methuselah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
singmod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-01-09 11:38 pm
singmod) wrote in singillatim2024-01-09 11:38 pm
Entry tags:
- *event,
- alluri rama raju: xil,
- benton fraser: lorna,
- chloe frazer: tess,
- cornelius hickey: kates,
- eddie munson: hannah,
- edward little: jhey,
- francis crozier: gels,
- harry goodsir: karin,
- jack kline: jean,
- kate marsh: cheryl,
- kieren walker: cheryl,
- konstantin veshnyakov: jhey,
- lestat de lioncourt: beth,
- levi jordan: cirape,
- louis de pointe du lac: tea,
- max mayfield: jean,
- randvi: tess,
- renny oldoak (tav): jay,
- river song: ashley,
- rorschach: shade,
- vasiliy ardakin: yasmine,
- wynonna earp: lorna
but a strange light in the sky was shining right into my eyes
JANUARY 2024 EVENT
PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: NASCENCE: Following the strange dream at new year, a three-day Aurora takes place. During which, Interlopers discover a possible ally in the mysterious woman heard in the static and heard in the dream — potentially earning new abilities.
PROMPT TWO — ADUST: The Interlopers find out what happened to the owners of long-destroyed Milton House in the form of hauntings.
PROMPT THREE — THE VISITOR: Interlopers find themselves with an unwelcome visitor — a shadow doppelganger here to make everything absolutely worse.
THE AURORA: NASCENCE
WHEN: January 13th - 15th.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potentially disturbing dreams; dreams of being burned alive; some minor supernatural horror; some minor ‘ghost’ horror/hauntings; death of npcs in various ways including suicide, murder or exposure to elements.
In the middle of the month, it happens. A herald. The noise starts: faint at first, but then growing louder. An ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds difficult to place. There’s a kind of electrical buzzing with it all, a low, endless hum punctuated with cracks and pops. The sky is alive with sound, and with it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night: The Aurora has come.
Much of what happened previously happens again: Streetlights, illuminating the town’s roads; lights in stores and homes will come alive, buzzing and flickering at times. Previously abandoned cars will turn on, their headlights blaring. Electronics that had previously seemed broken flick on — and whilst there are no broadcasts available on televisions, and the radio waves only drone on in static, both only occasionally blaring standard emergency broadcasts. Any computers and phones will turn on, but will have no internet or reception. Instead, Interlopers may find texts and emails — many of them unsent. The everyday lives of their users stored within, now readable.
There are still some instances of the ‘ghosts’ from the previous Auroras, but they are now only faint outlines, and far fewer in number. However, whilst the Aurora would usually only last until the next morning on sporadic nights over the month — this time it will last for a full three days. The world is plunged into darkness, a seemingly endless night with only the Aurora to light the skies.
On the second night of lights and noise, a voice calls out to you: static-like, and distant — as if someone speaks over a radio. A woman’s voice. It is the same one you’ve been hearing for a few weeks now, but finally it is far stronger than the scant whispers of name and the word ‘help’. She is far clearer now.
“You.” she says. She may whisper your name, too. “I see you.” You’re unable to speak back, the communication is only one way. She sounds upset, but there’s something more… a kind of wonder, perhaps.
”It’s not just a regular aurora borealis, but then you probably worked that out already, haven’t you? It’s so much more than that. Everything is… changing.”
”I don’t know how you can go back. But— but I can help. Maybe. Maybe I can make this place easier, somehow. I need help, but I’m stuck—” There’s frustration in her voice for a moment. ”It took from you. Took you away. It doesn’t always have to take. We can take, too. Sleep. I will help you take back. You will survive this. You will not go into the Dark. This is not the end.”
You have no idea what that means, for the most part. But you might just end up taking the chance and doing as the woman asked, even if it’s difficult with the noise and light with the Aurora. Sleep, and a dream may come to you.
FREE RUNNER: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream you are a magnificent stag, galloping through the snowy woods with ease. You seem to go on and on, never tiring, never slowing. You feel like the wind, or perhaps the very wind itself carries you. Not once do you stumble or fall, even when the snow is thick and deep, or the ground is shaky and uneven beneath you. You feel free.
