seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

[singmod]

JUNE 2024 EVENT

PART ONE — A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME: The Darkwalker claims another victim, and that is only the beginning of troubles for the Interlopers as they face a month of endless night and green gloom.

PART TWO — POLAR SUN: As June continues, Interlopers are faced with food insecurity as wildlife flees; tensions grow as they face hunger and the Darkwalker's continued influence. On the day of the Summer Solstice, the tension finally breaks and violent chaos descends upon Interlopers.

PART THREE — REPRIEVE: The end is in sight, and an ally comes to the Interloper’s aid.

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

WHEN: June 1st, then onwards.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area (Carter Hydrodam).
CONTENT WARNINGS: death of playable character; supernatural death; mention of dead body; themes of death; supernatural beings; themes of terror; themes of peril.

The evening is quiet and still. May draws to a close and while the sun does not completely set, it dips low enough for the sky to grow a little darkdim with twilight. The midnight sun is almost upon the Northern Territories, the air is warmer than it has ever felt — even if it remains chilly. If this is summer, it is but a gentle brush of reprieve against the unyielding winter. The Interlopers wind down for the night, many turn to their beds to sleep, others sit awake and ponder their existence in this world. They think of home, of loved ones, of their predicament here in this place. The Forest Talkers, the strange beasts and monsters they’ve encountered.

The moon wanes in the skies, nestled amongst the stars. For those still awake to notice, they can see it: slowly, one by one, the stars begin to go out. Then the moon's light is swallowed whole, and a blanket of green gloom descends upon the Northern Territories.

The sky is dark and green and terrible. Many of those will recognise it, what this means and what will come. Others will not understand it, not know what it is that awaits them all.

They will soon find out: the Darkwalker comes.

Under a green sky, a cold fear washes over you — squeezing the breath from your lungs. Interlopers will find themselves overcome with that fear, and everything in their bodies and minds tells them to run. To flee. And so you run, heading for cover. Curtains will be drawn, some may hide under beds, within closets or wardrobes. Some desperately attempt to conceal themselves, make themselves small, unseen. Some Interlopers, in that fear, may rush to friends or loved ones to hide with them, others may simply cower alone — crawling and whimpering away from the night. The fear is irrational, unable to be overcome — even by the bravest or most stoic of Interlopers.

For those within Milton, it is further away but is by no means less potent: Interlopers will find themselves frozen with the constant loom of the Darkwalker’s arrival — even if it does not come to Milton. Those within Lakeside, however, will feel the true force of this presence: more like a knife edge — painfully gripping your heart as it draws close.

The Darkwalker howls: indescribable, unnatural, demonic. Low moans and groans. It comes from the east, the faint booms of footsteps in the distance growing ever nearer. It is coming, once more. It's coming for one of you. And still, you are powerless, unable to do anything. And it is an agony, awaiting its arrival. You cry, you whimper, you cower. Curling up for some shred of comfort, and finding none.

For those in Lakeside, through the fear, they may be able to note the path: a straight line from the east towards Carter Hydrodam. It seems to go on forever, building into a crescendo. Your heart beats so hard you fear it may burst from your chest, as if you might die of fright.

There is an almighty sound; the Darkwalker devours and even with the distance you can hear it. The sound of gnashing teeth, and… laughter. There is no scream, no bright light in the sky — Enola is silent this time. There is only that laughter, echoing off into the night.

The skies do not return to normal. The green gloom hangs in the air. It is done, but it is not yet over. While the overwhelming fear dissolves away, but a kind of… dread remains on the air — almost palpable.


The Darkwalker has devoured another. Braver souls who go out to investigate into Lakeside will find just who has been devoured once they reach the Hydrodam — although it may be a day or two before they will find the body in the medical bay.

At least it is cold enough that the rot does not fully set in — but death will certainly be here.

And this is but the beginning of the Interloper’s troubles.

POLAR SUN

WHEN: The month of June, up to Midsummer’s Eve + Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; food scarcity/food insecurity; supernatural weather; altered mental states; mental manipulation; themes of violence; potential character injury; potential character death; potential NPC death.

In the coming weeks and days, and weeks, the green gloom lingers. From the Darkwalker’s attack, there is no sun. No day, no night. No stars or moon or sun. No Auroras. Just the gloom and biting cold. Life becomes increasingly hard on Interlopers: higher expenditure on fuel — fires and lanterns are imperative to keep the darkness and the cold at bay.

With the green gloom in the air, the wildlife becomes more scarce — as if it has been frightened away into the deeper parts of the wilds. It will be harder to bring in fresh meat in both Milton and Lakeside, and Interlopers will find that they will have to rely on whatever stores they have — and perhaps even rationing for a while.

And it’s not the only thing frightened. Even with the debilitating fear that comes with the Darkwalker’s attack gone, there is still a kind of fear that lingers on the air that slowly eats away at the Interloper’s resolve over time.

Interlopers will find themselves anxious, on edge. Some will be prone to anger in their fear, others prone to fits of melancholy: tearfulness and sorrow. Between the cold, the lack of fresh game and the fear on the air — it’s no wonder spirits are low. Bickering and minor upsets between Interlopers are likely.

