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

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.

[mordue]

[ The look that comes from Claudia's glassy amber eyes is cool, a little more held-together than her explosion of pique might suggest, but the scrunched up pout at her lips is just as childish as she looks, as childish as she feels. She'd like to break something, if she could. ]

It just got in the way. [ That's the truth of it, really – she would've hit anything in front of her. It wasn't the soup's fault that she can't eat it. ] Don't you feel angry too?

[clothed]

Certainly, though likely not for the same reasons as you. More that I'm tired, and hungry, and in desperate need of a warm bath. But things could be worse.

May I sit? [ she asks, pointing to the chair from across the girl. ] I'm Lyanna.

[ for now, until she's sure ramsay can't get to her here, she will be anyone else but sansa stark. ]

[mordue]

[ Things could be worse. It's not the first time Claudia's heard that, but it rankles just the same. Yes, it could be worse. She could be dying. She could have lost a limb or two or three or four. That doesn't make her current circumstances any better.

But she can't send away company just because she's in a bad mood. She has to make allies – a strange feeling for her. So she nods, sitting back in her seat, scowling at the bowl placed so carefully back on the table. She couldn't eat it even if she wanted to. ]

Claudia. Did you just get here?

[clothed]

I did. Like as you, I imagine.

[ perhaps it's the cold that's nettling the other; winter doesn't care for comfort, and it will leach all warmth from hearth and home if given the chance. and she has a sharp, hungry look to her, something that prickles at sansa's senses. she's temperamental, that much is made clear so far, but something else too.

something just lurking behind her hard stare. if sansa is correct, this other girl has seen more than her delicate youth might tell.

there's a kinship to be had there, at the very least some civility, if sansa could reach through. ]

If not the soup, what would you rather have? You must eat.

001

[flanerie]

[ Lestat has only ventured back to town of late, for the sake of meeting the tide of new arrivals. He barely outpaced the deepening of the fog, a minor stroke of good fortune amid so many trials and inconveniences.

When he strides into the community hall, he's bundled from head to toe in protective cloth. It's hardly flattering, but the delivery of bloodless venison he brings with him has its own charms.

The hall is crowded and dark at night, flooded with bedraggled castaways. He barely pays them any heed as he cuts through the masses with rifle and satchel slung over his shoulders, light on his feet in a way only he knows is a pale shadow of the grace that's his by right.

And then he hears that cri de cœur, childish and wild, that he could not mistake for another however many centuries might yet stretch on before him. It resonates in his own heart's blood, stirring it to a storm.

He looks to her. His Claudia, as beautiful and terrible as the night she was made, in the throes of a tantrum, because how else could she announce herself to him? What other language have they ever spoken to each other?

If there is anyone else in the room between them, he cannot see them. They will move aside, or they will be moved - not through violence, but through inexorable gravity. He stands before her table, flush with tremors of feelings of every kind, only his cruelly blue eyes swollen at their centres with pitchest black to be glimpsed through the slit in rough wool that covers his face as a caul. ]

Manners, Claudia.

[ He chides, paternally dreadful, the note of old affection wielded as mercilessly as a knife drawn across the throat. ]

[mordue]

[ The sound of his voice is a jolt in her gut, the wrench of a fishhook tugging at her. Raw feeling explodes in her, unidentifiable, just a grating and bitter rush of intensity that makes her stand straight up from her seat, the chair legs scraping against the rough floor. Her hands, still balled, come to her sides, and she holds her position taut as an unsprung trap. Is she afraid? Is she angry? Is she alight with the desperation to finish what she's clearly left unfinished, a need for vengeance? Is there a small part of her, somewhere at the back of her mind in a place she'd thought long purged, that feels the childish panic and self-serving guilt of having been caught red-handed?

There could be a thousand other people in this room now and Claudia wouldn't care one whit. She'd been idly thinking about them all, how she'd find a better meal from their throats than that ridiculous bowl of soup, but now it's as if they've all disappeared behind her blindspot, winked clean out of her vision. All she can see is him. Lestat. The last thing she saw of him was his body dead upon their floor, exsanguinated and pathetic, and yet he'd looked more like himself then than he does now. He looks like a vagrant, a survivor, not the lounging and impertinent housecat she's known all her life. If he hadn't spoken her name, she wonders if she would've realised it was him at all. ]

I'm in hell. [ That's the only solution, the only thing that makes sense, and it's so terrible a thought that she has to say it aloud. ] Somebody's killed me and I'm dead and in hell, 'cause that's the only reason I'd be here with you.

[flanerie]

[ She must suffer as they suffer, deprived of the gifts he so lightly bestowed upon her. Yet he cannot see it in how she moves, snapping to rapt alertness like one of the sleek-bodied pine martens that bound between the trees - poised on the cusp of flight or murder, no half-measures to be found caged behind their needle-teeth.

