extinction is the rule

[singmod]

SEPTEMBER 2023 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS: The Aurora comes, bringing chaos to the town of Milton. Electronics go haywire, and the Interlopers learn of the original citizens of Milton.

PROMPT TWO — THE HOUR OF THE WOLF: Tainted by the Aurora and attracted to the noise of people inhabiting the town, several packs of wolves descend upon Milton.

PROMPT THREE — IT SPEAKS: A voice comes to the Interlopers, one that knows them and their darkest fears and deepest insecurities, persuading them to fade into the Long Dark by any means necessary.

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural horror; ‘ghost’ horror; hauntings; death of npcs in various ways including suicide, murder or exposure to elements.

After the feast, and making sure the newcomers to Milton are seen to, Methuselah packs up. He will explain to others that while he will return to check in, he is no resident of Milton and will not stay. He is a nomad, something he has been all his life. He lives in nature. That is where he belongs. But he does assure that people are welcome to remain sheltered in the Hall if they wish to. And sure enough, the old man leaves, wishing the newcomers well. He can still be found out in the wilderness, and will shelter and feed those out exploring should they come across him.

And so the days and nights of this world roll on. The initial time of those who have come to be stranded in this world is unsettled. The weather is always changing, even if it remains bitterly cold. On some nights throughout the next month, however, the snow clouds clear and Interlopers are given a rare, clear night. At first, it’s beautiful: without the light pollution, all the stars can be seen, the moon casts an eerie glow upon the snow in the dead silence of the night. One might even say there is a kind of peace that comes with it all. And for some of these evenings, they pass by: uneventful and silent — the long darkness of an endless winter’s night.

But on others, it isn’t so uneventful. The noise starts: faint at first, but then growing louder. Something in the heavens above. 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 that echo. The sky is alive with sound, louder than anyone could ever expect it to. With it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night, growing brighter and brighter as the night goes on: The Aurora has come.

And it isn’t the sky that comes to life too: the whole town does too. Streetlights, illuminating the town’s roads; lights in stores and homes will come alive, buzzing and flickering often. Previously abandoned cars will turn on, their headlights blaring but faltering. 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.

But there’s something else too. The Aurora doesn’t just awaken the electronics of the town. Dotted around, in the streets, in homes, in stores, the lights of the Aurora begin to take shape: spectral-like forms of people, their faces hard to make out, details difficult to define. They move in glitching patterns, they speak with voices distorted by static. Eagle-eyed Interlopers may recognise the forms of some, a body or an action:

These are the residents of Milton, in their last moments on this earth.

The forms act out short scenes on repeat: a desperate fight between two men over a vehicle, a murder in a store during a riot, a suicide alone in one of the many houses. An argument over the communication lines going down. A sobbing teen curled up on his bed. A child stares up at the skies, their hands over their ears, crying in fright. A woman begs for her father to leave his home and head to the coast with her, to try to make it to the mainland, but he refuses to leave. A man succumbs to the cold walking alone in the outskirts of town without proper clothing for the elements. Several of these ‘ghosts’ are people fleeing before they stop and simply gasp, staring off into the distance for a few seconds before they drop dead on the spot.

There is nothing that can be done to stop these endless loops. Nothing to help these poor souls. Each of these moments are captured by the Aurora: final, desperate and tragic moments in some unknown, chaotic time. Some of these ‘ghosts’ maybe stop after so many loops — flickering out into nothing, others will last all night. But all will be gone by the morning and the Aurora comes to an end. There are answers, and there are none.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: (wild) animal attacks, altered wildlife, possible character injury/death, possible (wild) animal injury/death.


The growing presence of people within the town of Milton has meant more light, more warmth, more noise. The Aurora has created great change, but people are not the only thing the ethereal lights in the sky has brought down upon this old mining town.

When the sun slips below the horizon, and the clear skies of burnt embers and inky blues alight with stars, they come.

A lone howl, long and haunting. It is the first signal, which carries on the air. You can’t seem to place from which direction it comes from, it feels like it encompasses you. Then another voice joins it, and another, and another. A chorus of them. As the sound echoes off, another fills its place: a strange feral chittering, snarling and snapping — the drumming of feet upon the snow, heading right for you.

Wolves.

Unnatural, glowing green eyes in the dark — tendrils of light seeping from them as they rush in and encircle those they come across outside. They come in packs of three or more, and they are clever. They’re quicker than any wolf you’ve ever known, bigger and hardier too. They will try to strike fast by zipping in when you’re distracted, snapping and nipping at legs or trying to take quick bites out of arms before drawing back. They work together to bring their prey down, a solid unit of noise and teeth. They will hunt down those who hide inside, try to claw their way inside of homes and buildings — dead set on finding you and tearing you apart. There is no hiding from them. They will find you.

But breaking the pack can send them back. If they’re broken, their morale is depleted. Fire is your biggest friend: torches, campfires and flames will keep them mostly at bay and only the bravest of these packs may attack. Striking them with flares or flames will actually send them into brief retreats. Bullets and arrows are effective with both noise and injuring the wolves, and although hitting one will be difficult due their speed, it’s possible. Killing one of these wolves will dissolve the pack’s morale entirely, and the rest will flee off into the night.