When you awaken, you feel the most refreshed you’ve ever felt since you first came here. For the final day of the Aurora, you are bursting with energy and even when the lights in the sky fade — that revitalised feeling within you remains. There’s something within you that understands: you are the Free Runner. The ground will yield beneath you, your energy will not desert you, the wind will carry you.
LIGHT BRINGER: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of sitting by a lonely campfire in the mouth of a cave at night, warming your hands. As you sit, a strange feeling comes over you, a desire to reach out to the flames. And so you do, reaching with both hands into the fire — gripping at the white-hot embers. It burns you, and for a moment there is blinding hot pain as the fire suddenly explodes around you, consuming you whole. But the pain soon stops. The fire doesn’t burn you. No, you have become the blaze — your body warmed. You burn bright enough that the darkness around you turns into day.
When you awaken the next morning, you feel warmed and comfortable. As if even the coldest of winters couldn’t reach your bones. The warmth remains even when the Aurora ends, and you are left with the innate understanding:you are the Light Bringer. The power of flame is at your very fingertips. You master the light, life, warmth.
AURORA CALL: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream you are standing in the very sky itself, at the Aurora’s height. Colour and sound twirls around you, within you — and you feel it curl into your body. Your head fills with noise, a chorus of voices calling out, snippets of conversation echoing within you. A woman’s voice calls to you, it is the same voice that spoke to you before you slept: “Don’t you understand it now? We are all connected. The Aurora connects us.”
And you do, you do understand it.
When you awaken, you feel connected to the world around you. To the very people who live amongst you. You feel less lonely, a kind of kinship with others. You have heard the Aurora’s Call and you have answered it, unlocked a connection with your fellow Interlopers. You will be heard.
NOTHING: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape, but only for a moment. The edges of your vision begin the blur with black, slowly closing in until everything goes dark and you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. You awaken, and although you feel rested, as if the dreamless darkness has helped you feel a little more ready to take on the day — nothing else about you has changed.
ADUST
WHEN: From mid-month to month end.
WHERE: Milton House.
CONTENT WARNINGS: fire; house fire; death of a child/children; hauntings; ghosts; mental manipulation; illusions of burning/being burned; potential injuries via falling/unstable building collapsing.
There is a reason why it is advised to avoid Milton House other than the simple fact that it’s a miracle the house is still standing. Once one of the largest buildings in the town of Milton, it is now a former shell of what was once a fine and grand house. It has lain in ruin for many years, dilapidated and host to a great deal of fire damage.
While he is in town, Methuselah will not speak of the place, but he often looks sad when it has been brought up in conversation. “A great tragedy.” he will say before falling into a pensive silence. “A blackened mark on the town’s memory.” He does not wish to say much more of what happened: sometimes there are things that are just too painful. He will continue to advise the ruin is left alone, out of respect, and the fact that the place is a danger.
Of course, advice will not stop anyone from attempting to get into the ruins and exploring the house, even if it is in fact highly dangerous.
The sounds of voices and whispers may be enough to pique anyone’s interest. You're sure you heard something, maybe you should go to check it out?
It is true in the fact that the house itself is incredibly dangerous structurally: floors and stairs may give way and you’ll find your foot (and half of you) falling right through the floorboards. Damp and rot that have long since set in, and it will be dangerous to breathe in. But you’ll find that the house itself is pretty ordinary: this was once a family home. Just about the entirety of the house and its contents aren't salvageable, but you’ll be able to find out a little about who once lived here.
There are faded, half-destroyed photos that show a family of five: a father, mother, and three young children all under the age of ten. The father with warm, beaming smiles, the mother has kind eyes, the two oldest boys with toothy grins much like their father, the younger girl looks shy, wanting to hide against her mother. They look happy. Just a typical family. In a world where so many strange things are happening, it feels so strange to look upon these family photos and around this home to realise that they simply lost their home in a house fire.
But as you hold a family picture, or some half-destroyed trinket: a toy, a shoe, a book, a vase, you’ll find the item will suddenly catch alight, bursting into flames in your very hands. The flames do not burn you, and as you discard the item, it will fall to the floor as if nothing had happened.
