singillatim | [open] the lamp is burnin' low upon my table top, the snow is softly falling

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[open] the lamp is burnin' low upon my table top, the snow is softly falling

Who: Benton Fraser, Diefenbaker, and you!

What: Woodworking, guitar playing, ice skating, and more

When: Through February

Where: In Milton, at the basin, in the woods, others tbd.

Content Warnings: mention of animal butchery, hunting, others tbd.

[ Even in this icy weather, it's a good idea to preserve meat rather than simply stashing it, raw, in the snow, and so Fraser can be found in the first weeks of February in the woods, seeking out a likely-looking tree trunk, either fallen or still standing. Once found, he brings tools and begins hollowing the thing out, working steadily with Diefenbaker either lazing beside him in the snow or off in the woods, hunting for himself.

When the log is hollow, he hitches Dief in a jury-rigged harness attached to leather straps around the log and together they haul it back to the house where he's been staying with Heartman. Once back in town, Fraser can be found hammering nails and hooks inside the hollowed trunk, humming quietly to himself as he works. He'd be more than happy to answer any questions, should someone stop by to ask what he's up to. ]

ii.

[ Before he found the right trunk, while he was out in the woods, something else had happened in the early days of the month. Diefenbaker had gone stock-still and focused at his side, and when Fraser looked up, he'd seen the thing that had so caught the wolf's attention: a dog, enormous and mossy, watching them from among the trees.

No amount of calling and cajoling brings the best toward them, but when the dog had begun walking off Dief had followed without hesitation, leaving Fraser to come along or no as he would. They'd followed the strange animal on what began to feel almost like a path through the woods, strangely clear and easy to move along despite no signs of having been cleaned or kept up by man. It was hardly a surprise at all when the path led to a cabin he'd never seen before, sitting empty and cold but neat and sturdy for all that. He'd left Dief outside with the strange dog and gone to look for any signs of life.

There were none. The cabin was empty and mostly bare of supplies, but in the bedroom he found an impossible treasure: an old six-string acoustic guitar, tucked carefully away into its case. Even better, when he'd carefully lifted the thing out to inspect it, he'd found the case contained even more riches: extra packets of strings, a few picks, even a somewhat stiff capo.

Now, when he's finished work for the day, Fraser can be found on the porch steps of the house on Thompson's Drive with the guitar in his lap. On the first evening, he'll be there stringing it; on subsequent evenings someone might hear the rippling sounds of a fingerpicked accompaniment and a pleasant baritenor voice singing along. ]

ii.

[ But the Mountie isn't always in the woods. After an excursion to what remains of the outdoor gear store, he can also be found down on the frozen Basin, accompanied by the hissing sound of his hockey skates over the ice as he makes long loops or short sprints or simply skates backward in long, graceful swoops. Or perhaps someone nearby might hear the smack of a stick hitting a puck and the muffled thunk of said puck driving into a snowbank.

There's another stick and more pucks on the bank, just in case anyone would like to join him in his games. ]

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"Ah." Fraser glances down at the trap again, then crouches, studying the snow around it. "That's strange."

There's nothing wrong with the trap that he can see, and while the signs of rabbits nearby aren't fresh, they aren't three days old, either. Just bad luck, he supposes, getting up and dusting the snow off the knees of his jeans before stepping toward the other man, hand outstretched. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

There's something strangely familiar about the other fellow's face, but he can't quite place it. Diefenbaker trots towards the man, tail and ears both up. "And this is Diefenbaker."

That's certainly a title. Crozier clasps the good constable's hand and gives him a sturdy, albeit quick, handshake.

"The pup came with you, mn?" Quite a name on the dog too, but then again, his own slobbery companion was Neptune so he's not one to talk.

"Francis Crozier." No titles here. "Good to meet you both."

"Yes, he comes with me everywhere." A certainty he'd started to take for granted until arriving in this place. The more time he's spent here, speaking with other people, the more he realizes he could easily have come alone, leaving Diefenbaker behind.

