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singillppl2024-04-06 07:44 pm
singmod) wrote in singillppl2024-04-06 07:44 pm
Entry tags:
April 2024 Test Drive Meme
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
1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.
2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.
3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.
4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.
5. More information about Milton can be found here.
1. 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.
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.
no subject
Being a US Marshal himself, he knew the stories, the legends, the precedent for the stereotype that he himself follows. It'd be embarrassing. Raylan eyes the peek of that hilt and says nothing. Just as he woulda bet. Man doesn't carry a piece like that without knowing what to do with it. Now he was curious.
He huffs a breath at 'good' and ignores the 'son' - he was nearly 45 and dreamed of never being known by his father again - and drips his brim a little as he takes the flask and pours a few splashes in. Out in the middle of nowhere, coffee was gold and whiskey diamonds, so he'd look neither gift horse in the mouth.
"Raylan Givens. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you but I ain't much pleased to be in such a inhospitable place without dinner reservations. Canada, huh? Must be used to all this then."
Canada was cold like this, right?
no subject
"My my, Raylan," he teases with a smile that reaches the corner of his lips this time. "Asking me out to dinner already? We've only just exchanged names." The smile scurries away behind his lifted cup of spiked coffee. He don't mind much drinking it cold when the whiskey can do the burning all the way down.
"'twas, dare I say, a hair's breadth warmer than this place. But we had snow aplenty, and all the dangers that came with it." Not quite like the fog that seems to have it out for them somehow, but. They weren't necessarily a whole lot safer in the Triangle neither.
"You didn't ask for my advice, but you would do well to keep yourself dry. A good coats'all you'll be needing, and some wool - don't pile on a half dozen layers."
no subject
"Hope you know we're goin' Dutch on the bill." The flask is handed back with a grin before he samples his mug as he listens, teeth bearing slightly after he swallows. Oh yeah. That's what he needed.
"Believe it or not, I've got a wool coat over my denim, no more than four layers. Five if you count the blanket. Grew up with Kentucky winters. Though I'll take whatever free advice folks want to hand out. Kentucky winters ain't got nothin' on that. I doubt either of us expected to wake up in the middle of no where. Just glad my hat managed to make it here.. somehow."
no subject
And the only one who will make it out of that chaos is the one that started it in the first place. It's a story older than Doc Holliday a hundred times over.
Tucking the hip flask away back under his vest, Doc glances up at the hat again, then his gaze returns to an unremarkable patch of white outside the window. Seems plain as day to Doc that unnatural forces are at work here, but he's always been wary about bringing up these things in Purgatory unless he's around the Earps, or Black Badge. He sure as shit isn't bringing it up here. Anyway, Raylan doesn't seem like the type of young man - all of 45 is still young in Doc's eyes - who would be needing advice of the natural or supernatural inclination to survive. He is a survivor of more than Kentucky winters, and he don't look stupid enough to go wandering off into the blizzard on his own.
"Anything else made it here... 'somehow'?" He's guessing that means that Raylan wasn't wearing it when he came to? Maybe Doc doesn't have to talk about magic or demons or whatever else he's used to having to deal with, but plant enough questioning seeds and all those nasty, thorny, invasive weeds should grow just fine on their own.
no subject
The few bills that Raylan had in his wallet aside (assumed he had in his wallet anyway, there were more important things to be worried about), manual labor paid for a lot. Dishes, fixing something - this place needed something or to be burned down and built back from scratch. He wasn't anywhere near worrying about food stores or how people survived. That was a tomorrow problem. Today was about getting through the night and seeing what the daylight brought. No use getting spun up about a situation he had no insight into yet. It included trying to figure out how he got here in the first place.
'Magic' wasn't even on the list yet.
"Everythin' else was next to me when I woke up. If I'd been knocked out and moved, they woulda taken my gun or at least emptied my clip and my wallet, but everythin's in its place. Save the hat." And that was what was fucking with him. He couldn't help but chew on it, jaw shifting as he bored his gaze into Methuselah. His answers lie there, he would bet money.
Brow furrowing a little, Raylan looks back at Henry. "Did you have all your affects when you woke up?"
no subject
Of course, they are effective against the wild cats. But against magic? Or skin-melting fog? Or this kind of relentless, chill-to-the-bone snow? They would fare much better with a can of beans holstered to their hips.
"No. Something rather precious of mine was taken." It is a conscious effort to stop his other hand from touching and rubbing his tampered ring. Eternity in a gaudy loop around his finger. He couldn't feel it before. Didn't feel any different. But he feels it now. The weight of his own mortality. He hasn't yet started coughing, nor does he feel the weakness from chronic illness that would have consumed him from the inside out, which is the only reason he hasn't fled the premises and found an isolated place to lock himself away. But it brings him little comfort when death is so easy to come upon here.