Then, it comes to you. Here and there. Different sensations that stop and start suddenly: the house groans and creaks around you; the smell of smoke enters your nose; the sound of fire cracking and popping with a roar fills your ears; the sensation of heat against your skin; the clawing and suffocating feeling in your lungs that makes you cough and choke; the sounds of terrified shrieks of children echoing above you. Feelings flood you: fear, panic. When you next turn around, the entire house is aflame around you, and you can’t tell if this is real or if you’re reliving some terrifying memory.
You need to leave, get out of here. For some, it will be what comes naturally. You’ll have to fight through the flames and escape the house before it burns down completely around you. You’ll have to fight your way out, find an exit not already consumed by flames — through a window, perhaps. Crashing out of the house and into the snow, you’ll look back and see Milton House just as you entered it: nothing more than a half-burned ruin.
But for others, there will be another pull. You are drawn upstairs, to the screams of children. You need to get to them, to help them, save them. You will battle through the flames, heading towards the ruins of what was a child’s bedroom, or towards the bathroom. Inside either, you will find a figure cowering, engulfed wholly in flames: one in the bathtub or one in the closet. You recognise them as the two sons from the family pictures.
Mom. They will call you. Or Dad. They weep, terrified of the flames. I’m scared, I’m scared. I want the fire to go away. Help me. Stay here.
The tragedy of Milton House is before you. More than just a fire. What is more tragic than the death of a child? What silences voices? Breaks spirits? Leaves one helpless to act in the wake of such a passing?
There is something to be done here. You are not so powerless. Calm the child. Offer gentle assurances. They will get out. They are safe. You are there for them. You will stay. Embracing them will set you alight. Too hot. Too bright. It will hurt, but you won’t burn. But don’t let go; holding them will eventually calm them down enough for the flames to grow dim, to slowly ease their spirits to rest.
Soon enough, the flames will go out and the child will disappear, leaving you alone in a decaying, dilapidated room.
In the churchyard of Milton, there is a family grave by the name of Barker. Three lie within it: Thomas it reads, and his beloved sons, Patrick and Christopher.
THE VISITOR
WHEN: The month of January.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: erything absolutely worse.
THE VISITOR — CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural beings; dream-related horror/disturbing dreams; doppelgangers; themes of depression; themes of self-harm; themes of isolation; potential themes of suicide.
It seems the dream of the New Year and the Aurora dreams are not the only odd sleep-related instances occurring this month. You first notice that something is off when a strange dream pulls you from sleep. The dream may feel like any particular dream you have, whether it be a usual nightmare or strange concoction your brain has conjured up for you this night. Maybe it’s a dream you’ve had before, maybe it’s a new dream entirely. But no matter the dream, there is one thing that is odd about it. In tiny moments within the dream, you notice that there is something different, something that feels out of place. Something is there that shouldn’t be.
A figure, tall and silent, entirely made of shadow stands lurking in the background. It looks human, but there is not much more that you can really describe further. It is a sad, unsettling presence.
When you awaken, eyes bleary from sleep, and you look about the room, to the bottom of your bed, for a half-moment you see that figure standing there silently. That unsettling sadness permeates the room, and after a few seconds of blinking and sitting up — the figure disappears. Perhaps it was just some trick of the mind, some half-awake illusion.
But the next time you sleep, it appears again. The same figure, the same emotions surrounding it. And when you awaken, it stands at the bottom of your bed once more. Only this time, it lingers, and you find yourself staring down the figure before it disappears once more.
Over the next several days, the presence continues to linger more and more. It stands silently in the corner of the room of your home; it hovers by the window, staring out into the snow; it stands in the middle of the road as you go about your business. More and more, it is there. Always standing, always watching — silent and sad.
No one else seems to notice it, only you. And over time, the shape of it seems to change — the vague, undefined shape of it slowly shifts into something you recognise. The same hair, the same height, the same way it holds itself: it is exactly like you. A perfect doppelganger, a second shadow. And with it, it exudes an oppressive sadness, a particular kind of loneliness. It is suffocating, bleeding into you.