He observes her with utmost fascination, for a moment as the mouse captivated by the certainty of its doom, in the next as the owl perched silent on the branch above. It is no wonder that she looks exactly as she did when he last saw her, save for being slicked in gouts of gleaming blood, and it strikes him as a wonder all the same.

His laughter comes softly, so easily mistaken for delight, but Claudia knows him far better than that. ]

And the Devil would know no peace.

Is that any way to say hello, after all this time we have spent apart? I have missed you terribly.

cw gore and blood and stuff. vampire things you know how it is

[mordue]

[ He must have lost his mind. It must have dribbled out of him through the gash Louis slit through his neck, the same way all the blood left his body, because what he's saying now makes no sense to her. Lestat has been an indefatigable presence in her life: he's been her maker, her teacher, her barrier, her jailer, her enemy, but he's never been incomprehensible, not before now. She has always, at the least, understood him. Perhaps what they did has driven him mad. Or perhaps he's just trying to make her question herself; he'd been so good at that with Louis, gentle words here and there to make him swallow his righteous anger until he just pitied Lestat, pitied him and loved him again. This is clumsier, but then he never cared about Claudia that much, so maybe he cares less about his manipulations when the target isn't his precious Saint Louis.

So she ignores him, for now. His goading words hover between them like they're waiting to strike her. ]

Where's Louis? I want to see Louis.

[ She thinks his name now, loud and clear: Louis, it's me. Where are you? But there's something about the thought that doesn't feel right: it's as if she can feel it trapped in her head, rebounding off the inside of her skull, unable to get out, like a letter returned to its sender. Her stomach curdles. ]

What did you do to him?

cw vampire things, toxic familial dynamics. and do i ever!

[flanerie]

[ She only becomes more ferocious when at a loss, revolting at the prospect of confusion. It is one of her qualities he found most charming and infuriating by turns, how she seeks to cut through all she does not understand like an arrow through the fog seeking her target.

Louis. Always Louis, the object of their covetous discord, the treasure she imagines herself the sole and sovereign protector of - and he, of course, the wyrm despoiling all his writhing coils touch. ]

What have I done to Louis?

[ Lestat cocks his head, feigning confusion, a fey light burning behind his eyes. ]

Nothing he has not permitted. But if you wish to see him - I imagine he might be persuaded to trouble himself. He has been in a state over you. It has been a challenge, buoying his spirits.

[ How fortunate that Lestat found her first, before she could seek to mend the rift torn between herself and her adored by estrangement. He would hate for their family to suffer any further misunderstanding of its arrangement. ]

feast

[readytosee]

[The scientist sighs, looking put out as the flying soup lands, in part, on his lab coat. He mutters to himself as he pulls out a handkerchief to try and dab at it, shaking his head a little.]

I'd just gotten it dry, too. Please be more careful, in the future? Or at least aim away from people. Unless you want to give someone third-degree burns.

[mordue]

[ It doesn't look like an especially fancy lab coat, so Claudia wastes no time in mourning the fabric or even pretending to be sorry that she's stained it. She eyes him darkly, glowering, her jaw set firm, the picture of insolence. ]

Can't get third-degree burns from lukewarm soup. And if I was in good enough spirits to bother aiming then I wouldn't be in bad enough spirits to toss soup everywhere, would I?

[readytosee]

[It does have clips at the top, that he can attach his gloves to. But not the fanciest, no. Just that it's the only one he has here. It's the principle of the matter, more than anything.]

I just think that since we're all stuck in the same circumstances, we should all try to not hurl things at each other, if at all possible.

[mordue]

[ continued! ]

feast;

[20likes]

Perhaps it would be more constructive to instead place the soup aside with much less... thrust. Supplies are limited.

[ There's a flicker of a smile, mostly confused, from a tall man with a slightly gaunt face and glasses. He doesn't seem particularly upset at the upstart, confusion mixed with an arc of mild curiousity lacing his features instead. His mouth is half open, lips parted in a manner that suggests he wants to speak again despite also looking at her expectantly. ]

[mordue]

[ It's been a long time since Claudia has seen the food humans eat as anything other than matter, but she knows the agony of a limited supply nonetheless. It doesn't make her feel any other way about the soup she's spilled everywhere, but it's useful to frame this place around a feeling of desperation. ]

Well, if anyone's that hungry, they can go ahead and lick it up off of the floor. [ She says it with perky friendliness, like it's a real helpful suggestion she's offering. ]

[20likes]

[ This feels an awful lot like a toddler's temper tantrum. Heartman finds himself watching with a strange sort of detached patience. The kind he reserved for his daughter. ]

You're.... [ he tilts his head to the side, searching for the proper words. ] ..Quite spirited.