Until next time. Maybe it’s best you don’t stick around. They do hold a relentless determination.

IT SPEAKS

WHEN: Over the next month, possibly longer.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: psychological horror; mental manipulation; themes of suicide; themes of depression; potential self-harm; potential feelings of isolation; potential attempted suicide.

There are whispers. Small, at first. Distracting. Perhaps it is only the wind you hear. Milton is so quiet, even with the new hustle and bustle of the new people to this place. Wood creaks and the trees rustle, there are plenty of sounds you could mistake it for.

‘Interloper.’ It is an old voice. Something deep and dark and ancient. Something impossible, older than the earth itself. It floats into your ears and nestles there, sending an ice-cold shiver down your spine. Even to the most stoic and unshakeable souls, it is a unnerving voice. It feels wrong. It feels like an ending. To hear the voice is deeply unsettling... and yet... you recognise it.

It comes to you, in the dead of night when sleep is far. In the long stretches of day as you go about your business, as you travel across the frigid landscape or gather firewood or try to pass the time within whatever home you’ve made for yourself. For some the voice will be clear as day, for others it may be some distant whisper — something gently murmuring in your ear. But the voice will be heard, no matter the person.

‘Interloper. Do you know what it means?’ It asks. ‘It means one that involves itself in a place it does not belong. You do not belong.’

That it isn’t the only thing it tells you. For everyone, it’s different. It knows you. It picks up on any weakness, any insecurity. It makes you feel small, insignificant. It tells you all the quiet, terrible things you hide down within yourself. For days, weeks, the voice is there. Speaking to you. It will wear you down, insist you are not wanted, that you do not belong here.

... And wouldn’t it be better if you weren’t here at all?

The voice seeks to break you. It will push you to your limit. Sleep will become hard to find, your spirits low and hollow. In time you might seem to believe it. Maybe it’s better if you weren’t here. You don’t belong in this place, why should you stay?

‘Disappear, Interloper. Go into the Long Dark.’

Perhaps you next find yourself atop the steep cliffs, looking down into the Milton Basin below. Perhaps you find yourself with a gun in your hand, or a rope. Perhaps you find your feet carrying you out into the snow. You’re going to disappear. You’re going to go into the Dark.

Or maybe the voice isn’t so loud. You can push it down, ignore it. Perhaps Faith is what keeps you steady, perhaps knowing who you are despite your faults stops the voice from taking over. Maybe you can help those who can’t block out the voice. Words of encouragement, affirmation, kindness, determination, even spite. The voice wants you dead, but you will not let it. You will not fall. You will not let anyone else fall, either.

FAQs

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

1. While examples are given, players are encouraged to come up with their own ghostly loops of similar loops. The key thing to remember is that the people of Milton have descended into public disorder. Fights, arguments and murders have occurred, as have suicides or other unexplained deaths. People are frightened. They want to leave the town.

2. Ghostly loops cannot be interacted with, only witnessed.

3. There is no way of putting these 'ghosts' to rest. These loops are more like residual memories, as if the energy of the townsfolk remained, and have been reconstructed by the Aurora.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

5. Sharp-eyed Interlopers may notice that the 'ghosts' of those who are staring off into the distance before gasping and dropping dead are looking skyward, towards the east.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

1. Due to the Aurora's influence, these wolves are harder, better, faster, stronger, than typical wild wolves. They do not die as easily, and are much more difficult to wound and kill. But not impossible. Scaring the wolves will be far easier to accomplish.

2. Wolves will return, sometimes more than once on the same night, or on other nights during the month. The only sure-fire way to have them stop coming back is to kill the pack.

3. Wolf meat is technically edible. But not advised due to parasites. Characters are still welcome to harvest the wolves they kill, however. Who would say no to a cool ass wolf cape.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

IT SPEAKS

1. Characters can be talked down and broken from the voice's influence by others. Genuine connection and empathy will work massively, but even encouragement and affirmations to keep surviving will be powerful enough to break the voice's hold.

2. Players are welcome to play with the length of time the voice can be heard with characters. Some may want to have it over a short space of time, others can have this progress over a longer time period.

3. The voice can come at any time over the next month.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

kate marsh | life is strange

[castitas]

☮ GENERAL
cw: themes of depression

ONE: [ In the days and weeks since their arrival into the town of Milton, Kate doesn’t stray often from the Community Hall. It’s… a new home, of sorts. She occupies one of the cots in the hall, and stays there for the most part. Most of the time, she sleeps, or curls up on her side to lay listless with her thoughts — her spirits low. Even when she’s sitting up, reading passages from the heavily annotated copy of her bible from home in her lap, there’s a heavy melancholy to her. There was too much sorrow in her heart before she came to this place, and being stranded far from home in some frozen, desolate place does very little to help her current state of mind. She misses her family for as much as they judge her. She misses her school, for as much as it punishes her. She misses her bunny, and Max’s kind words. She misses the warmth of Arcadia Bay.

