on her fur staying her from snapping at the stranger. ]

Swear you will not harm me and I'll do what I can to tend to your hand. [ septa mordane had taught her— enough, and she desperately wishes she'd learned far more than what was expected of her now. she could use it as leverage. ]

[extramuralise]

[ Although she does startle him, Sansa's overall approach is cautious enough not to cause Irving undue alarm in itself, despite his surprise-- a very different story, however, for the wolf that's resting, fangs bared, at her feet. Irving closes his parted lips and remains still and silent for fear of provoking it, raising his gaze back to Sansa's only after a few long moments of this standoff have passed. ]

I can promise that I mean you no harm, [ he says finally in a clipped, breathless tone, bending slowly and carefully to set down his shotgun. When he straightens again, he's still holding his hands up to show he's (now) unarmed. ] Neither you nor anyone else who may be seeking refuge in this place.

[ He chances a look askance, in case there are, indeed, more people hidden -- if not necessarily hiding -- within the dark, shadowy recesses and corners of the empty cabin.

Seeing no one else, he looks forward and addresses Sansa again: ]

The weapon was only for hunting game-- food, but you're free to inspect it if you like, of course.

[ Since he doesn't anticipate she has any designs upon shooting him, and hopefully not harming him at all, either; surely if she did, the wolf would have attacked by now. ]

I-it's been burned, I think, [ he continues, holding out his injured hand now. ] Although I can't really explain how.

[clothed]

[ sansa nods, first to steel herself then again to the man. what he holds in his hands that she thought might be a strange-shaped shortstaff is apparently a weapon; it's not yet aimed at her. she hopes to keep it that way. she hushes lady, which takes a quick moment - neither wishes to be too apart, but a wolf will always have teeth, and people are always wary of things with teeth.

she kisses lady quickly on the slope of her head before stepping away, and cautiously she approaches. if he pays attention, he'll notice her own fingertips have also been burned. ]

I lost my way and got caught in the fog. I assume it's the same for you? [ she inspects his hand carefully and— yes, they have the same kind of burns. from the fog, with its strange green colour. ] There is something wrong with it. The fog, that is. I touched it myself, and it burned. Cool water soothes it a little. I can bind your hand after, once it's clean.

Do you know how to start a fire? There's a fireplace and wood.

[ there are hanging pillars of ice they could melt; she can reach most of them, and her knife should be able to chip enough for the one working pot still hanging above the pit. she's never had to learn to start a fire herself; everyone else has done it for her. another thing she must learn, and quickly.

with enough ice, she could wash his hand and soothe the worst of the burn. the fire will melt the water, pull the dirt in the ice to the bottom of the pot. the weather should cool it enough to pour without further burning. she'll have to be careful. he seems to be civil man, but petyr baelish was also the same. ]

My name is Lyanna, [ she tells him after a moment, begs her father's sister for forgiveness in invoking her name. ] I'm not from here, and if this is your land I'll gladly be on my way after the fog lifts. My brother is up north, and I've not seen him in years.

[ it's something she learned early on; a little bit of truth, especially a sad truth, can disarm people. she doesn't want to lie to him beyond giving him a false name, but if ramsay were to find her, or worse him - she doesn't want to make it easy for him. ]

[extramuralise]

[ That the wolf is apparently somehow tame is of minor consolation to Irving, although as with all predators, it's hard to fully trust the creature even at its most seemingly docile. After all, even a well-trained dog will still bite a man deep enough to bleed sometimes, so how do you ever train out the hunter's instincts from a wolf?

Irving chooses, for now, to trust the girl, if not the wolf itself. As she cautiously approaches, he's able to glimpse the burns that mar her fingers as well, keeping his gaze respectfully trained low until she's permitted him otherwise, then making every effort not to flinch from her touch when she gently inspects his hand. ]

The same, yes, [ he affirms slowly, with a nod. ] Although I can't understand how fog could ever leave behind such damage, even at these temperatures.

[ And frostbite doesn't present this way, at least not as far as Irving's ever seen.

His hand trembles slightly in hers, not so much from pain as from nerves. ]

First things first, [ he says with a nod, withdrawing his hand and curling it at his chest. ] I-I'll go make the fire.

[ Tacit agreement with the rest of her plan, as well, since the cabin appears so obviously spare that he never questioned meltwater would be their only source for it— were there even a well nearby, it would surely be too frozen to use.

Plus, he knows how to make a fire, even if it's a bit more challenging to do with one good hand. Something to focus on, though, which is helpful, since conversation will become easier while he's faced away from her. ]

But you may be at ease, miss, for I'm sure I'm as much a stranger to this land as you are. Lieutenant John Irving, of Her Majesty's Royal Navy.

[ "Stranger" is perhaps not entirely accurate, granted, but he's certainly not from here.