It makes you withdraw from the world around you, from the people around you. Perhaps you stop spending time with others, retreating into solitude. You hide from others, keep to yourself. You find yourself not sleeping at all or perhaps sleeping too much. Perhaps what little you already eat becomes nothing. The shadowy doppelganger draws ever closer to you, close enough to touch you - ever hovering at your shoulder. Its presence bores down on you, making you feel small and more and more alone even with its ‘company’. No one else can seem to see it but you, mentioning it to others will earn odd looks, or even concern. It seems you and your double are alone together.
Hopefully, those around you will notice the change in you. How you stopped reaching out, how you’ve stopped taking care of yourself. Hopefully they will see something isn’t right and reach out. You are doomed to the doppelganger's company otherwise.
However, those around you can push the shadowy double away, and can break its influence and hold over you. Genuine care and concern for you will have it shrinking back. Perhaps it is a kind word, perhaps it is the gentle but insisting coaxing to eat. Perhaps it is an attentive ear to listen to your thoughts, to how the presence has made you feel. Maybe it is even the simplest of touches, an embrace or the holding of a hand, the grip of a shoulder. Continued connection with you will slowly have the visitor’s power diminish.
And hopefully it is done before it is too late, or it may be all too easy to fade into the Long Dark.
FAQs
1. Aurora Feats are now unlocked! Please see the following page for more information. Aurora Feats are completely optional.
2. Interlopers will only receive ONE Aurora Event. The only time this is available is this month. After January, players will have to wait for the next Feat round for another chance at an Aurora Feat.
3. This Aurora will last a full three days. It will be a period of only night.
4. For more information on the ghostly loops seen during the Aurora, see this previous event, under 'The Aurora: Aftershocks' prompt.
5. For new players who would like a little extra context regarding the woman can look at December's Tales From The Northern Territories, under the 'New Happenings in December' section.
1. Characters will not be physically burned in the fire, but only feel as if they have been. The effects of this illusion will last a short time after they're out the house before they will fade.
2. The only real injuries characters can sustain will be from fall damage, or if the floor gives way and their feet go through, etc. whilst in the house.
3. The children cannot leave the house. They will be too scared to leave. In addition, they are tethered to the house, given that this is where they died. Simply being calmed/comforted is the best way to help them and they will disappear after that.
1. An Interloper's Visitor can't be seen by anyone but the Interloper themselves.
2. The Visitor can be spoken to, but it will not speak back. It cannot be interacted with and is intangible.
cw: blood, mention of stabbing
Which at least means that the man is actually moving, rather than just standing there. Now he's snapped out of his initial shock, Billy's body is moving practically on autopilot, in any direction that leads away from the fire. He's already moving towards the window, fully intending on going out it, not even taking his sweet time with it--
But even though that does manage to get him out of the window just fine, he feels something in the process. Just a wrong shove from Lestat at just the wrong moment, shifting Billy's hand into the wrong direction, and it means that when he tumbles out of the window and into the snow on the other side, he can feel a stinging pain in his hand.
It takes him a moment to inspect it while lying there, lifting his hand to look at it - not even paying attention to the other man, who must surely be following him out of the window by now - and spotting the glass shard stuck in his palm from being shoved around impatiently a moment ago. Billy groans, but despite all the chaos still tumbling around in his mind, there is a part of him practical enough to pull the shard out of his hand with a pained groan.
A moment later he's rising to his feet, half-dizzy and covered in dusty snow, but clutching his injured hand in his other hand to try and stop the flow of blood from getting too bad, even if the red liquid is dripping down from his hand and onto the snow below. He stares at the other man with an uncertain expression, like he isn't sure what to feel at all about what just happened. Sure, technically Lestat saved him from there, since Billy isn't sure if his legs would have remembered how to move by themselves, but the other also didn't exactly make the escape route that much better.
Briefly he's reminded of the uncomfortable sensation he had when Lestat first greeted him upon arrival.
It keeps him from doing one of the two things he would've done otherwise in this situation - thanking the man for saving him or chewing him out for the way in which he did it, instead ending up with the middle ground of a breathy: ]
I was-- I was already moving.
[ At the end there, anyway. Could've saved him an injury, Lestat!!