In the first few days, she does manage to venture to the general store. There’s no hope of rescue yet, it seems. But she moves on autopilot in search of basic things. Her teeth need to be brushed, her hair needs to be combed. She feels gross. Picking up a small handbasket at the store’s opening, she picks her way through the rows. Plenty have already searched here in these first few days, and some shelves seem to be lacking — but she makes do.

The pale light of the day doesn’t stretch too far into the store, and she’s squinting hard at boxes of toothpaste. She’ll jump when someone draws close, eyes wide for a moment as she takes a step back. ]

Oh. Hey, um. Sorry, you kind of startled me. [ There’s a weak, sad smile, her head tilting to one side slightly. ] Just… trying to choose some toothpaste. They don’t… have the brand I normally use.


TWO: [ On better days in those first couple of weeks, she can be found examining the vegetation about the town with a book in hand. There isn’t much she can do around here. She doesn’t know how to fish or hunt or trap. And while she can gather things like sticks for tinder and fuel for those precious first stages of firecraft, her attempts to cut through firewood with an axe is miserable at best — lacking the upper body strength to do so.

But she can learn how to forage. She can study books available and try to put that learning into practice. She doesn’t mind if she’s joined in her current search of the hedgerows before her, but she’s focused on the task at hand — not speaking all that much, flicking through the book as she examines the small red berries. ]

These things are, like, everywhere. It feels… kind of weird that things grow here. [ How can anything survive this cold weather? She looks up to the other with a wan smile. There’s a beat before she utters: ] I’m really hoping they’re not poisonous…

☮ THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS
cw: supernatural horror; ‘ghost’ horror; hauntings; murder

[ When the lights flicker on in the Community Hall, Kate lifts her head with wide eyes. It’s been so long without power and now… it’s come back? There’s a hushed disbelief, relief for some, trepidation too. There’s a soft buzz in her school satchel, and she finds that it’s her cell phone that’s turned back on of its own accord after all this time. When she checks it, she finds that whilst it’s switched on, there’s no signal to be found. The screen flickers and glitches, but maybe it's enough she thinks. Hurrying to throw on a coat, hat and gloves, she rushes out into the night — gasping at the sight above her: the air is full of noise, of music, almost. The sky is so bright, and filled with colours. She’s never seen anything like it.

She hoists her phone up high, trying to see if she can claw at some whisper of signal, desperate for service — until the flickering in her peripheral catches her attention. She’s frightened, staring for a long moment as she watches the forms of two men made of light absorbed in some heated argument. She slowly edges closer, cautiousness and uncertainty etched into her face. They’re like… some kind of ghost, maybe? Spirits? She isn’t sure. ]

H-hey—! Please, can you— [ What… is this? But her attempts to end the argument seems to fall on deaf ears. They don't even notice her. If someone comes to join her, she’ll turn her head to them in confusion: ] I don’t get it, they can’t…. hear us?

[ Although the question of if they should is something she isn’t sure on. ]

☮ IT SPEAKS PT. I
cw: mental manipulation; religious themes; themes of depression; themes of suicide

[ It comes to her as she sits on her cot in the Community Hall one evening, when everything has fallen to an uneasy if not calm hush for the night. By lantern light, she reads from her bible with a pen in hand, making little annotations here and there. Interloper, it speaks, and she visibly shudders — her head lifting in fear. Her eyes scan about the room: no one’s speaking to it, she doesn’t think. It doesn’t even look like anyone’s looking at her — but who’s speaking to her? Whose voice does she hear?

And it continues: ‘Interloper. Do you know what it means?’ It means one that involves itself in a place it does not belong. You do not belong.’

She’s visibly shaking, tears brimming in her eyes. She’s petrified. Something old and terrible and she’s frozen in her horror — the pen gripped tightly in her hand.

’Kate.’ the voice whispers, and she gasps suddenly, her eyes widening. ’I know where you were going, I know what lies in your heart. You do not matter. Your life is over. Everyone is… so disappointed in you.’ ]

… No. [ She utters it weakly, the tiniest shake of her head. Get out, stop it, get out… How does it know? How does it know? How could it possibly know?
(She already thinks this is Hell. Even with the tiny slithers of kindness she’s found. Is it really him? Has he finally come for her?)

’Yes,’ the voice answers, ’Why continue to live in your nightmare? Finish what you began. Go into the Dark.’ ]

No—! [ She cries out, jumping to her feet, the bible in her lap landing with a thud on the floorboards, the pen following with a clatter. Her hands clamp over her ears, dissolving into terrified panic. ] No, stop it. Stop it—!

☮ IT SPEAKS PT. II | closed to fidior
cw: themes of suicide; themes of depression; attempted suicide;

[ It makes little work of what remains of her, the fragile, crumbling pieces of mental fortitude she has — the little she’s gained back over the days and weeks of existing in this place. The Devil has never had an easier job. Waste. What a waste. There is nothing for her here, nothing for her back home. It’s nothing but one long, terrible nightmare — and she can’t wake up. And still the voice goads her, whispering to her as she blinks through her tears: go into the Dark.

She was only delaying it. She knows where she was going, where her feet were taking her. The voice knows it too.