They call it the midnight sun, the polar day. It's opposite is the polar night. This is neither and both. On the day of midsummer's eve, that fear on the air is even more palpable. The air feels a little stifling at times, as if the pressure is all off — often quite oppressive, a strange kind of tension. There is something brewing, a low burning thing that begins from the moment Interlopers wake — heavy and sharp in their chest.

’So, Interloper. What will you do now?’ A voice sneers in your ear. The very same voice that has haunted Interlopers since the very beginning. The Darkwalker finally speaks after all these weeks of gloom since its most recent attack. ’When all is gone, when even the sun does not rise? What will you do then?’

A nervousness sits within you as you remember the Darkwalker’s words. What will you do if the sun does not rise? If the darkness is all that is left? If the food runs out? Your wonderings will continue to gnaw away within you. The darkness is hollowing.

’Will you lean on others, like you have always tried to do?’ the voice continues. ’What bonds you hold with them, the ones with those around you. But how strong are they, truly? Can you trust them? Will it matter when your belly is empty and your heart is low? Perhaps it is time to see.

’Never forget, Interloper. I am the Rot. And I will rot within you.’

As the day progresses into the Solstice, that tension lingers in the air, and the wonderings within you continue to wear at you. You find yourself becoming more and more agitated as time goes on. Those feelings that have been brewing for some time now have started to grow close to boiling. You may snap at others, grow restless, become enraged at the tiniest of things — the upsets wildly out of proportion for the smallest slights or issues.

You find your thoughts wandering, too. Perhaps it is to someone you know in this place, or perhaps it is to someone previously unknown to you. Maybe you have an issue with this person, or perhaps the voice’s influence extends further — not only adding to your agitations but creating them, too. A slight, a grudge, a bias.

You feel a bitter gnawing within you. The nightmarish green gloom above you persists and everything bubbles up from within. From the dark, the anger within you become too much. The tension finally snaps.

For some, it might come out as a vicious argument where you air your grievances, or finally let slip the things you’ve been holding close to your chest. A verbal beat down, incredibly hurtful in nature. For others, things may be drawn to getting physical. A literal beat down where your fists grow bruised and bloody, or perhaps even worse. Whatever it is, you want to do damage to someone else — there is darkness here, and so many things come out in the dark, don’t they?

Like a ripple, all around you: all hell breaks loose. Chaos erupts, and the air is filled with violence.

Let’s hope you might stop, or someone else stops you, before someone gets killed.

REPRIEVE

WHEN: Circa three days after the Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: blood.

All things must come to an end, even the most violent of deadly storms. In the midst of the seemingly endless violence of the night, you find yourself outside. Maybe you're fleeing from another Interloper, maybe you're desperately trying to reach someone you care for, maybe you're simply trying to find somewhere new to hide. Interlopers are hunting one another, blood lies on the snow, bodies too — some breathing, some not.

Perhaps it is a trick of the light. Perhaps it's the Darkwalker’s influence still warping your already frayed mind. Or it's the blood in your eyes, your battered and bruised body struggling to get through it all.

In the gloom, you see it. See her.

A woman, dressed in furs, stones and shells glimmering on her chest like armour, stands in the snow before you. Thin and pale, eyes sunken. Her chest heaves with each breath as she looks around with wide eyes. Her hands are bare and bloody. It drips slowly from her fingers. Is it her blood? Or someone else's? You cannot tell, but you cannot mistake how thick it coats her skin.

Her head turns to look at you. You are stunned, but not frightened. Even through the gloom, after a moment or two, her eyes widen in recognition: she knows you.

Slowly and silent, other than her noisy breathing, she draws close to you. Maybe in turn you draw close to her, closing the distance between you. Up close, her eyes are blue, and sad. You cannot mistake the sorrow in them. She is tired, weary. Her hair is dark, worn loose and long. For some, you feel as if you've seen her before, but you can't quite place her face.

Softly, she says your name.

For some, there may be no recognition. This woman is a stranger, who knows your name somehow. She has been silent the past couple of months, after all.

For others, hearing her speak brings a sudden, jarring realisation: this is Enola.

She’s here. Enola. All this time, she’s whispered to you in dreams, in static, in the very air itself.

She raises one hand, dark and dripping in the green light. Lightly, her fingers brush against your chest. You don’t feel the pressure of them, don’t feel the odd heat of blood — only the weight of her stare as she holds your gaze. It’s a long moment of peace in amongst the chaos.

You feel her exhaustion, a tiredness that sinks into your very bones. Apologies, too. You have never known anything like it. But there’s something else too, something that takes a moment or two to put your finger on. Defiance. A renewal. Something shifts in the air, a growing tension, different from the kind that’s been held on the air throughout the month. It’s the coming of a storm, the rolling clouds, the growing rumble of thunder before the first lightning strike.

Enola nods, her expression grave. She pulls away and turns from you — her head lifting towards the skies as she walks. Her arms raise, bloodied hands twisting and tensing before her. They curl, almost into fists, and she makes a gesture: the slow tearing of something huge and invisible before her — a shriek spilling from her lips. A battle-cry, a last stand, a wail of agony. It echoes.

The sky cracks and splits open before you, dazzling light and colours blinding your vision into pure white. The world tilts too hard below your feet, and you don’t remember passing out.