[mordue]

[ continued! ]

002

[guidemyway]

[Ruby had unfortunately been caught outside when the fog rolled in. She was generally good at bundling up against the cold of the area, but that didn't mean there weren't spots uncovered where the fog could slip through. And like most normal humans she did need to breath- And that's where fog was really getting to her. She hadn't been paying attention to just what house she had approached, picking out one hadn't exactly been a priority.

But she hadn't the expected the door to be locked. And she bangs on it harder to try and either force it open or get the attention of whoever was inside. ...She was about to give up when she heard the voice from inside.

Her voice is desperate, and more than a little ragged when she calls out.]

Please! I need help!

[mordue]

[ i'm SO sorry i missed this, it got lost in my notifs!! i've continued it here! ]

2

[flambeaux]

The days are getting longer. What meager hunting skill Louis has attained here is being tested. If he had a choice, he wouldn’t leave his house or his general store to chase deer droppings at all. With these pathetic dulled human eyes, he can see no better than anyone else in this fog. He completely misses dim figure in the window.

The fog begins to burn with more than cold, almost like the sun. Louis gasps in surprise; no way could the sun be out yet. He flinches and turns up the collar of his overcoat. The air that touches his mouth is a thousand tiny pinpricks.

It is unusual for vampires to stumble unless injured. Anyone would be forgiven for mistaking the bundled figure tripping against the front stairs for a human. That’s the idea anyway, barring some unfortunate biting incidents; Louis is determined to pass as not only human but also an upstanding member of Milton’s community. Louis has hypocrisy down to an art form.

He wouldn’t bang on a stranger’s door unless he were desperate. That voice—

He doesn’t dare to believe these are the sweetly fanged tones of his beloved baby girl. (Louis calls her sister to her face, but a part of his heart cradles the shape of his little daughter, one of the many ways he fails her.) He doesn’t dare to believe, but he does dare to hope.

“…Claudia?”

There’s some joke here about not letting vampires in, surely.

[mordue]

Her teasing facade drops in an instant, in the space between breaths. Claudia skitters away from the window and to the door; the chair she'd pushed up against it is a hindrance to her now, but she's too desperate to hear his voice again to even focus on moving it. It's him, it has to be him, it can only be him — but what if it isn't? What if she's lost her mind, driven by hope? That lone dissenting thought keeps her from making any real attempt to open the door just yet, so she just clambers right over the chair, her scrounged ill-fitting boots scuffing the already dessicated fabric, and plants her hands flat on the surface of the door, pressing her ear against it.

"Louis? Is that you?" She feels a little like crying, relief and desperation bundled together and making her throat sting.

[flambeaux]

“It’s me, and your door’s locked,” he reminds her, “as it should be. I taught you well.” They taught her well, and what a murderous trio they made, walking glittering down the streets of New Orleans. Apex predators with a few very specific weaknesses.

“The air hurts. I can’t get in, my strength is gone. And I don’t want to break your lock anyway.” He coughs like an influenza patient. “I’m sorry, Claudia, I’m so sorry…”

It works just as well as a calling card. Only Louis de Pointe du Lac could sound so miserable. He ought to be. He refused to burn Lestat. Somehow, Lestat returned, or this world plucked him from the jaws of death. Even now Louis dallies with him, wishes no harm except petty inconveniences and what he might visit upon him in impotent anger, ever unwilling to finish what Claudia started.

[mordue]

It's him. It's him, it's him, it's him. She barely has time to register the words he's saying, only that he's the one saying them. He's in pain, and however things had transpired the night they left New Orleans, she can't leave him in it. She jumps down from the chair; the heavy scraping noise of its feet dragging along the bare wooden floor covers the noise of her own exertion as she pushes it. She's lifted heavier things with no trouble, but that was before she came here, before her body was sapped of its advantages and left with only the curses of the gift Lestat thrust at her.

Her fingers slip on the latch – her hands are shaking out of sheer urgency – but finally, finally she wrenches the door open, grabs the rough shape of him, and pulls him indoors. The fog licks at her hands and she screams, a short note of agony, before she kicks the door shut and plunges them both into silence and relief.

The silence lasts only a second before her hands are on his face, clutching him for her own reassurance as much as anything else, as if she's trying to reassure herself that he's real and not some phantom memory. "Louis..." Her voice trembles, somewhere between relief and concern. An old impulse rears up on her to call him Daddy Lou, like she used to, a thousand years ago, in a different world. She bites her tongue. "You're hurting."

She'll address the apology later, much later. She can wait. It doesn't matter so much now she's watching him hack up a lung in front of her.