But there’s a hushed calm over her, in a way. She organizes her belongings into a neat pile on her cot in the Community Hall. Maybe someone else might make use of them, a fellow violin player, or someone in need of her bible. Perhaps Mr Goodsir might like to keep her school textbooks and notebooks filled with class notes, and someone will definitely need the little extra tins of food that Thomas occasionally brings her. And with that, she heads out, towards Milton Basin.

It’s a calm day, the snowfall is light — a soft hush in the air as she walks, her arms hugging her middle. She hikes up steadily to the sharp, treacherous edges. Her wet cheeks sting from the cold, but she pushes through in that calmness. There’s no panic in her, just a weariness. A sorrow that knows no bottom and a focus on making it stop. Her feet take her close to the edge, and she stops to gaze down into the space below. It’s not the Girl’s Dormitory, with no hard concrete, but maybe it will do.

She doesn’t quite realise she’s been followed, her head turning to look over her shoulder and eyes widening at the familiar face: Lieutenant Little. Edward. She half turns, a startled panic in her eyes, one hand raised, fingers splayed. Stop. ]

Don’t come any closer—! Just… just don’t, okay? [ Why is he here? Why did he follow her? ] Stay away from me—!

[ Her expression crumbles, and she falls silent for a long moment. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t need to see this. And she feels all the more like crap for it, just one more shameful thing. Her head turns back to the precipice, gazing off it. The voice wills her to move, the uncertainty keeps her in place. ]

Do… do you think it would be enough? Or— or do you think the snow would… would it keep me alive?

☮ WILDCARD

wildcards fine with plotting, hmu! | permissions are here | plotting comment is here | contact: heolstor / _heolstor for questions/plotting

General, One

[solitarysoul]

Ah...sorry. I didn't mean to. [The boy with the oversized coat and the rifle on his back offers a nervous smile in return.]

...Toothpaste? [Right, he hadn't thought about brushing his teeth lately. It wasn't the top of the list for hygine items for him. He looks at the shelf. God, he recognized none of these. Not that he had a chance to go shopping when he was in the army, but all of the things here looked too colorful to be anything he'd used.] They're all kind of the same, aren't they?

grace marks — alias grace.

[patchwork]

open and closed starters in the replies.
PLOTTING — INFO — PERMISSIONS — PLURK

pre-event — open.

[patchwork]

[ Grace has made herself as useful as she possibly can since she first came here. She's moved bodies, sorted clothes, and helped with the preservation and cooking of food where possible. They're all things she knows how to do, and things she'll do without complaining – without even speaking, if necessary. It would be difficult to miss her entirely, but she's very good at blending in when needs must, keeping her head down.

She's stubbornly clinging to the clothes she came with, too. A long grey dress of roughish fabric, with a neat white collar and apron, and a white cap covering her auburn hair. Even her shoes – a pair of simple, fairly sturdy boots, though definitely not hiking gear by any means – are the ones she's worn since she first arrived. The most she's acquiesced to modern clothing is a tatty bit of fabric she's found and adopted as a shawl, which she keeps wrapped tight about her shoulders, and a pair of gloves, though they certainly aren't the delicate white gloves she's coveted since she was a young girl: instead they're chunky and black, much too big for her hands, but blessedly warm.

When she's not contributing where she can, she finds a spot in a quiet corner and takes out her supplies: a small needlework kit and a sheaf of fabrics that she's painstakingly stitched together. Anyone would be able to tell that the piece came with her already half-finished, since they've not been here for long enough to explain the size of it. It's enough to be a child's blanket already, an autumn-toned patchwork quilt. ]

din djarin | the mandalorian

[metaldad]

open + closed starters

[ starters in the replies. plotting post is here, or if you prefer, hit me up on cosmonautdelta! ]

for la'an⸻

[metaldad]

It didn't take Din long to discover that he is not the only one to have the idea of patrolling the perimeter of Milton. This is a good thing, in his opinion; the more protectors they have, the safer they will be while they try to figure out a way to send everyone home. Din doesn't think he'd be any use trying to figure out the mystery of space/time travel that's brought him here, so, he puts his energy where it's better used.

There's a few people that he's seen a couple of times, but so far he hasn't introduced himself. He's not in the habit of doing so.

It's an otherwise normal day, as near as he can figure. The weather was calm, the sun set as usual, and the night is chill and dark. The is a riot of stars with no light pollution to interfere, and Din's paused in the middle of his patrol, not far outside of Milton, gazing upward and wondering if he can see his galaxy from here.

And that's when it starts. A low buzzing noise that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Crackling. The streetlights flicker, orange light sputtering on and off. And as a burst of color blooms across the night sky, Din can hear the sound of what must be one of those primitive holos turning on in the nearest house, an emergency broadcast blaring and light spilling through the window he can see.

His armor's power crackles to life, too, and the environmental controls kick in to protect him from the cold, his helmet's visor overlays flickering.

He walks, and it doesn't take more than a minute before he finds another person that had been patrolling. Din says nothing, merely joins her in looking at the sky, and waits.

barbie | barbie

[birkenstock]

♥ open + closed + wildcard prompts below
♥ hmu for things here: ooc plotting — thwip

( open ) the aurora — ;

[birkenstock]

i. earlier in the month ;

[ When the lights come back on across the whole town, to say it comes to Barbie as something of a surprise would be an understatement. In her thick winter coat still zipped up to her neck, she'd just returned to the Snowjo Dojo Casa Dreamhouse she shares with Ken and the other fellow who looks so much like Ken but isn't Ken, and now to investigate the commotion, she steps right back out again.

