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

[clothed]

A village. Some hope blooms bright within her but it's quickly tempered down; how close are they to Winterfell? The snow is thick and heavy, and with the onset of winter she knows it would not be like this if she's halfway to Moat Cailin. Snow is quick to fall in the North, and Ramsay's men could very well be on her heels.

"Forgive my questions, please," she asks, eyeing the bow on the woman's back and the hammer on her belt. Strange, bright-coloured articles protect her hands and hair; maybe they are further from the castle, but she has to be sure. She doesn't even know how she got here. "But how far is the village from Winterfell?"

Should she approach? Lady isn't lunging, but she hasn't calmed either. More than anything she doesn't want to cause injury to another person; she will be remembered, and she doesn't want to be remembered if the men hunting her come by this way.

[meadqueen]

Randvi stops, noting the girl’s wariness and mindful of the wolf. The animal reminds her so much of Mouse that it gives her a pang of nostalgia.

“Farther than you could imagine, I think. A force we don't fully understand has driven us all from our homes. They say this land is called Canada.”

[clothed]

Canada? No, she hasn't heard of a name-place like it. She's well-educated, Septa Mordane made sure of it, but she's never known of a Canada in all of Westeros.

A problem to worry about at another time. "The noise," she says then, following the thread of the stranger-woman's answer. "Does the noise have something to do with it?"

She wishes to approach, but she is unarmed and the other woman is. Sansa wrings her hands instead, to hide the way she clings to the chain of her knife.

[meadqueen]

“Yes, the lights.” Sometimes Randvi finds herself forgetting about the noise now, but it had been alarming at first. Nothing like the crackling whisper the aurora sometimes makes at home. “They have a number of strange effects, but this seems to happen on a schedule, them drawing people here against their will.”

'Strange effects' is probably putting it mildly, with the way it seems to control the electrical mechanisms in the area and the way it had altered her own body, but there's only so much a young woman so freshly dragged here from who knows what sort of situation can be expected to deal with at once.

“Are you armed? Is your companion trained to hunt? I've heard reports of large wildcats in this area.”

[clothed]

"I'm not armed," Sansa lies, "not the way that you are. And Lady is— She's young. She hunts for food, but only things smaller than she is."

She reflects her name, Sansa wants to say about Lady, but even she can see the foolishness in saying so. A tamed wolf: why not call it a dog, then? She takes a few steps towards the older woman, and holds out a hand to her. Perhaps civility in their shared sex? She bears a sturdiness to her that reminds Sansa of wildlings, the stories her uncle Benjen would tell them the few times he rides south from the Wall.

"I'm Lyanna. I'm trying to reach my brother. Please, I had a companion, we've been separated, he could've been hurt."

[meadqueen]

There's a brief hesitation - Randvi recalls Louis’s shock at the way she had touched his arm, but she had never learned what the people here do instead - then she reaches out to clasp the girl by the elbow, though she maintains the hold for much less time than would normally be considered polite.

“Lyanna and Lady, a lovely sound.” And much more dignified than poor Mouse. At least Eivor had managed to steer the children away from the name Dwolfg. “My name is Randvi, of the Raven Clan. I can defend you on the trip, it's only a short walk to Milton.”

She remembers her own brash newcomer’s courage, promising Konstantin that they would locate his missing son. “I do not think your companion is nearby. This place is very isolated and strange. Far, I should think, from anything you might know.”

[clothed]

"I have nothing to offer you in return, Lady Randvi."

Her grip is firm, reminds her of Robb or Jon when they would help her escape from Arya's games. Perhaps she's a warrior-woman; she's heard tell of such noblewomen both in the stories about wildlings and from the ravens sent to her father about the southron houses. She's never met one yet, wildling or otherwise; Miranda hardly counts when she beds her husband and taunts her from it. (Let her have it, and him; let them both share each other in death, if it please the gods.)

She supposes the Lady Randvi tells the truth, or enough of it to be true for now: Sansa doesn't know any clans or houses that bear the name Raven, unless the Night's Watch counts—and they're crows, her brother's men, a different bird with different portents.

"If you would truly have us, I'll be in your debt."

[meadqueen]

“I do have one more thing to offer you if you'll have it.” From among the beads hanging from her cloak, she pulls a small carved stone on a leather cord. The carving is a broken circle with a square in its centre, marked by something brown and flaking. “I promise you I will explain everything once we’re out of this cold, but it is a ward against an existential threat we face here.”

As she extends her arm, Sansa may notice that while Randvi’s left bracer is that of a noblewoman, fine detailed leatherwork, the right appears to be strips of salt-burned leather wrapped around some kind of metal spine supporting the wrist.