He glances at her briefly, over his shoulder. ]

You say your brother is... here, up north? Somewhere close by?

ii.

[meadqueen]

[The woman who appears at the top of the stairway, red hair flowing loose, a cloak hastily thrown over her mail shirt, looks furious, although truly she's more startled by the gunshot than anything else.]

What manner of creature have you brought to my door?

[She doesn't realize that he's a stranger. These new Saxons all look the same.]

[extramuralise]

[ Irving's head turns in the direction of the woman's voice, his heart still racing with panic for the wildcats outside, leaving little to no room left for him to fret about his intrusion. ]

My apologies, madam, [ he says quickly, breathlessly, ] I-I seek only a moment's refuge behind these walls, if I may-- although I'm afraid I don't know either, what manner of beast has pursued me here.

[ A pause as he takes a beat to catch his breath. ]

I-it almost resembles some type of mountain lion, or possibly a leopard, only much, much larger-- I'd think it quite impossibly outsized, in fact, if I'd not just seen it for myself.

[meadqueen]

A wildcat? [Bigby had seen feline footprints recently but Randvi had hoped the creatures wouldn't be bold enough to stray into the village.] Not a wolf?

Are you all right? [Now that he's speaking to her she doesn't think he's one of the brawlers.] Do I know you?

[extramuralise]

N-not a wolf, no.

[ Irving doesn't find her question particularly strange — despite knowing nothing about the area's history with wolves, himself — because wolves, at least, seem a much more natural predator to this sort of environment, whereas wildcats in the Arctic... regions doesn't seem quite right to him.

Not that he's an expert on the subject, however, and not that anything about the beast that chased him here seems especially natural to begin with, either. Something was very, very wrong with that creature. ]

And yes, I-I-- I should be all right, thank you. Close to dead by exhaustion, perhaps, but I've not been injured.

[ Better, though, now that he's at least had a moment for catching his breath. He pauses then, unsure if her question is serious, before slowly shaking his head. ]

No, we've... never met before. [ As far as he knows, anyway, but he'd rather not overthink the implications of that possibility. ] Thank you again for your hospitality, madam. I'm Lieutenant John Irving.

II. A surprise Captain!

[goingtobeunwell]

[It’s a funny how this strange new world seems chock to the brim with coincidences and ironies. It’s always seemed odd how many in Her Majesty’s Discovery Service had found their way through the Aurora and here, in this dangerous place that may not be real or even corporal, considering how many of them should be dead and gone, and have been dead and gone in relation by Francis Crozier’s own account.

The coincidences continue piling on as John Irving picks one cabin in particular, seemingly abandoned but only very recently become the residence of one bearded, one-handed former captain. He’s in the back room looking through his own supplies when the door swings open, and cautiously he creeps to the threshold to see who might have come through unannounced. There are very few who would, after all.

In the small living area stands a specter, a man who had been one of the first cut down by Hickey. Crozier’s breath hitches in his throat.]

John?

[extramuralise]

[ No matter the otherwise deeply, sickeningly stark and overwhelming unreality of his present circumstances, there is most likely nothing in this or any other world that could ever make Irving forget the sound of his captain's voice-- that is to say, former captain, most recent captain, the last captain whose command Irving will ever sail under. Even hearing just one word is still more than enough, when that word is Irving's name.

What kind of lieutenant would he be, after all, if he didn't react by pure reflex now to Crozier's growling Irish lilt summoning his attention with a simple address of John or Lieutenant Irving?

His mind reels, so very far from understanding anything yet -- if ever -- but he quickly knuckles a salute, pale eyes as wide and round as moons. ]

Captain, [ he manages, in a voice brittle and breathless. ] Yes, sir. It's me.

[ Crozier looks almost nothing like how Irving remembers him, certain discrepancies already igniting small fires of distress and confusion across various different parts of Irving's brain.

He clears his throat, removing his uniform cap to worry absently in both hands, awkward and overly prim as he usually is-- sheltering himself within the formal confines of autopilot, his safe space. ]

I-I imagine comfort may remain well beyond our reach, now into hereafter, but it does nevertheless bring me some... seeing you again. Please forgive my intrusion.

[goingtobeunwell]

[As years tick by he’s found that faces are easier to forget than mannerisms. He remembers well this young man’s deference to command, God at the highest rank, naturally, and his need for order in a world entirely disordered and foreign. All this to say the salute isn’t surprising, the gentle fiddling of his cap in his hand, the soft stammering and ready apologies.

It would certainly feel less uncanny and generally haunting if the last time he’d seen this man hadn’t been on a doctor’s slab, his insides out and his face pale and unseeing.

Irving’s loss had been made particularly gruesome and horrifying by the nature of the act alone. Does he know? What were his last memories before coming to this place? Crozier reminds himself to steady himself - don’t run to him, don’t grip his arm tightly, for the love of God, don’t frighten him with a too-sudden display of joy.