He doesn't know if it was luck or some other force that chose otherwise, but he's grateful to it to the bottom of his heart, and is opening his mouth to say something along those lines when the other man introduces himself and stops Fraser's train of thought like he'd laid a girder across the tracks. "Francis Crozier?"

He's met Little and Goodsir, of course, and he's know there were more members of that tragic, doomed expedition here, but he never thought –

"Captain Francis Crozier, of HMS Terror?"

Oh, fuck, he's been perceived.

Crozier is successful in hiding a full-body flinch, but not the deep scowl that's been embedded in the wrinkles of his face. He doesn't want to be known at Captain Francis Crozier of Terror fame -- not now, not ever. He's not that man anymore, but what the hell else is he supposed to say? He can't take it back now.

"Yes," he says after a long pause. "I don't suppose you know me from my travels to Antarctica?"

"Yes, those, too, of course. But mainly... ah."

Recognition of the scowl on the other man's face comes a little belatedly. Perhaps he should have asked the Lieutenant if his colleagues would be more or less pleased to hear about their lasting memory. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to put you on the spot. Let me just say I've always been a very great admirer of yours."

If this man had a rookie card, Fraser would have collected it. As it is, he's still a little starstruck, though he's doing his best to tamp it down. "But I can see how this might be... complicated for you."

Mainly the disaster. He's well-known because of his failure.

It's the first time he's had to face this infamy. The so-called rescue missions only occasionally brushed up against the Netsilik encampments, his news of England limited to whatever could be passed along through two or sometimes even three interpreters -- a long chain of misunderstanding that Crozier spent weeks trying to understand. They were looking, and that's the extent of what he knew.

Legacy's not been something he's had to contend with, his name being connected to anything other than his successful expeditions or his work on magnetism.

"You're an admirer of a man who lost an expedition entire?" he wonders grimly. "Is that the weight my name carries?"

Oh, no. No.

[ Shaking his head both at the man's words and his tone. Yes, the Expedition was lost, but there was always more to it than its last moments. He's always wondered what it was like to set off on the very first day, with their task and fate still ahead of them. ]

I'm an admirer of the men who took on an almost impossible task and who made it further than anyone else had. And of course your previous work and reputation speaks for itself.

But the notoriety helps, mn?

[He isn't cross or annoyed, but rather just resigned. Intrepid explorers and their successes are only remembered for a short time, but disasters always live long lives in the public eye.

He waits a beat before adding:]

You must have questions, Constable.

Yes, I suppose it does.

[ Infamy is a sort of fame, after all, and there's no doubt this man is aware of it. It must be small comfort to know that, due to the attention paid to the Expedition, the work of the men who'd taken part had received far more interest than otherwise would have been likely.

At Crozier's statement, he chuckles, slightly, but nods. ]

A great many, but I have no desire to make you uncomfortable just to assuage my curiosity, Captain.

[And perhaps some day he'll be able to speak about the expedition without dwelling on the horrors and the tremendous loss of life. Arctic exploration itself will always hold a dear place in his heart, the sailing and the soaring glaciers and the dancing lights in the sky.]

Thank you.

[His attention turns to what appears to be a mutual goal.]

Spotted much game lately?

Edited 2024-03-06 02:39 (UTC)

[ He's more than willing to change subjects, even if he's still a little starstruck – this is all so entirely unexpected – and shakes his head at the man's question. There's a troubled little divot between his brows when he answers. ]

Not as much as I would expect, even for this area, even at this time of year. Of course resource availability will always influence migration and feeding patterns, but– it's disconcerting.

[ Fraser licks his lips, tries to explain in the truncated way he's become used to since partnering with Ray in Chicago, where people want an explanation, not a thoughtful analysis of why something is the way it is. ]

There are too many wolves.

[ That's the main thing. It's not that there are more wolves than he'd expect, it's that there are wolves and almost no big game for them to hunt. Where are the caribou? ]

I haven't seen any signs of caribou. Nor have I come across moose carcasses with wolf tracks around them. I don't know what's sustaining the packs in the area. There aren't even enough rabbits to keep them healthy and fed.