Whether she takes it or not, Randvi nods back toward the way she’d come. “Milton is an unusual place. Our numbers are few, and if we want to survive we can't afford to count debts. I think some of it might be easier to believe if you can see it.”

She doesn't think that Lyanna is a Saxon from her own time, there are too many small discrepancies, but they're more similar than she is to most of their compatriots in the village.

[clothed]

A gift must be received in the spirit it is offered, and Sansa is nothing but beholden to what she's been taught is expected of a woman of her standing and birthright. She graciously accepts the corded stone; it seems to be a necklace of some sort, or a charm, but the leather is too short for her to slip over her head without untying it.

"Thank you," she answers nonetheless, looping the length of the cord around her wrist and tucking the stone into her sleeve. "I swear to return it, my lady."

Because she is a lady, Sansa is sure now, if her bracer is any indication. Good leatherwork demands good coin, gold in its weight for work that withstands beating and weather, and Lady Randvi wears one that has seen wear. Its twin on the other arm is curious, with the savage look of it, but it would be impolite to ask so directly.

Lady, thankfully, relaxes against Sansa, and after seeing her take a gift from the other woman the wolf decides it safe to come closer, nosing at Lady Randvi's feet and knees. Peace, Sansa thinks. She means us no harm.

"You say few," Sansa murmurs as she follows behind Lady Randvi. "It is a small town?"

[meadqueen]

“As I understand, the population was nearly a thousand, once.” The sign they'll pass on this path says 947. “Before we arrived here, something… happened, and most of the original inhabitants left in one way or another.”

The first arrivals had been forced to contend with the bodies of many of the people whose things they've since scavenged, but not nine hundred of them. Some people had escaped whatever had happened there, or tried to.

“Now the village is mostly occupied by those torn from their homes by the aurora. New arrivals come in waves, but the people who leave - or disappear - typically go on their own.” The Darkwalker had killed people in a group before, but only once.

“Now our number fluctuates between fifty and sixty people. Is… Lady, is she bothered by other wolves? He is away currently, but one of the inhabitants of Milton has a wolf as well, a smaller male.”

[clothed]

"It's not something as simple as a raid," Sansa remarks, though she feels a little foolish for saying so.

Lady Randvi would have mentioned something so obvious, if that had been the case. Driving an entire town's worth of people out of their homes, and so completely—even Mance Rayder couldn't be evicted from his keep so close to where the wildlings lived. No, something worse than people would do it. Weather like the deep winter snow, or giants if they're real. Something other.

Sansa does her best to keep up with Lady Randvi, bunching her skirts up high enough for the snow to crunch against her ankles. She could have dressed more warmly, but she hadn't set out for the day intending to be somewhere so strange. (No, she set out for something much worse, but if she truly is far from home—)

"Lady comes from a litter of six, all raised together and with kennel dogs besides," she gasps, valiantly keeping her breaths even. "She's the most gentle of them, I swear to you. How long have you been here, my lady?"

[meadqueen]

“I wish that it were.” A raid that would leave so many massacred would be terrible to behold, but at least it would fit into her understanding of how the world works. “There is a creature here, a local god of sorts. I believe that it killed many of the previous inhabitants, or caused them to die.”

They had seen the ghosts of those people killing one another, but it's not difficult to imagine being driven mad by the terror the Darkwalker can cause even when one isn't its intended target.

She slows down a little, to accommodate the young woman’s long skirts. Randvi sometimes forgets how much such things can slow you down. She hadn't even worn a dress to her own wedding. “Are you cold? I can give you my cloak until we arrive.”

The girl speaks quickly then, defending her companion, and Randvi raises her hands. “Peace. We will not turn you out. I thought only to warn him if such were the case.” Perhaps there had been trouble in this other land with such creatures, but most people here are not so shocked seeing wolves after seeing Diefenbaker every day.

“Sometimes it's difficult to mark the days here, with heavy fogs or long nights, but I think that I have been here for around four months.” The number feels heavier, said aloud.

[clothed]

Vengeful and cruel gods— of course. It sours Sansa's face, darkening her expression for a moment before she smooths it out to something more like a faint concern.

"Nights grow long in the winter," she answers almost out of rote. She grew up in the North, so close to the land of Always-Winter; she understands the cold, isn't bothered by it as much as she used to when she was much younger. "The dark could stretch for days, even months. Even years. Four months of the snow is not too long; does the town keep its stores full?"