Granted, the way blood trinkles from the cut isn't nearly as bad as the stabbing he endured before, which is why Billy is able to remain relatively calm in the face of that compared to the fire, but still. ]
cw: blood, vampire thirst, thoughts of murder
A fortunate outcome for both of them, with Billy's condition being what it is. Fortunate, too, that Lestat's senses are still dulled with the residue of the now-vanished fire (whisked away by the same ghosts that kindled it) - fortunate that the cold night air carries scent so poorly - fortunate that Lestat recalls himself enough to think that descending on Billy's throat in a flurry of frustration to drain him to a husk and abandon his corpse in the snow would be, to say the least, indiscreet.
When he grins at Billy, there's no human warmth of fellow survivorship in it. Perhaps it's not a grin at all. ]
My apologies.
[ He straightens his back and smooths his hair, gathering up his self-control into a mass of taut threads wound around the perpetual requirements of the masquerade. ]
It seemed expedient to hurry you along.
[ Billy appears to have his injury in hand, so to speak. Lestat appears to ignore it. ]
no subject
It's not even like this is a terribly difficult case of it. It's saying something that he can tell, even with a fire vanishing in front of his eyes as if it was never there, even with his hand still dripping red blood onto the snow around his boots. (Lestat not remarking on the latter is not a bad thing to Billy, though. Honestly, he prefers it this way. There was a reason he just walked around with scurvy until it practically threatened to literally topple him over.)
Maybe walking away right now would be the best idea. There's nothing left to gain here. He should go back home and clean up this wound-- and, god, rest.
But Lestat is a puzzle made up of strange, unpleasant pieces, and Billy has always been bad at just leaving those be, not even turning away when the man closest to him turned out to be made up out of the same layout. ]
Why did you take me out of there?
[ He has to know. It's not even him saying Lestat shouldn't have - Billy is glad he's alive, after all - but he's not sure of the why. He can't read that off Lestat as well as he could off others, or the way he can read much more off the man's latter actions than the initial one. ]
no subject
Why not?
[ It's a ridiculous question. Perhaps all the more ridiculous because Lestat has any number of answers, all of which would be lies. He couldn't give a damn if Billy had burned to illusory cinders so long as he didn't impose knowing about it on Lestat - but it would have been simple enough to abandon him, now that he's aware Billy surely would have perished of being an empty-skulled wretch instead of affecting a miraculous escape. He doesn't believe a word of Billy's claims he was on a route to escape, not after that pathetic display. ]
A more pertinent question - why did you go in?
[ He's in a mood, now, and it's unlikely to subside without taking a bite out of someone. If he can't have a literal mouthful of Billy's hide, a metaphorical one will do. ]
no subject
This place will inevitably run out of supplies sooner or later.
[ Apparently he's opted for honesty, despite the other man not having given him a clear answer.
Or maybe that's not opted as much as it is part of his clouded mind making slightly less than ideal judgements right now. But the tiny part of Billy that is still consciously thinking right now figures saying this can't hurt, even with the amount of cards he otherwise holds very close to his chest. ]
I figured that there might have been some left there. [ Especially when most people wouldn't bother to look through a ruined house when there's likely been easier places to look through for people who arrived here earlier than Billy did. Cabins and houses that have already been taken up by others at this point. ] Staying ahead of the inevitable is how one survives.
[ His palm starts to feel so warm.
Is it the blood? He's not thinking about it. ]
no subject
Unless one is burned to ash by spectral flame!
[ His voice snaps out louder than he intends for it too, with the barest hint of bestial roughness at its edges. He scoffs, running his hand over his hair compulsively as he averts his gaze from Billy and composes himself. ]
You're bleeding. [ He points out, tersely, straightening up with a little shudder of no apparent providence. ] You should look after that.
[ He has the skill to help now, if he was inclined to. What a story that would be for Louis - Lestat the healer, tenderly sponging at dripping wounds without a pang of indecent hunger in his heart. He won't, of course. But it is a thought. ]
cw: fire, wound cauterisation
But it's a point Billy isn't really thinking about right now. Not with the other's tone slipping like that, snapping, not really helping when his entire body still feels like it's on the edge of panic from the fire. The other seems more unpredictable than any person Billy has ever dealt with - and that's saying a lot when you're sharing a bed every night with Cornelius Hickey, let's be real - and he doesn't know how to deal about it.