It isn't just the house, which admittedly could use more than a few fixes than just the electricity and proper heating, but everything else in the streets and in neighbouring buildings seems to come alive.

She breathes out an exhale of relief and surprise, and then finds you wandering out as well. ]

Can you believe this?

[ And oh, as she tilts her head up towards the crisp wintry sky, the lights that dance and shimmer above them seem so incredibly beautiful too. She's never seen such a thing before, and it shows in the awe in her expression.]

ii. later in the month ;

[ Of course, some weeks later as the month starts to draw to a close, and after becoming rather comfortable with having all of the familiar electronics again, she'll be watching the Aurora Borealis (she's since learned what it is) when she starts to see horrifying visions start to appear through the lights in the sky.

Barbie can't seem to pull her gaze away from them no matter how hard she tries, like watching a horrible trainwreck and having to know how it ends just to appease some deeply anxious part of her — even knowing that seeing it all will only make her feel just that much more anxious. ]

What —

[ Families being pulled apart; children terrified and alone in their rooms, curled up on their beds. A woman calling for her father to come with her. And there is so much ... death. So much loss.

It seizes something cold and harsh in Barbie's chest, makes her suddenly shiver with the emotional weight of what she's witnessed. Her eyes fill with tears before she is interrupted by something — or perhaps someone: you. ]

Oh!

[ She swallows as a cold heavy tear slips down her cheek. ]

I'm sorry. That was — you didn't happen to see all of that too, did you?

Eddie Munson | Stranger Things

[satanicpanics]

[ Prompts below!
plotting comment | permissions | muttonchops / poultrylegs @ discord ]

Aurora; ota

[satanicpanics]

[ Truth be told, Eddie’s been getting used to life without electric lights and heating, if only because it’s his only choice. But his beloved guitar has been sitting in a corner for weeks, just begging for a surge of energy to really make her sing, so when the electricity crackles to life, Eddie is on his feet in an instant. Cackling like a hyena, he slings his guitar over his shoulder, like he’s been waiting for this moment since he arrived.

Somewhere in Milton in the dark hours of the morning, a new sound roars to life from just outside the homes, and it’s not the aurora. In the early weeks, Eddie managed to track down an amp (a miracle, considering just how rustic life here seemed to have been), and it was the one item he felt absolutely no guilt in lugging back to the house he’s claimed as his own. It’s battered and worn with a large rip in the grille cloth, but clearly, it works. And it’s loud.

It’s cold and his bare fingers are quick to grow numb, but he’s more than happy to risk frostbite just to shred out a more than appropriate tune. For now, he doesn’t even seem to notice the ghostly figures.

Enjoy the impromptu concert—or come yell at him. ]

remy "thirteen" hadley | house md

[symptomatic]

— open / closed / wildcard in the replies.
ooc plotting, permissions, virginiawoolf.

— pre-event, closed; mohinder.

[symptomatic]

[ It's been days. Thirteen doesn't mean to, but she falls into something that might resemble routine — for all that they're getting a chance to, here in Milton.

The prison counsellor had talked a lot about that. The importance of routine, and re-examining life skills, and falling back into good habits out there. She'd stressed those words with a little bit of disdain, pointedly, because excessive prescribing was a minor sin, comparatively, and surely nothing but ego could tank someone with an M.D. that hard, that fast.

Good habits in Milton amount to two: don't freeze, and don't die.

The place is bare-boned but sturdy, like all the other homes in Milton. It is — was — the doctor's home, whoever they were before they vanished like the rest of the town. A light dust lines almost everything; a low whine of chill-wind sounds, every so often, between the gaps in the windows. Thirteen's boots track snow in, but there's not much to be helped about that. This is still, somehow, all part of the routine — clearing out fireplaces, bodies, collecting discarded personal effects. She pockets a small matchbox and a wristwatch that's stopped, monogrammed with E.W. on the back. The larger things — two basic first aid kits, one bottle of Amoxicillin, four boxes of nitrile gloves, foil blankets — get put securely into a canvas backpack.

Her stethoscope sits over her shoulders. It's kind of a dead giveaway, like a prop for a costume she hasn't worn in a year. The hunting jacket she's wearing is a little too long in the arms for her, but it's warm. The front door's been left slightly ajar. Fresh air, as chill as it is, has got to be better than leaving everything like a mausoleum.

She's just lingering over the books — stacks of it, haphazardly piled up high on a desk, when the door's hinges creak. Then, footfalls. Thirteen glances up, nods, then tips her chin. She can't place his name, exactly, but she's seen him around once or twice. (So much for good habits.)

No 'hey' or 'hi'. But Thirteen does turn around a little, showing the front of the hardcover she's got in her hands: ]

Interested in some light reading material?