She sighs a quiet thanks when Lady Randvi slows, shaking off flecks of ice from her skirt now that she doesn't have to keep pace. "The cold doesn't bother me, thank you for your offer. I won't pretend that I'd not like to sit by a fire, however. It is cold."

Cold is cold, even as Lady seems to revel in it in her careful ways, hopping along next to them.

[meadqueen]

That expression is noted with silent agreement. Close proximity to even the kinder gods has never ended well in Randvi’s experience, and the god here is not kind.

“It's common, where you're from, for winters to last years?” It had happened from time to time in Norway, but only once in Randvi’s lifetime. It had affected them severely enough that it had cost her her freedom, in the end. “We are seeing longer days now, but the fog is so thick that there is no sign of thaw. We have survived thus far on hunting beasts in the forest and scavenging preserved food stored in the village, but if this continues we will struggle.”

Randvi no longer feels the cold as others do thanks to her gift from the strange woman in the radio. If Lyanna comes from a realm where years-long winters are common, perhaps she comes by such a gift naturally.

“There is a man who is native to this area who prepares a feast on these arrival days. He was away from the village when the disaster came.” Or so he says, at any rate. “A warning: he may also have something of yours that you would not expect to see.”

[clothed]

Something unexpected, indeed.

"I think," she begins, "that I might have it now. Whatever gift this man has for me."

Sansa nods at Lady, who is trying to pull the length of chain still bolted to her collar. "She was lost to me, but here she is. Like she's never left my side." Her grip on Lady Randvi's arm tightens just so; she is with feeling, but not so sure what the name of it is.

"Where I come from, in our history, there is something we call The Long Night." Sansa tries to recall as much as what Septa Mordane has taught her. "Thousands of years ago, there was a night that lasted a generation. So many years of night and cold. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the smallfolk in their huts. From that long winter, the White Walkers came, swept through cities and kingdoms on their dead horses."

"It's quite the story. I wouldn't believe it if not for Maester Luwin claiming the same truth of it."

[meadqueen]

“I see.” It does explain a few things: such a heavy chain around the neck of a companion animal, how quickly Lyanna had leapt to her defence earlier. “Some people have been upset to find an item of sentimental value on Methuselah’s table, but this seems a happy reunion. There is a young blacksmith of sorts who lives nearby and may be able to help you to remove the chain.”

Randvi listens to the story with attention. “A generation. Gods. The weather here has been unusual for some time - there are some scattered archival records in the village library - but not quite so severe as that. It may come, they say the god that comes for us will one day eat the sun and moon.”

Randvi wonders if they're from similar enough lands that an entire library of perfectly typeset mass-produced books will be as surprising for Lyanna to see as it had been when she had first seen it herself.

[clothed]

"I would be grateful for the help with her collar, thank you." She smiles sincerely, adding some colour to her cheeks that has nothing to do with the bitter winds buffeting against them every other moment.

Sansa was born at the breaking of a brief winter. Unlike her older brothers, who were born during a false spring, or her younger brothers and sister, born in a years-long summer. The cold has always been in her cradle.

The winds blow at a speed where you can guess how quickly the snowfall is approaching. They should have a few hours at least, with enough light to make it half a league before the night comes. But she could be wrong. This place feels different, and not just from the few terrifyingly foreign things she's already seen.

But there are records, Lady Randvi says. Perhaps she might read them, if she's allowed. "Is there a Maester in town, my lady? Or if this Methuselah is a scholar, a learned man, will he hear questions from a newcomer?"

[meadqueen]

“Methuselah will hear questions, but whether he will provide a satisfactory answer is an entirely different matter.” He never seems angry about being questioned, but he seems quite skilled at deflection. “Some people have travelled one one-on-one with him on scouting missions and heard a little.”

Randvi wonders how to describe Rorschach to anyone who has yet to meet him. “One of our number has gathered books and other correspondence from vacant buildings in town and oversees the library himself. He wears a strange mask that gives him a bit of a fearsome appearance but he's always been helpful to me.”

She points as they approach the sign. “There, the sign for Milton. We are nearly there. You should see the lamps burning, soon.” One of the nice things on aurora nights was that the electric lamps could be lit with a touch.

[clothed]

The painted sign looms as they walk towards it. Milton, it says, the letters paled from exposure to the elements. From almost a thousand people to barely sixty; Sansa knows only a few ways for that to have happened. Conquest, raids, a blight, a combination of the three. Maybe something worse, too, like in the stories.

The shiver that races down her spine, this time, has nothing to do with the cold.