Especially when - as Lestat helpfully points out - his hand is still very much actively bleeding. And not even just a little bit.
They're all factors that make the panic rise further within Billy's chest, feeling so hot rather than the cold it used to bring to him, and before he knows it, it's like his hand is on fire.
It's not too different from the fire from a moment ago, the spectral fire the other man speaks of. Billy quickly removes his uninjured hand from the other hand - making it even more obvious that it's strangely enough just the injury that's on fire, like the flames are emerging from the cut itself. It all happens in a flash too. One moment the fire is there, burning across the cut, searing it closed, and then it's gone-- leaving just the cauterised skin on the palm of the man's hand.
Billy doesn't make a sound through it, even though it must've hurt. It's likely the man was frozen in shock - a shock he still feels, even now the fire has disappeared, having even less of a clue what happened there compared to what happened with the house.
But even if he doesn't know, he decides in an instant he's just going to claim it anyway. He doesn't know what to make of Lestat, and Billy will cling to just about anything that will make him feel less vulnerable in this moment. Even if it means pretending that whatever just happened was completely on purpose. ]
How's that? [ He says, his voice still a little tight-- but his gaze not avoiding Lestat's own, staring right over at the other man, almost like a challenge. ]
cw: wound cauterisation
The defiance that Billy meets his eyes with is the first real show of spirit he's seen from the man. It's nearly as unexpected as the flames themselves were.
The fire-gift, in the hands of a frail mortal man. Billy does not strike Lestat as a witch or a conjurer. It must be some product of their circumstances - perhaps even of the house looming over them, a spectral contagion taking root in fragile flesh. ]
Efficient. [ Lestat says, voice split evenly between newfound respect and the tension of this not entirely wholesome surprise. ] But a touch dramatic.
[ He steps towards Billy without a show of fear, fastening his gaze to his palm. Without asking permission, he reaches for his wrist, intent on further examination. ]
Of course, there's something to be said for dramatics.
cw: slight wound description (nothing graphic)
Not quite like a prey animal, though. It might have a moment ago, but after the sudden combustion, the rigidity has a whole lot more to do with being on guard. It's stronger. Indeed - like some sort of spirit and spine has shoved its way straight into Billy upon the display.
Especially since he can feel it again. The same feeling creeps up within him while Lestat's fingers are pressed against his skin. Red hot, more familiar this time.
Billy shoves it down. He doesn't manage to get rid of it entirely, but he does move it out of the way for now. The last thing he wants to do is accidentally burn another man to a crisp - no matter how awkward the encounter.
It would be a messy thing to have to explain later, after all.
Lestat, in the meantime, can see that Billy's wound has indeed closed due to the fire. Not in a pretty way, obviously, given the method, but.. it doesn't look like it permanently burned the skin either. More a burn that will mostly fade with time.
At first it seems like Billy will allow the other to examine in silence, but then he does speak up again after a moment or two. ]
Wouldn't you know.
[ It's a little bit flat-- mostly since its intent is deadpan. Lestat did pretty much shove him out of a window a few times ago. Talk about dramatics. ]
no subject
And then Billy speaks, and Lestat laughs. It's an easy, floating sound, as if the wound cord of the previous moments has been unwound and cast aside. ]
I would.
[ He releases Billy's hand and smiles at him, human warmth returned to his features. There's a touch of ruefulness around his mouth, an implicit apology dancing at the corners of his eyes. All the wildness has left him as if it was never there. ]
What strange circumstances we find ourselves in. [ He tilts his head, holding out his palms at his sides before he folds them close to himself once more. ] But all is well that ends so.
You must forgive me for my poor manners. Fire is not a fond acquaintance...though it seems it is one of yours.
no subject
After all, he's not unfamiliar to smoke and mirrors. Something like that feels like what he's witnessing right now, though not Billy's own kind. His is the kind where he shoves everything down, hides every emotion, hides every personal trace about himself. A steward who shows up and gets the job done. Someone who blends into the background, because there's nothing to stand out, nothing that could reveal even a single part of him.