[ The title: GRAY'S ANATOMY, VOL III, emblazoned in neat letters. ]

max briest | original

[thephix]

↼ closed & open starters
ooc plotting | permssions | batsecretary

aurora horrorealis ; ota

[thephix]

↼ a: investigation

[Since her arrival, Max has been hoarding journals and notes, trying to learn as much as she can about what transpired here and when it all transpired. She has a mostly complete timeline created and extensive notes based on what she's found in various journals, as well as what she's learned from the state of the town itself, including the bodies littered throughout the buildings and streets.

When the power returns, it presents an opportunity to learn more.

Max travels to as many houses as possible, focusing on ones that haven't been claimed by the new arrivals, and immediately goes to any source of technology. Laptops, computers, cell phones. Anything that wasn't working until now, and she dissects unsent emails, stored documents, even the most mundane artifacts like shopping lists.

It's a somewhat exhausting process, but it feels important to discover as much as she can. Anyone who stumbles upon her might end up recruited into helping. Sorry.]

↼ b: signals

[It occurs to her some point during the third time the aurora, that there's something far more useful she can be doing than taking notes on what happened to the people living here.

There are no signals coming in. That doesn't necessarily mean that a signal can't go out.

Max starts at the hunting supply store, grabbing any radio equipment that she can, then she makes her way to the gas station to rifle through any tools, taking anything she thinks might be useful. It isn't nearly as much that she'd like, not nearly as much as she'd have at home, but it's better than nothing.

The end goal, as long as the aurora lasts, is the mines. Not to go into, she's not that stupid, but to the operations center above ground, where she's hoping there will be a radio system.

Maurice trots around outside, keeping watch on the area as Max spends the evening messing around with the radio equipment, trying to do anything she can to boost the signal, sending out occasional broadcasts requesting assistance, naming the town and doing her best to give a description of the location, just in case anyone picks up the signal.

On subsequent nights, whenever the aurora comes, Max tries to make her way back to the mines, Maurice at her side and the both of them moving with purpose. It's clear she's got something going on, but she'll stop to explain if anyone asks.

[solitarysoul]

Plotting Comment | Permissions | ConnectiveTrick
threads go here! open or closed and content warnings in reply subjects. will be adding more here and there
feel free to tag with something else!

Aurora | Ghosts | CW: Underage drinkng | OPEN

[solitarysoul]

There were so many ghosts outside. And in the houses, practically everywhere. Even with everything he'd seen, everything he'd gone through, ghosts were still the worst. He'd seen so many dead, been responsible for too many. He knew their ghosts would come for him some day. Just like the kids in the orphanage, the ones that weren't mutated. They'd just sit there and stare, but he could feel their hands on him. Not on his body, not in blows he could take, but in his mind. It was horrible.

Those things in this place, the things that followed the noise and light and electricity, they had to be the same. He'd not paid enough attention to any to really notice what they were doing, instead just tried to avoid looking at them at all and get away. Somewhere safe. Or safer.

He'd finally found it in a corner store. There was something in the back, but in the front, by the counter and just past the door, he could be alone. Safe...ish. But he could still feel himself cracking under it all. His mind becoming weaker and weaker. So he did the only thing he knew how to do, the thing everyone he traveled with in Prehevil did to calm their nerves.

Levi could be found sitting down, leaning against the front counter of the mini-mart. He was faced away from the doors but could still be glimpsed from the outside if anyone were paying attention. His rifle and oversized coat were on the ground beside him, and he was nursing a half-full bottle of vodka.

Erichthonios | FFXIV

[aetherialshackles]

OOC plotting | Permission post

Threads go here.

The Aurora - OTA

[aetherialshackles]

-a) General
[If there was something Erichthonios had never seen, it was the night sky in all its glory. His entire life was spent in a facility surrounded by stormy clouds and since he arrived in Milton the weather hasn’t been much kinder to him, so you can guess his surprise when the sky opened up revealing the stars above them. He had been been busy collecting sticks and pieces of wood to warm up his little house in the outskirts when the sky initially turned various shades of pink and orange and he found himself stopping in the middle of the road with his nose up to study the strange phenomenon. It was the sun setting, delicately setting behind the horizon, and it was beautiful.

The man found himself spending time on a bench instead of returning 'home', just staring at the colors of the sky and by night he could still found by one of the benches, red nose and cheek showing how cold his body really got by that point but his mind fully captured by the show above the city.]

-b) Night of the Aurora
[The Aurora itself got him by surprise. Erichthonios was done sketching on his little notebook for the sake of taking another good look at the sky since the clouds seemed to part in the evening... and he found himself staring at lights in the sky he couldn't even begin to explain. While he heard of electromagnetic fields and such, some of the creatures in the Pandaemonium had the potential to interfere with them and were well guarded, not once it occurred to him that they could manifest in such a manner.]

Do you have any idea of what... that is?

[A simple question to the first person who happened to pass by, no matter if he met them or not. Just him, his red and shiny eyes, his colorful and non matching warm clothes and a... handmade journal? Since his arrival in that remote place, he had been hoarding journals, taking all white pages from them and stashing them all in an organized pile to make his own notebook.]

Is that a magical manifestation? Perhaps aetherical flows visible to the eye? A creature showing their presence in such a way?