"I do not think he was responsible." Hard to miss the way Raylan's staring daggers at their most esteemed host. "But it would be nice to find some answers."
no subject
"He's got 'em." Answer that was. Henry didn't specify what he'd lost which means he didn't want to talk about it or provide more details and Raylan was inclined to not make their situation any more uncomfortable than it already was.
"I'd bet money. And responsible or not, if I found my hat here, logic follows that whatever was taken is around too. Still can't figure to what ends, but I suppose it's foolish to hope everything would be delivered wrapped up with a bow." He sighs behind another sip of his coffee.
no subject
"It would be rude to corner our host for the evening. 'specially where erryone can see you." That might matter depending on the kind of impression Raylan would want to be leaving on the other folk. Doc thinks it too early to be anything other than pleasant, cordial, and proving himself useful to the collective.
"Every man has a price," Doc muses with a short sigh. "He might be more open to parlay if there's sommin' in it for him." But what does one get for a geriatric kleptomaniac kidnapper who likely can get his hands on anything he wants? Might need more than a night to observe and try to figure him out.
no subject
Didn't mean that Raylan wouldn't spend every spare waking moment that he wasn't focused on surviving trying to figure it out. He did have manners, in fact, and would play the polite country boy for as far as it would get him. There was value in that. Trust to be built based on the play. You can't just drop this much mystery in front of a man like him and expect him to be easy about it. Not when he fully expects to survive whatever is going to get thrown at them here. The devil himself couldn't change Raylan's mind when it set itself.
"You know that his price is gonna be taken from our backs. Tasks or work. A hunt maybe. Somethin' to help the community. If I were a bettin' man. Have us put these pistols to use.. Nice piece you got, by the way. A Colt?"
no subject
"Mmm." And a man does love to show off his piece almost as much as he loves to boast about his conquests and prowess, how many horsepower and how long and big and girthy-- anyway, you get the idea. He drops his gaze and takes his time pulling it out (his Colt, that is) and turns it over, offering it to Raylan in an open palm.
Raylan will find it to be an authentic antique, with all the craftsmanship and the flaws that would have come with it, loaded with the kind of lead bullets that might feature in a glass case in a Civil War museum. Doc didn't load the revolver out of a cardboard box of mass-produced rounds.
John Henry would no doubt have a long and enthralling story about how he came to be in the possession of that Colt. But he might be saving it for another day.
"I did have another Colt on my person. A .45, long barrel Single Action Army. Went by the model name 'Cavalry'. Unfortunately it seems I was only allowed to have the one, unless you come by it lying around this establishment." That's not what he's missing that he's most concerned about. But it would be nice if he could recover it.
no subject
"I'll keep an eye out." Raylan swings the chamber shut, looks over the base of the hilt and hands it back in the same manner. Being a firearms expert and from where he was from, he knew what those bullets were. He knew what they were not. He was reconsidering how funny Henry's earlier statement was. 'Since they built the railroad.' Having worked in Glynco and had plenty of weekends when he was playing Professor to have a look around and learn some things about Georgia's history. See how much of it matched up with Kentucky's, sometimes.
Oh, now he was really interested.
"Interestin' bullets. I'd offer to show you my piece, but yours is better. Not somethin' I expect to see out in the wild. It jam on you often?"
no subject
"More often these days," Doc admits. "It's a-- well I suppose you could say, it's an antique." So much of Doc is antique even though he doesn't think of himself as such. Part man, part myth. Part urban legend, mostly drunk - although he's getting better with that these days. "Metalworking wa'n't the same back then, and neither was gunpowder. You could change the spring out, keep it clean, but you can't change a delicate design, and it will never fire like it used to." He is no gunsmith, but he wouldn't trust any modern man proclaiming himself to be one to take it apart and try to fix it.
He can tell Raylan can appreciate a well made piece of history, though. He handles it well. Wouldn't be surprised if he either had a sizable collection, or had handled many pieces before.
"Assuming you're talking about one of those plastic toys with 'em lil' white dots, they work the same, if not better." It might not be his poison of choice but it is poison all the same, and an addictive one at that. "Ain't no better or worse pieces, long as it keeps you and yours still standing. Just people with better or worse character is all."
no subject
"And they do work better than a gun from.. the 1800's?" There was no 'could say' about it. It was an antique. "But that's not a reflection on the era, the industrial age made a lotta things advance. It's in amazin' shape. Sorry to say that people ain't advanced that much, so the sentiment about character remains the same an' correct..."
He eyes Henry again, curiously. "How'd you get a hold of her?"
no subject
It might have made for an entertaining story to say he'd won it in a quick draw fight at high noon but such things never happened. Nobody is stupid enough to stand across from some drunken bastard shooting all over the place outside a favourite watering hole and risk clipping some passers-by just minding their own business and getting kicked out of town. And he knows for a fact that they don't do such stupid things these days either.
"Not sure the coyotes or whatever is waiting for us out there is gon' appreciate getting shot at by a piece of our history," he remarks dryly.