"I've met my share of handsome men," Sansa remarks with some sharpness. Joffrey. Jaime Lannister. Even Ramsay had his moments, and Petyr Baelish too. "Many of them I'd rather never meet again."

"If your man is a good man, then that's all that matters," she adds. True enough, Sansa sees the lamps, and she feels some relief, but— "The light."

They don't flicker like firelight, yet they burn brighter than she expects them to. "What...? How?"

[meadqueen]

Randvi nods, conceding. A handsome face can be taken away quickly, and a pleasant countenance can hide a horrible personality. However, Rorschach’s mask had certainly frightened her a bit before she’d realized it wasn't his face. He's been helpful to their community, not just with the books, but with helping to prepare for La’an’s funeral as well.

She doesn't get a chance to respond, however, as Lyanna notices the lamps.

“Yes. This place is… the documents here have dates that are far in the future for me. There are many mechanisms here like these lamps, animated by a type of aether they call 'power', among other names. Currently, they only function when these lights are in the sky, which can be difficult to predict.”

[clothed]

This is far beyond what Sansa understands and she finds herself— frustrated, somewhat. It's irrational to think it. By all accounts she's on foreign soil, there are no expectations for her to be familiar with customs or standards.

"We could use something like it, back home," she diverts her frustration to something else instead. "It would save on tallow for the candles. Firewood, too."

And something else. Far in the future. "Do you mean to say you're from here, Lady Randvi? But from another time? This is a mirror of your world."

[meadqueen]

“There are stones in some of the homes - they call them 'smart' - that when they functioned, would allow you to speak with anyone else in the world with a stone of their own. You could see their face, like gazing through a window! Imagine all the ways that life would be altered by such things.”

Randvi knows that she will never see her sister Thora’s face again. This is something that she’d had to make peace with when she’d supported her husband’s flight to England (though he likely would not have called it fleeing), a plan which if she can govern herself appropriately should end up with Eivor on the throne of the Raven Clan. If she had one of these stones, she would call Thora every day.

The other part is something that she likes to think she's made peace with as well. “At home, in the method that the Saxons mark the years, it has been eight hundred seventy-four years since the death of their god. There are documents in Milton dated two thousand fourteen using the same system.”

[clothed]

"I do not know it, I'm sorry."

Sansa admits to it with some trepidation; her lack of knowledge had been used against her enough times, and she dislikes that she's in a situation where it could happen again. "By my knowledge, it's the year 301 after Aegon Targaryen's conquest of the seven kingdoms."

She expects to be met with confusion, or a blank stare. No matter; it would be better for her in the long run if no one truly knows. With her coloring alone, she gives herself away; there is only ever one girl who wears the distinct looks of a Tully that comes from the North.

"For what it's worth, my lady. It seems we come from similar places."

[meadqueen]

Randvi comes from a world before most measures were standardized, so Lyanna could still be from the same world but a kingdom that she does not know well.

“By our own count, it is the second year of the reign of Sigurd Styrbjornson. It seems that in the coming years, the descendants of these Saxons will conquer most of the world.” Seeing the Englishmen from their naval fleet here has made that seem the most likely explanation.

“There are people here from realms that neither of us could imagine. Vast empires above the sky, worlds where the people are living metal constructs, places with floating cities and terrible magic beasts. They're all drawn here by the magic that drew you.”

It seems improper somehow to say it aloud, but it is heartening in some ways to meet a fellow so-called interloper who is from a world like hers. Randvi likes a lot of the people here, but sometimes being so separate from most of them is lonely.

[clothed]

Floating cities, and magic beasts, and people made of steel. Grand tales, Sansa thinks, and she hesitates to trust it to be true; her love for songs and stories had been burned from her in the last five years.

But she is still a girl, barely eighteen. She still wears her hair in braids like her mother had taught her, and she still cares for her appearance for the pleasure of doing so. Most of all, she still hopes to find a way out - anywhere, somewhere so far from the horrors she's had to endure, if she can never find her way back to her true home. Bran and Rickon may still be alive; Jon is Lord Commander. Maybe they could triumph in her absence.

It's a cautious hope. They don't have the numbers, not while the Boltons presume to hold the North and the Lannisters rule the realm in all but name. But it's something to hold onto.

"We used to have dragons," Sansa murmurs. She says it like she's sharing a secret, and maybe she is. "I've never seen one, they say all the dragons are gone now, but I heard they have the bones of them tucked away beneath the king's castle. If you were lucky, you could pay to see them yourself. Bones as large as a small house, can you imagine?"

"Maybe this place could bring them back, too." A pause, and a nervous laugh. "Or not. Dragons might be harder to train than a wolf."