[He knew the best idea was to run back home and make sure 'this' was nothing dangerous before deciding to step outside again, but his curiosity was too strong. Erich did jump away from the car he was leaning on, though, when its circuits sparked to life and the lights turned on with buzz and cracks. What the-]

Oh... Electric aspected aether then?

-c) Ghosts

[If at first Erich was terrified of the 'things' that started to appear around them, he almost immediately calmed down as soon as his brain registered they weren't a threat but more something like... a reflection stuck in a loop? It was heartbreaking to watch them in their last moments of life, truly, but that didn't distract him from trying to gather all possible informations.

The researcher can be seen moving from a spectral manifestation to another, taking notes on his little pile of paper and trying to gather all he can from them.]

Excuse me, could you move? Spectral entity #48 will probably soon get out of that door and I wanted to track his movements.

ken ✰ barbie

[blondfragility]

TOP LEVELS

---

Open + (Potentially) Closed Prompts

plotting comment ✰ hmu if you want a closed starter

the aurora ✰ [cw: spectral murder]

[blondfragility]

( The moment the electricity blinks back to life, Ken is ecstatic. He doesn't like how dark and gloomy everything is, especially when the sun goes down, and the sudden brightness of streetlamps and lights inside homes is something of a relief. Not that his chosen home isn't lacking liveliness. He has Barbie who's presence is always bright, and even March, who looks nothing like Ken, somehow just ended up as a roommate.

Ken doesn't mind. He likes having people around.

But now the lights are on, and even when they flicker, he doesn't care.

At first, that's enough to make him ignore the otherwise worrying things. He found a phone in his chosen bedroom and the text messages had been vague but unsettling, the last message sent looking unfinished and panicked. The phone keeps pinging but nothing comes through, just the owner's last confused communications coming through, over and over. In his own frantic moment of panic, Ken finds a drawer in the house to shove the phone into, hoping that's the last of it.

But it's not.

The house fills with more people, spectral images of strangers. Someone in Ken's chosen bedroom, frantically trying to find something before being pulled away. He's never seen that much anguish on someone's face before, and he can't not watch it, even though it makes his chest and his stomach clench. When it becomes too uneasy for him, he backs out of the room, going down to the main room. He can hear the absent pinging of the phone from where it's been stashed away. He can see someone crouched in the corner, one of these strange figures furiously texting and looking up.

Ken hears, faintly, the phantom knocking at the door. Not knocking. Banging. Thumping. Ken doesn't understand the concept of looting. He doesn't know what it's like when places descend into chaos and people break in spaces, even homes, to take advantage of the panic. So he can't understand that this is what he's watching, someone hiding and texting into the void for help as their home is broken into. He's never seen anyone die or be killed, but he sees it now, the looter firing a gun for reasons Ken will never know and the phone falling to the floor.

He doesn't know what else to do, so he runs out the door and on to the street and right into someone - a real someone - on the street. )

kieren walker | in the flesh

[burying]

✞ THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS
cw: n/a

[ The post office looks like it’s been relatively untouched since they all moved into town. Nothing really of use, Kieren supposes. But it’s untouched enough that he’s relatively sure that if he comes in here, he won’t be found by anyone. He’s been doing his best to avoid others like the plague as the days and weeks roll on. There’s not a single bottle of Neurotriptyline in this place, and Kieren doesn’t think there’s any at all in this world. Or at the very least, there’s not a single PDS Sufferer in… wherever the hell in Canada this is. But he… still hasn’t gone rabid yet either, and he doesn’t know what’s going on with him. He should be roaming around, killing and eating people. But he’s not. He’s… he’s still him.

Still, better to be safe than sorry. So he pries open the half-frozen door and makes his way in when the lights go on. It’s likely there’s a computer in this place, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find there is one behind the counter. Under the flickering lights, he sits himself down in front of it and powers it on — the desktop pinging and groaning into life. This is promising. Maybe there’s internet.

(… There is no internet.)

He realises he’s not alone, that someone else has entered the building. He visibly jumps, swearing under his breath. It’s just as well he doesn’t have a heartbeat, he’s pretty sure he would have croaked from a heart attack by now. Taking a breath, he sits back in the desk chair, eyebrows raised. ]

So, uh… the computers are working again. [ A beat. ] Sort of.

✞ THE HOUR OF THE WOLF
cw: n/a

[ In the early evening, Kieren sits in front of the fire of the house he’s moved into, a sketchbook in his lap. There’s not much to do to pass the time, but he can draw. He’s acquired some art materials to keep busy until he’s too tired to work his fingers any longer. He draws portraits from memory, mostly. People from home: his parents, his sister, Amy, even Rick. But he draws the people he’s met here, too.

In the quiet, the sound of howling comes. He’s used to it by now, the far-off yowling in the night. But this time it’s close, and the chattering and snapping grows loud enough, he creeps to a window to check. Soon enough, there’s other sounds that fill the evening air: shouts and screaming, people yelling for help, gunshots. Kieren ducks, hides away in fear. He’s no use, he can’t fight wolves. It’s best he just hides away and waits until they go away.