But he is filled with joy at the sight of him, and it’s difficult to hide it entirely. He steps forward, out of the shadows so his lieutenant can see him properly. He’s a ghost of himself as well.]

John — [He finds he’s at a loss for words. He can’t begin to express his relief, so he turns his attention to more pressing matters at hand.]

How long have you been here? You came in a hurry - is something the matter?

ii.

[lieutenantsteward]

[Thomas is finishing the last touches on his mending when he hears the shot. He's up in a moment, heading to the door just as Irving is heading inside. He jumps back, startled, mouth slightly agape at the sight of him.]

Impossible...

[But the sound of the cat spurs him into action and he shoves the handle of a fire poker towards the man's hand.]

[extramuralise]

[ No sooner has Irving managed to just fling the door shut behind him does he notice, in his peripheral vision, the movement of another body within the cabin.

He whips around, gripping his shotgun by the barrel as if prepared to wield it like a club if necessary, although the truth of it is that he's much too exhausted to fight off any would-be attackers, despite how his head and heart still pound with adrenaline from being chased. His eyes then move immediately to the fire poker, jumping back a step in alarm before he realizes he's being offered it, not threatened, which finally leads his gaze up the rest of the way to meet a vividly familiar pair of blazing blue eyes.

Certainly not a ghost, no, for Jopson had still been quite alive and well (as much as any of them could be by then, that is) the last Irving had seen of him, but nonetheless an uncanny sight to suddenly find himself face-to-face with: Thomas Jopson, sure enough, but not at all the one from Irving's memories. Perhaps the time it's taken him to properly recognize the man is understandable. ]

Mister-- [ Though dazed, shocked, Irving still stops to correct himself clumsily: ] Lieutenant Jopson, is that you?

[ And how--

But then comes a loud growl from outside, a heavy thud against the door, provoking Irving to finally accept the proffered fire poker and clutch it tightly within both hands.

Lowering his voice to nearly a whisper: ]

Pray tell me, friend, what is it that hunts us now?

[lieutenantsteward]

[Jopson has been much changed in his time here. Less constrained by the hierarchy of the ship, less burdened by the idea that he is somehow 'lesser,' more access to foods and people and ideas that have woven themselves against his chest, loosening his tongue where he once might have shown restraint. So the reply that comes is dry, much less the polite, quiet former-steward and now a fully fledged person in his own right.]

It sounds like a large cat, sir.

[He steps back and grabs one of the slimmer limbs bound for the fire. He fashions a quick torch and sets it in the flames to light it.]

Open the door on my count. [The smoke from the makeshift torch starts to fill the room, but Jopson keeps his eye on the door and the creature behind it.]

ii!

[fidior]

[ This is familiar, reminiscent of the wolves that had stalked and attacked some months ago. The animals are too big, too fast — unnatural. And now he knows what else is associated with that odd green swirl, and Edward's heart pounds as he rushes after John Irving, whom he'd been following, as he is prone to do whenever the other man is out and about around this place.

As soon as he noticed him being pursued by the large cat, he'd readied his own shotgun, but the thing is fast, and John is soon enough, mercifully, reaching a nearby shelter. But like the wolves, the animal is relentless, leaping up to the porch, no doubt to try and claw its way in. Edward curses under his breath and lifts his gun to take aim, but it's at that moment that he hears a snarl from somewhere in the woods behind him — still in the distance, but closing in fast. There's another one, possibly more, perhaps drawn by the sound of Irving's gunshot.

As quietly as he possibly can, Edward runs around the side of the shelter; fortunately the cat at the front door doesn't take notice of him. Not yet. But he's frantic as he finds a side window and hits a gloved fist against it, not too loud, trying to draw John's attention to be let inside. ]

[extramuralise]

[ Never having actually encountered the Tuunbaq directly before, himself, being pursued now by an abnormally large, abnormally fast apex predator is without a doubt one of the very last things that Irving's currently prepared to handle-- not that he could have ever been prepared for this, truly, but running for his life would still likely be a far more auspicious enterprise were he not so severely hampered by pain, fear, and debility, never mind such brutal, blistering cold. There is only God to thank that he's managed to find any shelter at all out here, and not least of all something so near to him that he's even able to make it there without collapsing in the snow.

It won't keep him safe forever, no, and likely not for very long, either -- already he can hear the beast prowling round the porch on huge, heavy paws, as if searching out some weak point to hurl itself at like a battering ram -- but he'd be grateful for even just five minutes to warm himself and catch his breath, cherish whatever fragments of human feeling might still be reclaimed before his time does come again.

Anything more than that could only be a blessing, then, for what else can all this be called but borrowed time to begin with?