When you awaken, Enola is gone. The skies are clear and blue, the sun is high in the sky. As you pick yourself up from the snow, in the harsh light of the polar day, blood has never looked so red. The horrors of the night laid bare. Interlopers are dead, but the Darkwalker’s influence is gone. For now.

In the wake of Midsummer, all Interlopers can do is try reconcile. Bury the dead, rebuild, lick wounds. But that feeling in the air still remains — that different, new kind of tension that has come with Enola’s appearance. The first of the lightning bolts has struck, but more are coming.

FAQs

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

1. Alexander Hilbert has been devoured by the Darkwalker. His remains can be found in the Hydrodam. The following note has been left by Kates concerning his death: ‘Sveta gets possession of his research notes + blood samples + creepy lab journal because it's all in Russian, lmao.’

2. Information on the Darkwalker’s attack can be found here.

3. Usually, after the Darkwalker attacks, the sky would return to normal. This won’t happen. Instead, the usual atmospheric changes that occur during Darkwalker attacks will remain in place as June continues..


POLAR SUN

1. For an idea how the setting appears for June, it's like what you see in the game during the Escape The Darkwalker Challenge. Inside, there'll be a degree of green shades to rooms etc via what comes through windows but with it being lit up via fires and light sources, the gloom will be chased back.


2. Characters are free to use this event to kill NPC Interlopers. Methuselah and Young Bill are off the table, as are two marked NPC Interlopers. Please let Mods know if you intend on doing this for record keeping!

3. These acts of violence can be physical or verbal altercations, players are encouraged to work with the prompt however they'd like! However, anything potentially world-altering (ie. building destruction) must be first discussed with mods.

4. Interlopers under the Darkwalker's influence can be stopped in a number of ways. Showing genuine care and compassion in the face of violence is one way. Knocking an Interloper out is another way. Sometimes killing an Interloper may be needed, or simply restraining them and keeping them locked up somewhere so they can't hurt anyone else until the night is over would also work.

5. Talismans made by Heartman back in March with a Ward Sigil against the Darkwalker will come into effect during this prompt. It's been an ongoing process, with new Interlopers being offered them from their arrival. Players are free to choose what kind of talisman they received, or if they chose to get one at all. Their effectiveness is dependent on the type of blood used on the talisman.

— Animal Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from animals found in the world, such as deer, rabbits or wolves will find themselves more susceptible to the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They will be much harder to break out of the hold over them, and become almost frenzied state.
— Monster Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from any creatures or monsters that Interlopers have encountered in their time in the Northern Territories, such as the Serpent from December’s TDM will find there are no negative nor positive effects. The talisman is essentially useless. and Interlopers will fall under the Darkwalker's influence.
— Interloper Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood for Interlopers will be offered protection/resistance from the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They may be slightly affected but will have their wits about them more compared to others. If the blood came from an Interloper with an Aurora Feat — this protection/resistance will be largely increased, an the Interloper may even feel braver, less affected by the fear in the atmosphere.
— No Talisman: Similar to the Monster Blood Talisman, Interlopers will be affected typically by the Darkwalker's influence in due course.

There are no additional affects with an Interloper using their own blood, just if they have an Aurora Feat or not.

6. Animals owned by Interlopers will be more frightened and will want to hide away in the build up — they will be disturbed by the world. Mostly lying down and whining/restlessness. They may display some signs of aggression on occasion, but not to the same degree of humans.

7. Forest Talkers are hidden away and will not be able to be reached during the Solstice.

REPRIEVE

1. Enola can only be met alone, but she will appear to all Interlopers in Milton.

2. Enola will be nowhere to be found afterwards, there are no tracks to be followed. She has simply vanished.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

[desperate_times_right]

I haven't stayed so long in one place since I was seventeen. Countryside or not, I don't think it suits me.

You're right, though: there's so much judgment. I just want to live my life, man.

[desperate_times_right]

Hey, Chloe likes Damian! He helped her steal food.

“We don't know that. We don't know what she wants. Maybe she just needs living outsiders here to keep that monster from winning, and it doesn't matter who it is.”

That's Chloe’s working theory, but she doesn't know if it's true.

“One thing I do know is that people who kidnap you won’t let you go until you do what they want - or trick them into thinking you did - or escape. I don't know if we can escape here without her.”

[notarat]

There's something about that gentleness that sets off a pang of something within him that he doesn't even have to examine to know it's guilt. There's just something like that about receiving a gentle attitude when you don't expect to be met by one - in a way that has nothing to do with the way he knows the other can fight tooth and claw when he wants to, if Hickey's state after that one fight was anything to go by, and much more to do with Billy's own cynical outlook on other people in general - or particularly feel like you deserve it.

It renders him quiet for a moment, slightly unsure of what to say, before he speaks up again.

"Is it bad?" Another slight pause, though this time it's just a beat, and he turns his head to look at the other man. ".. the injury, I mean."

[goingtobeunwell]

Crozier's brow furrows. So a touch of the supernatural was in Randvi's world as well. And a bear too, what are the odds.

"I can't imagine. I suppose it would be as though either one of us were turned into a wolf or bear and had to navigate life in that form."

