April 2024 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

APRIL 2024 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: Yet another new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.

PROMPT TWO — FROM FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS: The heavy fog plaguing the Northern Territories takes a far more deadly and sinister turn.

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

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-month.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in several weeks, maybe longer. The fire is stone cold, the dishes in the sink are mouldy — it's possible the place has been ransacked, as if they've gone through the drawers and cupboards looking for something. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.

You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. Interlopers who arrive during the month of April will find themselves waking up in a world filled with freezing cold fog, cold enough that it will feel as if your skin is burning. A kind of cold that will not shake easily. It will be easy to get lost in the fog. Best hope there's someone out here that might come across you to help you find your way.

Soon enough, you'll be able to find a path to town. A little more worse for wear, but alive. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused — battered from the journey. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you smell it through the fog: the scent of smoke that seems to cling in the still air. Fire. Not just one, but several perhaps. Civilization...?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the foggy mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights, even if it may appear a little eerie in the half-light gloom: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People! In the town!

As you head into the outskirts and then further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people. Several dozen at most, but no more. Some of them will direct you to the Community Hall, tell you to head there — you've been expected.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building where many people seem to gather: a community hall, by the looks of it. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Everyone looks as though they could faint from the cold at any second, damp and shivering.

The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face, but looks sad. He smiles warmly despite the sadness in him, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Another batch of poor souls from the wilds, this fog has made it so difficult.” he nods gravely. No, this is not the first time that this has happened. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. The lights are changing things, bringing more of you here. Come, we must get you warm and fed. Mother Nature has not been kind.”

The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful... and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, and while it seems there's a few people already living here, there's enough space for those in need of them. There's places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas and perhaps a rare canister of coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish, instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast. The old man has been busy. And Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is very troubled, thoughtful. Much has been happening. The others from town will eventually trail in too, to eat and warm themselves, and search among the new faces.

He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the town and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, his mood is... low, mournful. But perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

FROM FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS

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

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

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

And certainly, it can get even worse.

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

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

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

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

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

SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS

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

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

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

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

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

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

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.

3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

FROM FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS

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

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

SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS

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

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

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

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

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

QUESTIONS

[singmod]

Ask them here.

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

[khatsudoom]

arrival

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

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

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

Instead, he turned to the nearest person.

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

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

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

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

Froth-Corrupted Lungs

cw: coughing up blood

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

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

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

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

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

[solitarysoul]

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

[singmod]

Yes. Although it would be advised that Interlopers keep away from the mine doors/openings.

Raylan Givens | Justified

[tinstar]

Arrival

Out in the cold, heading into town

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

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

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

Community Hall, warming up

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

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

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

Corrupted Lungs

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

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

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

"What is this, Evil San Francisco?"

Community Hall

[balancedlight]

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

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

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

corrupted lungs

[pickett]

"San Francisco's already pretty evil."

Ani had the same idea – get out of the fog, at any cost. She'd only ran in here a few seconds before him, but it seems like they're both on the same wavelength anyway, because she has a ratty old throw from the back of the couch in one hand. The door's the thing most prone to leaks, so she just tosses the throw in his direction and moves to the room's single grimy window, making sure it's shut tight. There's a crack in it that she doesn't particularly like the look of.

"Did you get hurt?"

senku ishigami / dr. stone

[sosoruze]

i. arrival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ii. froth-corrupted lungs

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

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

[Lighting said mound, he continues:]

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

john irving | the terror

[extramuralise]

✒︎ i. |  froth-corrupted lungs

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

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

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

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

✑ ii. |  SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS

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

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

🌊 w i l d c a r d｡

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

[tinstar]

"Heartenin'," he drawls, sarcastic but not sharp about it. No one could control the weather, but this was a far far cry from the Miami heat he was hoping to enjoy. Her question has him glancing down at his boots as he wiggles his toes, just to be sure.

"Nothin' I won't survive. The soup helped more than I thought it would, but nothin's screamin' or numb. Another half hour out there, and that mighta been a different story. You said everyone comes when the weather is bad; that mean the weather is always bad?"

sansa stark | hbo's game of thrones

[clothed]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

METHUSELAH'S FEAST | Thus spoke Methuselah.

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

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

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

community hall.

[clothed]

Sansa has in her hands her clothes, the ones she'd left when she jumped. A quick glance would show that they're suited for the weather outside; warm furs, thick linings, careful stitching that wouldn't snap easily when faced by the cold. She hasn't changed yet; outside of her shift, dress-coat, and cape, she's greatly underdressed by her standards. She doesn't seem as bothered by the cold, however.

"The hat is a good idea," she answers, smoothing a hand over the clothes. "Though I can't tell you if this is the usual weather. I've only just arrived myself."

Sansa nods to him. "You should pull the sheet tighter around your neck. Your skin will heat under it, and the blanket will trap it against you. May I?"

She gestures at him, then at the clothes she's holding; if he'll hold them for her, she'll fix his blanket for him.

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! ]

[tinstar]

He would snort if he had the time to process the quip, instead catching the blanket on his shoulder with not the most graceful mad clasping of flying croquet work and immediately starts working it into the cracks around the top and sides of the door.

"Ask me in five minutes-" He tasted iron on his tongue, blood heavy on his pallet but he hadn't seen any yet so it could just be a trick of the mind. Never rule out temporary insanity. "Might have an answer for you then." He coughs again, involuntarily and swears under his breath.

"Any idea what's goin' on? An' what you got against San Francisco?"

froth-corrupted lungs.

[mordue]

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

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

Mister, did you get caught in that fog?

FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS.

[clothed]

Let me see it.

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

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

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.

ii

[khatsudoom]

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

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

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

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

That's a very... pragmatic idea.

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

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

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. ]

arrival

[flanerie]

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

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

[tinstar]

"To both our misfortunes," he comments about them both just showing up, smile spreading a little despite the words. He couldn't imagine happiness and light being something that happened here, but maybe that was just the weather. This was weather that made him want to huddle next to a fire with a spike drink and focus on staying warm.

He glances down at his blanket and tries to shrug the blanket up higher around him, failing to move anything significantly before he's looking at her again, nodding. Maybe his fingers weren't working quite as well as he thought.

"Wool normally does better in the cold, but I admit its not up to the challenge here. Looks like you're much better fitted for it. My name is Raylan, Raylan Givens."

[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.

[khatsudoom]

"Ah. That's a work of Western literature, correct?"

There were so many nuances to life on Earth that he was still coming to understand. A year wasn't enough time to learn everything-- and he hadn't even been away from his home world for that long.

"I haven't read the original version, but my research did bring me upon a translation. Unfortunately, it wasn't useful for my purposes."

The story of Adam and Eve, as well as their paradise-like Garden of Eden, wasn't entirely helpful in determining sources of magic that was both accessible to him and strong enough to meet specific requirements. It was, however, interesting.

"Are you suggesting that we're in some version of the mythic Garden of Eden?"

He asked, continuing along the lines that this curious blond gentleman had brought to light.

"Odd. I would hardly call this a paradise."

[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]

She murmurs a soft thank you as she hands her things to him temporarily, getting to work immediately in fitting the blanket around his shoulders and neck. This way, it looks more like a cape or shawl, oddly matching well with the man—Raylan, he says his name is Raylan Givens— and his hat.

Curious.

"My name is—" Can she afford to give her name here? Her hair gives her away, but there are other tall, red-haired girls in the kingdom. "Snow. Lyanna Snow." The Seven forgive her, and her long-gone aunt, but she's not ready to be so honest just yet. "I suppose it fits that I'm here, given my name."