Edited 2024-03-06 15:12 (UTC)

[The finer details of caribou migration has thus far been a topic no one else has been interested in, but the movement of herds and the propagation of the prey is undoubtedly vital to their survival.

But he's experienced this before, this sudden disappearance of large game.]

There are too many wolves.

[And the wolves he's seen don't look malnourished, but it would explain why they've been more aggressive.]

I've seen something like this, more predators than prey to sustain them. It was harsh even by Netsilik standards.

You're familiar with the Netsilik?

[ He remembers the stories – not the ones from the English expeditions that went after Franklin and his men, but the ones still being told when he was a boy by the Inuit in his village and others. The ones that suggested some of the men had lived, and disappeared into the local tribes.

He takes a closer look at the furs the man is wearing, struck by their familiarity. Hmm. ]

Do you recall what the tipping factor was in the area? Were the caribou sick?

[He'd know the stories if they were told to him - he'd made up some of them himself to pass on to the rescue parties as they passed through.]

A sudden surge in human activity. [He pauses, then decides to give the other man at least a portion of the truth.] And the influence of one angry, vengeful god.

[ He knows Ray thinks the stories he tells, the ones he grew up with, are just parables. Metaphors. Ray doesn't believe that there could have been a time when gods and men walked the earth together, creating and destroying and warring and loving. Even if he did, he certainly doesn't believe that time never truly ended.

But there's magic in the world. Fraser's always believed that. And where there is good magic, there is also harmful. He looks grim, thinking of La'an, thinking of what Levi told him. ]

Do you think we may be facing something similar here?

[ He, at least, has no other explanation for the strangeness of the animals and the absence of game. ]

[His brow creases. There is magic in this world, how else would they all be here in the first place? The dead walk and strange animals give gifts.

Crozier clears his throat softly.]

I think we may. Something malevolent in nature.

The Darkwalker.

[ The thing everyone is talking about and no one knows enough about. ]

It killed my friend.

[ And this loss is still almost too raw to touch, but his eyes and voice are steady. ]

I think you're right, sir.

[It killed his friend. Crozier dips his head, sympathetic but attempting condolences at this point in time. He doesn't want it to not sound genuine.]

It seems to be doing harm to more than just the unfortunate souls brought here. Nature seems to be fighting back, but I'm not certain how long its strength will last.

[ He appreciates the older man's quiet consideration, along with how he doesn't attempt to console him for his loss. He keeps the grief near to his heart, along with the still-fresh sorrow for his own father, but his mourning is quiet. And private.

And they have more pressing matters to which they ought to attend. ]

Have you heard the woman in the Aurora, the one who sounds so sad? I wish we could speak to her, learn from her.

[He knows a thing or two about mourning. One could say he's a veritable expert in it.]

I've heard her faintly, yes. [He frowns thoughtfully.] Do you think she's at odds with the other creature? The Darkwalker? [And what could that possibly mean?]

I think she isn't its friend.

[ Which doesn't mean that she's actively working against it, even if she can, but she may turn out to be one ally. One more than Methuselah, at least. ]

But there's much we need to learn about this world. If the Darkwalker exists, what else might?

[But is she their friend? He can't be certain.]

If stags and boars that grant wishes exist and strangers from distant lands can be brought together by an Aurora.... [He shakes his head.] I feel sometimes as though we're in a fever dream.

It’s certainly the strangest situation I’ve ever been in.

[ Fraser looks around at the winter woods, the silent birches. The sun slants through the trees in the particular way it has this far North, never far from the horizon at this time of year. ]

But familiar, too.

[ Courteously, he gestures towards the path he’d been taking. ]

I need to see to my traps. Would you care to accompany me?

[He appreciates a man who knows what he's doing in this kind of climate, or at least can put on a good show, but he admires someone altruistic in nature. He thinks about his own foul string of luck and wonders if the man's traps are any different than his own.]

I would, yes. Thank you.

[He adjusts the hood about his head and joins him in stalking a little prey, happy to talk in vague terms about the Darkwalker and other oddities.]

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[open] the lamp is burnin' low upon my table top, the snow is softly falling

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maybe for fade?

Perfect!!