[fidior]

[ Not for the first time, he finds himself startled by how much his own words affect Wynonna — how much importance he could possibly hold to her. Her voice cracks just enough to be perceptible, subtle, but to him it feels like a huge split, something momentous enough to stun him a little, and wound him a lot. The upset there in her, that flash of anger. Little frowns deeply, brows knit together as he watches her work through, or against, something — his mouth tight and tugged down at the corners; everything feels so heavy, weighted.

'I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wouldn't even blink.'

She wants to protect him from it. She's visibly upset that she wasn't able to. He doesn't even know what to say, eyes just fixed right onto her as he watches. He's never known anyone, could never imagine knowing anyone, who would say something like this for him. Who would do something like this for him. Take a life, for him. His inability to do what other men have done has been some weakness carried, one that's taken on the shape of many things — guilt, regret, disappointment. He remembers a conversation shared with a man here in Milton once, during that storm — a man who'd been horrified, angered, when Little revealed how he'd failed to use his gun on someone once. How he'd failed to do what needed to be done.

But even now.... he can't look back and truly regret not stopping Tozer that way. He can't. No piece of himself could ever be okay with taking another man's life. It... he can't. And where he's only faced judgment for that decision in the few he's revealed it to, here....

...Wynonna understands. She would understand, if he were to tell her about it here and now. She wouldn't think of him as less, or as responsible for everything that came after, for all of the men that could possibly have been saved if he'd taken action and killed one of the mutineers who crossed his path. Wynonna wouldn't. Not her, who hasn't told him it's all right that you did this or it was necessary or met his upset with bewilderment and aversion the way others have when he's started crumbling.

She's... upset for him. For his sake. He watches her pull back in the ways she needs to for a moment, eyes going up and up, away from his — watches her strain to breathe, to function, like she's holding back a dam that's swelling too hard, too fast; it will burst in her any moment, and all he can think is that he wishes he could soothe it. It hurts to see Wynonna hurt this way, carrying what he can't quite understand, not fully, but the fact she would do that for him suggests at least a few things, and so when she says what she does next, finally looking at him again, the words come without him even pausing to consider them, his own voice strained and hoarse with upset, quiet but intense as his eyes search right into hers, trying to find something there in them, in her. To reach her way deep down. ]

Neither do you, Miss Earp.

[pacificator]

[ Little doesn't look at her the way March does, as if she's a puzzle box he's trying to figure out, as if he's peeling back each layer to expose her vulnerable core, like recognizing like. He doesn't look at her like she's a crime scene he's trying to piece together. When she lowers her gaze from the ceiling and finds his again, it's like he already knows... everything, as if somehow he's looked past the layers of bullshit and bravado like they don't even exist and straight into her bruised and battered heart to see— who knows what, but whatever it is, he doesn't turn away from it. From her. He never has.

He sees her, and every time she expects him to realize he should be moving away as quickly as possible, that he'd made a terrible mistake when he promised not to pull away from her again. She keeps waiting for something appalled and disgusted to surface in his warm brown eyes. Nothing in her is prepared for the way he searches her expression, her face, her eyes, like he wants to go even deeper. Like he truly believes there's nothing he could see there that would make him want to turn away again, even when she knows that can't possibly be true. He might be searching out her heart, the truth of her, but the truth of her is lined with traps and snares, spikes and blades. If he reaches for her right now, she thinks he'd pull his hand back scarred and bleeding.

Reaching up, she scrubs at her tired face with both hands, then runs them distractedly through her hair, all ten fingers sinking in, giving her some sort of anchor now that she's not touching him any longer. ]

No one does. No one who still has a soul. But you're—

[ What is he? What is it about him that makes this such a nightmare? Nobody's perfect, and he certainly isn't. She herself has thought he should stop carrying that shotgun around if he's not prepared to actually use it. And now he has, and it's heartbreaking, his anguish, his guilt. All she wants is to pry it off his shoulders and set it on her own and she can't. No one can. And he wouldn't want her to even if she could, because he might not be a perfect man, but he's a good one.

She lowers her hands and meets his glance again, offering the only aid she can: to let him lance this wound in a place where he's safe, with a person who gets it better than he could ever know. ]

Why do you think you do? Tell me. Just get it out.

[wingbound]

"Got it."

He remains sitting a while longer after that. Perhaps he needs the rest, perhaps he's contemplating the deaths they brought about. It's nothing new, killing. But he'd always done it on his own accord, for good reasons, and now he's reeling against Darkwalker's yoke. So pointless. This was a goddamn cruel joke.

Eventually he stands and heads for the cemetery; it's not difficult to break into the shack that he deduces must be the groundskeeper's shed, and sure enough, there's a few tools lined up in the cramped space; there may even be something similar enough to a pickaxe, whatever is standard for gravediggers' arsenal.

He'll pick it up and get to work.

[wingbound]

He picks one up, weighing it in his hand. "More or less."

There's a non-zero chance he's used one to crack someone's skull at some point, but he's also spent years having to do his own home repairs. Of course, nobody had been there to let him know whether he did anything wrong, but it did the job, so at the very least he should have function over form down.

He'll start off with what's left of the easy parts -- taking off planks that had been used to board the windows; if Chloe already took care of it, inner walls will be next.

[notarat]

Of course Billy has no idea what a flare gun is, but it doesn't feel important to ask right now. Some variation of a gun, that's enough context for him to work with here. The most important part of it all is the fact that Chloe was unharmed by it anyway.