Lestat's kind is.. different. Much different. In a way he reminds Billy of Hickey even now, but it's different from him, too. The smile and casual air about the other at the end there is a little too convincing, like the way Billy saw Lestat only a moment ago was a mere illusion, just like the fire.
He glances down at his hand, the cut reminding him it was real.
Said hand having been released, he finally pulls it back to himself, almost protectively. He visibly winces when his fingers curl up against the still sore and painful palm. ]
.. Mr. de Lioncourt. [ He finally manages, slowly, breathing in through his nose. Billy has no idea what to make of Lestat, but this is someone he'll have to share a town with all the same. ] Please do not forget your manners next time.
[ It doesn't sound like a threat, though it's hard for anything to do that in Billy's relatively quiet tone. Even the deadpan has seeped out of it now.
Maybe he's testing to see how much of a threat Lestat really is, or if it's just his own trauma-activated shellshocked brain that's opting to interpret him as much. ]
We must not turn into animals.
[ Like Billy didn't start the entire suggestion of a mutiny back home. Ssh! Ssh!! It's fine!! ]
no subject
If only they would all turn into animals. Billy reminds Lestat of a hare, so long-limbed and strange-eyed, possessed of an appearance of dire wisdom. He likely even possesses it, in some measure, from his sojourn through the uncharted horrors of the frozen wastes before these.
But a hare is still only prey. Even a hare with fire cradled in its mouth, banked low behind its harrowed eyes. ]
Of course. [ Lestat says, softly. ] We must remain civilized, or become no better than wolves.
[ He lifts his gaze to meet Billy's, amusement vanished. There is only intent, as pale and implacable as ice. ]
May I see you on your way, Mr. Gibson? It's quite dangerous to walk alone at night, smelling of blood.
no subject
Bias born out of caution, maybe. After all, Billy has spent practically his entire life being cautious, never wanting to trust anyone around him too much. It means that little details like these are easily blown out of proportion in his mind. Lestat's little gesture is definitely resentful in Billy's eyes, a perception of the world permanently clouded with pessimism.
It colours that last statement too, of course, making it sound more ominous. Billy realises that there's nothing in the world he'd want less in this moment than Lestat figuring out where he's staying. He imagines telling this story to Cornelius later, perhaps, imagines the other's lips curling up and making fun of him, joking about Billy being so shy and cautious. ]
I will be fine.
[ He isn't sure if Lestat will let him get away with a rejection of the offer so easily, but he's got to test it out anyway. Something about his exterior shifts - still very much a hare-like impression, but more in the direction of something deferential now. A creature that knows how to make itself smaller to get away. ]
There is someone waiting for me.
no subject
He imagines what sort of woman - for surely, at this hour, Billy refers to a housemate - would take in a man like this on such short acquaintance as would be possible here. A desperate one, one who yearns to be needed, or one who simply wants a man she might keep well under her thumb. No doubt pinched of face and knobbled about the hands from hard labour. Spinning up this caricature doesn't soothe him, but it does appease. ]
Ah. Well. I'm sure you know your way about the icy darkness.
[ Almost a smooth compliment, with only the faintest touch of an artistically added barb. Nothing on the surface to object to, only a lingering sense of condescension that Billy can take with him into the night.
Lestat considers following him, and decides against it. If some further misadventure befalls him, so be it. Lestat has performed the adequate courtesies. ]
Take care, Mr. Gibson.
no subject
It doesn't bother him here, he finds. Instead it settles into the incomplete, yet still decidedly unpleasant mental image that has formed of the other man in his head. Something about the idea of the other following him home unsettles him, and he can't tell if he's just being overly paranoid after everything that just happened or just the right amount of cautious.
The hand that got cut open and then burned throbs, and Billy lets his head sink into a little nod. ]
.. good night, Mr. de Lioncourt.
[ He turns around and walks away.
He doesn't look back to confirm whether or not the other tries to follow him - he doesn't want to know. Instead he strides just a touch more quickly than he usually would, his heart pounding in his chest all the way until he makes it home. ]