The sound of something striking one of the windows quickly jolts Irving's mind right back to the present, which is, indeed, maybe just as well, since right now he can hardly afford to let anything distract him. Based on the creature's sheer size alone, it'd likely take little to no effort at all for it to break through the glass to get inside, had it wisdom enough to try--

But instead, it's Edward Little's form which Irving sees out there through the frosty window panes, Edward Little who is rapping urgently against the glass to be let inside. Irving whips his head around the room before spotting a back door, then points Little in that direction, rushing ahead himself so he can undo the massive deadbolt lock securing it.

Once unlocked, Irving chances opening the door up just a crack, hissing in a fraught stage-whisper: ]

Edward?! Where did you just come from?

[fidior]

[ There's a swift breath of relief as Irving spots him and gestures to another entry, and Little's quick to rush that way, heart pounding painfully in his eardrums, anxiety and adrenaline overwhelming him. He has never thrived on such things — never. They only make him ill, and he's nauseated from it, stomach rolling. One hand clamps against the shotgun he'd let fall on its strap from his back, stopping it from moving around and making any sound, as he looks up to the face peering at him from the crack in the door. ]

I was following you, [ he whispers back in a frenzy, keeping his voice down, eyes very wide, ] to ensure your safety.

[ It's the wholly earnest answer, as always.... Edward Little never stops playing Guard Dog, apparently. ]

Here, quickly, let me in — I'll help you extinguish this threat!

[ ...Won't that just mean...won't that just mean you'll be trapped inside too, Little...? ]

i, it's irving's best friend in the entire world

[friendsfordinner]

[ Billy's not in right now. But what with this fog, Hickey's been keeping the door to the house he and Billy Gibson claimed for themselves unlocked if he's in and Billy's out. It's only sensible, yeah? Keep it so that if Billy's nearby when the fog rolls in, he can easily run inside and not have to fumble for the lock or anything like that. It's easy. It's smart. And, in his own mind, Hickey's nothing if not smart.

Of course, the problem with leaving the door to your house unlocked is that other people can stumble their way in. When he hears it open, he looks up, perfectly ready to play the part of good host, to further polish up his reputation here, when he sees the face of a man who he hasn't seen in months. A man who's supposed to be dead.

It's a little unfair, Hickey muses, how Crozier's got a lot of his crew here while Hickey's only got Billy. That just means he's overdue some good luck. Tozer'll show up next. Maybe Manson.

He doesn't vocalize that, though. Instead, he watches Irving as he coughs, idly running through the various options in his mind. He could stab him. It'd be real easy. Just run that prick through again, toss his body out in the fog. Or hell, toss it in a ravine, let it be eaten by the wolves. But there aren't any good scapegoats to shift the blame on for John Irving's death. Annoying, that.

So instead, Hickey simply muses, from his spot near the fireplace, as he works on tending a fire, not even bothering to hide the smugness in his tone and his smile, ]

I'm sure there's some verse about charity you're more than happy to trot out. No need for that, Lieutenant. I've got something that can help—if you'll take it, that is.

[ He's got cold water and gauze. That's what you do for a burn, right? Maybe? Sounds right? ]

wow long time no see bestie!!!

[extramuralise]

[ Maybe there's even some small irony to the fact that, had the front door been locked, then Irving would have just moved right along to find the next building that did have its doors open, because time is naturally somewhat of the essence when both your skin and organs suddenly feel like they're disintegrating into tissue paper. But alas--

Well.

Everything happens for a reason.

For a moment, Irving still desperately wants to believe that perhaps he might only be hallucinating that terribly familiar, cunning drawl, but no matter what he tells himself, the recognition is instantaneous, freezing him in place like he's just been turned to stone.

It can't be, Irving thinks, heart racing with distress, his spine crawling with a deep, prey animal-like shudder that feels more like so many insect legs scuttling up his body. Surely it can't--

But when he turns his head, there indeed stands Cornelius Hickey; all 5'6" or so ginger-haired feet of him. Irving's eyes dart to and fro frantically, searching for any signs of weaponry within Hickey's reach. ]

I pray you, keep your charity, [ he finally hisses, breathy and sharp, ] Or do you truly think I'll have forgotten what manner of wicked cruelty must pass through your mind, disguising itself as mercy?

[friendsfordinner]

[ There aren't any knives or anything of the like visible near him. But Hickey is holding a fireplace poker. There's nothing overtly threatening in his stance—he's simply looking at Irving with an air of unbearable smugness. After all, it's not like the good lieutenant is going to scurry off back outside, not with that fog going on. He's stuck in here with Hickey.

And Irving must hate it.

Which is best, in Hickey's mind. Let that sanctimonious prick squirm. ]

That's a nasty burn you've got. Wonder how it'll look the longer you put off treatment? After all, we've no idea how long this fog lasts.