What Chloe says about Kate is just as easily dismissed. Billy doesn't know Kate. He's only going to extend his concerns to the people he knows-- and even then only truly to the people he actually cares about, like the woman he's walking with right now.

"No," he answers, wincing due to the ache still in his throat as he swallows. "I only witnessed the fire in that house. Was it a more widespread problem before?"

Billy might not be entirely sure where this is going, but he trusts Chloe to not tell him anything unnecessary. He can hear her out while they're on the move.

[flanerie]

[ They're well into the shadow of the mountains now as they enter a small clearing. Lestat judges that the entrance to the mine can't be more than another half an hour's walk at this pace. Close enough for their purposes, while obscure enough that perhaps this corpse will manage to go undiscovered until the forest does its work on it.

He comes to a halt and sighs, rolling his shoulders back at he looks up at the starless heavens. ]

If only all thought as you do. [ What a world that would be. ] What do you think of this as the place?

[thedreamer]

Yes, quite the thing. Not very happy, was she? Can't blame her, of course, circumstances being what they are. More to the point, what she's gone through no doubt, or went through, or will go through. I heard her before, a bit back, but I couldn't — and there she was. And now we're here.

[ His thoughts are a bit jumbled and scattered as he speaks, bouncing from thought to thought. ]

[solitarysoul]

Levi stays seated until the other man gets up. Then he shakes himself off, grabs his shovel, and gets back to work. Things should go a bit faster now, but he'll only work a few more hours before trying to sleep. The lack of food and added mental turmoil of this month are making sure he's not at his best.

cw: mention of cannibalism

[fidior]

[ There are certainly mysteries to Wynonna — layers of them, things he's glimpsed pieces of here and there; she's the heir to something, and she.. knows things, does things, she has a gun, she knows how to fight, she's... assuredly an intimidating woman in nearly all aspects (but of course what would stand out the most is that softness underneath, it's never too far away really, or maybe he's just especially sensitive to it — soft, wounded eyes and a mouth tugged tightly to hide some inner feeling; she's intimidating but she isn't cold, isn't unfeeling, and it's all of those human parts he thinks of the easiest when he thinks of Wynonna Earp.)

He watches her movements, restless and tired and aching, and realises he isn't actively crying anymore — that what's left are remnants, soft and wet against the hair that frames his face and covers most of his cheeks. He's tired too; it all sought escape from him in that moment, made him overwhelmed, and now he's reeling gently from all of it, sitting there still leaned forward, watching her with his eyes glassy and sore and concerned. There's still so much upset in her — and he can't do anything to appease it. He's helpless.

Which is why maybe he even latches onto that question, the one that he'd always flinched from so fiercely. The one he was always afraid to be asked. He doesn't want the people here to know... what he's done, who he really is.

And yet here and now, he grasps for that question, because it's something to do for her — even if it's just this much, to answer a horrible thing. She asks him and he would never refuse to answer it. Not to her. So he tips his head forwards again, shoulders lifting with another full-bodied sigh, a movement that heaves everything in him, shifts it, and then settles back into the rocking chair with a heaviness. ]

I am not a good man, [ he all but whispers — and perhaps an ironic statement, all things considered, but one he wholly believes. How does he even begin to convey it? All of the things he's done, all of his weaknesses, his failings, all of the ghosts that haunt him? And so many of them here with him, in this place? So many of them that she knows? ]

Everything went... wrong. And I didn't... I wasn't enough. I failed them. [ He leans forward more, spine bent, hands moving up through his hair, almost an echo of Wynonna's gesture moments ago. Palms press into his scalp and he leaves them there for a moment, gaze wide and distant, thinking of something, somewhere else. One of the ghosts slips down over his eyes, and he blinks against a fresh coat of gloss. ]

When the mutiny began, there was... a man. Our sergeant of the Marines. He was a foundational part of it, with Mr. Hickey. And he— I chased him. I found him. I had my gun raised, but I couldn't... I could not pull the trigger. I could not kill him.

[ It sounds almost anticlimactic voiced like that, this particular dark thing. But he's shaking again, even if more softly this time. ]

If I had.... I might have stopped what came after. The mutiny, and what they... did, to our men. What horrible things they did. [ His eyes widen further; he'd only learned those nightmarish details after his arrival in this place. The... slaughter, the feasting of human flesh. Gibson. Goodsir. How can he voice it aloud? His mouth parts, closes slightly, parts again; his throat moves but no words come. Not for a long moment. When he speaks next, everything feels hollow. ]

But I let it happen. I let it all happen. The mutiny, and what came after, and— and they suffered because of me, because I am— I am nothing. Every man here in this place with us now has suffered, because of me. They should all have hatred for me, in their hearts. I am certain that they do.

[ There's more to it, but his voice falters, the secrets he's revealed to no one sticking up out of the soil within himself, like exposed bones. How he'd betrayed his captain's wishes. How Crozier had waited for his rescue, and none had come. How he'd walked away from the sick, the dying — how Thomas Jopson still haunts his nightmares here, two glowing sparks of blue set in a frame that can barely be called a face anymore, skull-like, skin too thin and too tight, and rotting away. He was still alive when they left, even if just. He saw them leave him. Edward knows that now. ]

And to take that young man's life now... Everything I... tried to be, tried to hold onto, it— none of it mattered. I should have died the way my men did. The way Thomas— [ He can't, the words falling away again in a soft, breathless gasp, and he blinks, that odd haze clearing a little, enough to find her again. ] —I'm sorry.

[pacificator]

[ I am not a good man, he says, and she can tell he believes it, right down to his foundations. Whatever image he'd held of himself before the expedition went so badly south has been wholly wiped away, leaving nothing but an impression of guilt and horror behind.

She knows it, because she's lived it. Everything everyone she knows blames her for, she's blamed herself for a million times over. And here's Edward Little, one of the gentlest, most forthright, most honorable men she's ever known, hanging his head and telling her he's nothing, that everything that happened after he didn't pull the trigger was his fault. And guilt is a heady drug, she knows it well, is all too familiar with the way someone can latch onto it and never find a way to let go. Her own is a constant companion, still, always, even if it hasn't taken physical form since those weeks back in the winter. Old Augie Hamilton would be feasting on them both, if he ever managed to find his way here.

I should have died, he says, and her blood runs cold; the way Thomas, he says, and everything in her lurches abruptly to the side. She doesn't want to think about what happened between him and Tommy. She doesn't want to know. What could it possibly help, when Thomas himself already forgave him?

But he won't forgive himself. She's seen Augie Hamilton in her own face in the mirror too many times not to recognize a fellow guilty heart. Wynonna lifts a hand, runs her fingers lightly over the thin white line of scar tissue at her throat, thinking about guilt, thinking about forgiveness, recalling the bright flicker of pain as his cold razor nicked her skin.

(Tick tock, tick tock. Forgiven? Or not?)

She's silent for a long moment after he finishes, thinking hard, as she thumbs that line of her scar before dropping her hand away again. ]

You know, if my sister were here, she'd know just what to say. She'd find some way to make you feel better, or tell you it's never the wrong thing to not kill somebody, or... I don't know, because she's not here. You're stuck with me instead, and the best I've got is... not great. But okay. Let's give it a shot, because Waverly might be nicer than me, but I know what it's like to ruin... everything. Crushing guilt and I are old buddies.

[ She sinks back onto her heels again, her knees and shins yelling. His eyes are on her again, glossy and sad and hurt and she's never felt so helpless, she's never wished so much to not have something in common with him. ]

Look, you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy. I mean, you probably couldn't have stopped it even if that one guy was Hickey. He'd just have been a martyr to the cause. And yeah, I know knowing that doesn't magically change things. That stuff all still happened.

But you are not nothing. [ She leans forward again, holding his glance with her own fierce and sore and steady. ]

You're not nothing. Not to me. Not to a lot of people here, including all the ones you think should hate you.

[ Her expression turns inwards for a long moment, seeing again in her mind's eye the way the good people of Purgatory cross the street to get away from her, feeling their glares linger. She thinks of Shorty saying they're wrong... you're a good girl, Wynonna, and doesn't quite manage to fully shutter the flicker of pain that surfaces along with the memory. ]

Don't ask for that. Just... don't. You don't deserve it. Because I think you are a good man. I know you are.

[fidior]

[ She would hate him if she knew all of the truths. Even if not wholly — some part of her must. How could anyone not? As much as he longs to be someone that others here can trust, the truth is that Edward knows no one should. If there were any goodness left to him — to that man whose rot was kept beneath all of it, beneath layers upon layers of wool as he clung so desperately to his role and the thought that he could still help others with it — it was lost on that last march.

And in this place, he's been... foolish, to think he could ever return to who he used to be, or at least to some semblance of that man. He isn't. He can't be, ever again. Perhaps he's already known that — after the death of Lieutenant Noonien-Singh, so much.... was revealed to him, and he gave up, for a while; he did, he gave up, and even if he eventually came back... not all of him did. Not really. More and more, pieces have eroded away. Perhaps this was always going to happen.

But he does listen to Wynonna as she speaks, and as some part of him still, still, wants to believe every word, to accept them — wants what she's offering, which isn't... forgiveness, necessarily, but something much more palatable. Logic, reasoning, 'you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy,' and she's right, he does know she's right. Even what came after — the... vote, the looks in those men's faces as he stared back in horror, the way Lieutenant Le Vesconte could not maintain eye contact with him for too long, the anger so severe every part of him shook with it; there was nothing more he could have done. Not really.

(Then he should have died. He should have sat down with Thomas, and the others, and let himself die.) What did he think could be done for the marching men? That he would truly be able to lead them to safety? To rescue? That he could do anything for them? He knows now that there were no survivors of their Expedition.

Then he should have died while he was still himself, and not a man marching towards the faint, impossible prospect of survival. Not a man who left his captain behind. If this is what it means to live, then he shouldn't be.

...But that, truly is what he deserves. To live, like this. Knowing what he'd done. Knowing what he'd lost.

And so, even as Wynonna Earp looks at him with eyes — somehow both like a steel trap and yet still so comforting for their familiarity — and tells him that he is not nothing, not to her, he knows that he doesn't deserve this, either. Doesn't deserve her. She understands (it isn't the first time he's known such a concept; she knows what it's like to ruin things, everything she says, and he believes her, because she's known what it is to fail to protect others — he remembers her telling him, has never forgotten, even if he doesn't know the particular details behind it) but she shouldn't have to see herself in someone like him. Not she, who is brave and good and would kill someone so that he doesn't have to. Would make that kind of sacrifice. ]

Whatever Hell this is, that dead men are allowed to walk again... that is what I deserve, [ he says softly. ] Not to truly die, but to.... live. As a ghost amongst the ghosts of the men I—.... I abandoned. [ The word catches, but softly. He... sees himself very clearly now. And his eyes narrow sadly down at her, at the disappointment he knows he must be to her — who has fought so hard for his sake. She shouldn't. There are others worth fighting for, far more deserving. ]

I see that now.

[ He reaches out, for the first time, eyes heavy and aching, and places a hand gently upon Wynonna's shoulder. (It's selfish, he knows, to want to keep her, despite everything he's just said and all of the things that have remained unspoken. Even so, he wishes he could.) ]

I am glad that it is you with whom I am stuck. [ 'You're stuck with me', she said, as though that was his punishment instead, as though she isn't the person he now so often thinks to first when he needs— anyone, for anything. There might almost be a glint of something light-hearted to the sentiment, for the way it's worded, a faint ripple of warmth to his wet gaze, but it fades quickly. His heart feels.... gone. Emptied. He needs to bury Mikel. (He can't imagine returning back to his cabin. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to run away.) He frowns, deep and miserable. ]

But I truly am not the man you think I am. I... barely deserve to stand in your shadow, Miss Earp. Whatever ruin you may have known before, when I look to you, I see only... what grows. What thrives, and lives. Not ruin. Only light.

[ He squeezes her shoulder, but softly, meant to be soothing to a woman who has revealed some of her own hurts and wounds to him, before he finally lets his hand fall away. ]

As much as I long to keep it, someone else deserves your mercy. Not I.

[wolf_lover]

[Connor had been told about the coming of the Darkwalker. But there was a big difference between being told about something that could drive a person to feel abject terror and actually going through it himself. He'd been in the kitchen gnawing on part of a rabbit he'd caught in a recent hunt when he felt a terrifying sensation come over him.

It reminded him of when La Llorona had tried to kill him, her scream making him feel agonizing pain not in his body but all the way down into his very soul. Then all he'd been able to do was curl up into a ball and cover his ears, begging for her to stop. But this time was different. This time, his family was here, and he needed to make sure they were okay.

When he heard Bigby calling for his mom and his own name, he got up and struggled against the sensation in his chest that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. He made his way to the bedroom and was gratified to see his parents were already there. He went immediately over to the bed, reduced to being a scared little puppy that just wanted to be around his parents right now.]

[lieutenantsteward]

[He raises his eyes to her.]

That depends on the crime. Mr. Hickey had been sentenced to death. I put the noose around his neck myself. He escaped when we were all attacked.

He's a wanted man, if you want to speak of rules back home.

[lieutenantsteward]

He looks down to his chest and pulls his good arm away from his side. "Ah, it will heal," he assures him. "And I do not begrudge the attacker her anger. So - it is easier to bear."

He looks up to him. "Did you manage to escape unscathed?"

cw: mention of accidental patricide, child abduction, murder

[pacificator]

Oh, that is all such bullshit.

[ All of it, all of it, from the way he calls himself a ghost to what he thinks he deserves to what he thinks she is. The first time he's ever reached out to touch her, and it's with a squeeze of his hand like he's saying goodbye, like he's shutting some door between them, and she can't, she won't let him. ]

You want to talk to me about mistakes? About abandoning the people who depend on you? You think I have a single leg to stand on with any of this?

[ She gets up with a swift economy of movement, pins and needles tingling through her legs as she takes the few short strides to the hearth, reaches for the framed photograph there. ]

We were home one night, all of us. Me, Willa, Waverly, all sitting around the table listening while Daddy told us stories about our great-great grandaddy, Wyatt Earp. He was cleaning Peacemaker and putting it back together. It was a normal night, quiet. And then we heard them outside.

[ She turns back to look at him, the frame in her fingers, her grip a little too tight. Her memory echoes with the sounds of breaking glass and screams, of Daddy's shouts. ]

There were seven of them that came to the Homestead. One of them smashed through a window and grabbed Willa. The last time I ever saw her, she was kicking and screaming as they dragged her outside, broken glass raining down everywhere, right before they broke down the door and grabbed my father.

[ The words come evenly, but there's a feeling of relief behind it, of something that's built up too much behind too fragile a wall; a dam about to burst, a storm about to break. But she measures it out, holding it back under ruthless control, keeping her eyes on him, waiting for the moment when whatever admiration — maybe even affection — shatters under the weight of all her sins.

He doesn't deserve to stand in her shadow? She shouldn't get to be that person to him. She shouldn't even get to touch him, no much how cleaner it makes her feel. She should never have turned around in that blizzard and let him find her, she should never have gone to his cabin with a bottle of Scotch and an apology on her lips. If she hadn't done any of those things, maybe she wouldn't be here cracking open her ribcage and reaching inside to offer her secrets, bloody and blackened, because if he doesn't deserve forgiveness, if all he deserves is to wander this hellscape they're in, then so does she. ]

They were dragging him away, laughing, they were gonna, they were gonna kill him. So I picked up Peacemaker for the very first time, and I tried to shoot them. I tried to protect him, I tried to protect Willa, but I missed. I took one shot, and it hit my father in the back. I killed him.

[ The few quick steps she takes feel like she's pushing against an invisible hand, but she takes them to stand in front of him and shove the photo at him, the photo that's all she has left of Willa, of the life she had before that horrible night. Three girls, dressed in white, carrying flowers and smiling. She taps herself; a coltish girl with her hair in braids, walking in the grass. ]

I was twelve years old.

[sputnik]

[ Konstantin stares at him with an intensity he can't quite temper, and it's not that he doesn't trust Vasiliy not to know how to handle it, but...

But somewhere in him, not very deep down at all, is a worry about anything bad happening to the other man, and it's not like they have access to top-notch medical care, here. If something goes worse... if he doesn't recover well enough...

He shakes the thoughts aside as best he can and returns to action mode, nodding again as he resumes the task, pouring more water gently over the wound and letting it drip-dry for a few seconds before he reaches for the towel to gently pat at it. After a moment he leaves the towel for Vasiliy and moves quickly to fetch a glass of water as instructed, setting it down on the table in front of him, then hurrying to bring his bag and the oxygen cylinder back to him. He sets both things close, and hovers closer. Gently, he places one hand to Vasiliy's back as though to help keep him steady. He really, really doesn't like the way his breathing sounds as he leans in and nods again, ready to keep working. ]

Now what?

[m1895]

[ God, it's even harder to think, to formulate his thoughts well enough to give another instructions. He coughs again and his brain seems to slam against the front of his skull; Vasiliy reflexively rubs his good hand over his forehead and face, smearing charcoal in the process. ]

It's... I can get this part.

[ Shakily, he one-handedly unzips his bag and rifles around until he finds the gray-blue inhaler, taking one puff, holding it, then a second, which of course sets off another harsh coughing fit that lasts several seconds. But the sides of his chest feel more flexible after a few seconds more; his lungs feel larger, less constricted than they had become in the fire. He adjusts the regulator on the oxygen cylinder and attaches the adult mask from his bag, holding it over his own nose and mouth with his free hand and letting his aching shoulders rise and fall with a slow, deep breath. ]

I'll be okay, [ he says, voice a little muffled by the silicone mask. ] Just nauseous and tired. And my head hurts. This is a milder case. I promise.

SUPER BELATED BACKTAG.....

[sputnik]

[ The barking immediately draws his attention, and Konstantin sets down the dish he was washing with a cloth — such tasks have begun to connect to the association of normalcy, an awareness that does sit a little uneasily within him (but they have to get done, and Vasiliy's the one who's doing all of the physical work outside; it's the least Konstantin can do to keep things clean in here....)

He tucks the damp cloth over one shoulder and turns, heading towards the front door a few seconds before Vasiliy opens it. The older man's features are lifting into their usual welcoming smile, but then— everything freezes as he stares down at the little animal Vasiliy's holding up.

At first he doesn't quite know what he's looking at. Some sort of little deer, or cow. His brows shoot upwards and his mouth parts, startled but already drawing closer, eyes wide. Vasya just. Just found this? This is probably a dumb question, but— ]

Was she just... just out in the woods somewhere?

[ He doesn't know much about wildlife... (It's not like her mother dropped her off at the post office, Konstantin.)

But already that wideness to his eyes is gaining a bit of a shine... something visibly delighted. He's never been much of an animal person, generally, but it'd be difficult to look at the little thing and not find her cute... (We are not butchering her, Vasiliy Ardankin) ]

[sputnik]

[ Konstantin watches him work on himself, an odd thing to witness, in a way. But he hovers close nonetheless, hands itching for something to do, some way to help. Even as Vasiliy starts breathing slower, deeper, Konstantin's brow remains knit as he watches him. ]

How long were you in it for? The fire, the.. smoke.

[ Beat, and another question that follows right after. ]

Was anyone with you?

I WOULD WAIT 5EVR.... ARRIVAL OF THEIR FIRST CHILD..

[m1895]

[ Kostya's eyes take on that sparkle he'd do anything to see, and it warms him from the inside out—nothing else matters in this moment, seeing how pleased he's made him. Vasiliy can't help but to smile in response, even as the dismayed calf in his arms continues to honk away. ]

Yes. I was setting a trap and she came through the grass... She was looking for her mother. I think she's very new, and her mother just abandoned her because of whatever is happening here.

[ He looks down at the little creature in his arms, and feels... strange about it. About this. ]

I think she's cold. Hungry. We should put her by the fireplace if you want to keep her, and open one of the cans of condensed milk in the cabinet...

[m1895]

I think maybe thirty minutes. Louis was there too. I had wet gauze over my nose and mouth.

[ Vasiliy excludes the detail that it was nearly black after only said thirty minutes of so of filtering the smoky air; it would only worry Konstantin further, and he feels a strange sense of guilt as it is, like he... wronged him, making him this upset. A cough interrupts the thought; he immediately closes his eyes when his headache again intensifies, then clears his throat. At least the ventolin is working. ]

I found some bags that said 'milk replacer' for Lyudmila. They were for cows and sheep but I think we can still use them for her. She'll get more nutrients from that.