… But he can’t do it. He can’t. His conscience won’t allow it. And even if it takes him a few tries of pushing himself to his feet, he does — clambering to the door and opening it. He doesn’t know what to do, but when he sees someone trying to run from a pack close to his house, he opens the door a little more and bellows to them. ]

Hey—! Hey—! [ An arm raises over his head. ] Come on, this way—! In here—!

✞ IT SPEAKS
cw: themes of depression + suicide, descriptions of zombie-related cannibalism/gore, panic attack symptoms.

[ He’s still keeping a low profile, but the idea of sitting around doing nothing isn’t one that sits well with him. He wants to be helpful, he wants to keep busy. The alternative is sitting with his own thoughts, and doing nothing also makes him more suspicious. Not taking part, not doing anything of use. So Kieren does that: menial tasks that keep him on his own for the most part — collecting sticks and branches for firewood, chopping downed trunks, fetching and carrying things for others. He’s playing skivvy, but at least he can’t feel the cold.

The voice comes, and at first he thinks he’s imagining it. He tunes it out, or does his best to. It’s preying on his already frayed nerves, but as he carries a load of gathered firewood towards the Community Hall, it decides to ramp up its attempts:

’You should have stayed dead.’ And Kieren shakes his head, tell him about it. Things would have stayed a whole lot easier if he had.

’Now you walk amongst these people. A wolf pretending to be a sheep. A fuse waiting to ignite. How many of them would look at you with kind eyes if they knew what you truly were?’ Kieren’s walk slows to a stop. He mutters under his breath: enough, stop it.

’An animal, a monster. Painting himself up to look normal. How much mousse is left, Kieren? What will you do when it runs out? Your days are numbered, you know it so. Lisa Lancaster will not be your last.’

The name makes him shudder. His arms drop the firewood in his arm and he staggers, bent double. His heart doesn’t beat, but he’s sure he feels it racing. The dizzying sensation of panic swelling inside of him. The voice continues, uttering vivid descriptions of Lisa’s death to him — just like every flashback he’s ever had. The sound of her skull shattering, the tearing of skin and hair from her scalp, the still warm blood pooling on the floor, the delicious high of being fed.

Kieren doesn’t breathe, but in that moment he feels like he can’t breathe, he wrenches the snood from his face — thin, barely noticeable wisps of air fogging as he heaves. Horror fills his face. Not Lisa, not again. He can’t, he can’t. ]

✞ WILDCARD

wildcards fine with plotting, hmu! | permissions are here | plotting comment is here | contact: heolstor / _heolstor for questions/plotting

The Aurora

[solitarysoul]

The what?

[Levi makes sure the door is closed behind him and heads over counter Kieren is behind.]

Is the power on here as well?

[...inwardly he winches, of course the power was on. The lights were on. What a stupid question.]

rei ayanami | neon genesis evangelion

[alef]

i: the aurora
cw: death of a child, possible references to child abuse

[ After her stay in the town center, Rei finds a small home near the southern edge of town, and decides to remain there.

It's certainly seen better days, but Rei doesn't mind. Its single bedroom, living area, and kitchen suit her well enough, and there's still some canned food left in the cupboards. Better yet, one of the people who used to live there was about Rei's size, and she's helped herself to his warm jacket and long pants. Life for Rei, generally, is quiet. She doesn't bother to fix up the house, but she will venture out for supplies every now and then. After a few nights, Rei considers herself accustomed to her new setup.

Then, the noise comes from the sky.

Rei's house, which is usually dark, flickers to life. Every light switches on, an alarm clock keeps going off, the television broadcasts nothing but static. It's there, in the living room, right in front of the television, that Rei sees the figures.

It's two people - a large human and a smaller one. Rei is wearing the smaller one's jacket. The smaller one is crying, and as he lifts his arm to wipe tears from his eyes, the larger man embraces him. The smaller human - the child - seems to relax a little, his shoulders no longer shaking. His father rubs little circles on his back. They stay like that for several moments before falling to the floor. The whole scene lasts for perhaps five minutes.

Rei watches it for at least half an hour.

At some point, she decides there's nothing more to see, and heads outside. She sits on her front stoop, staring at a pair of cracked glasses that she cradles gently in her hands. She blinks hard, once, and does not cry. ]

ii: the hour of the wolf
cw: violence, animal death, references to child soldiers

[ By now, Rei has seen the wolves from afar. They are grisly, terrible creatures, and the sound they make is unlike anything Rei has ever heard. If anything about the wolves frighten her, it's that - the terrible, lonely howling.

In all other respects, the wolves are not much different from the Angels. They fight in packs, true. But what is a pack, if not many parts acting as one? If anything is like an Angel, it's the entire pack, really, and so Rei considers all those wolves one instead of many.

Once upon a time, it was Rei's duty to battle the Angels. It bound her to humanity when she had nothing else.

Perhaps that's why she comes to your aid: a quiet, solemn teenage girl, holding a flaming torch. The heat doesn't bother her; it was always hotter in the Eva. She approaches the pack fearlessly, although there's a little crease between her eyebrows. She does not acknowledge your presence, save for one word: ]

Run.

iii: it speaks
cw: suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, depression, dehumanization, discussions of child abuse

[ The voice comes to Rei at night, while she lies in bed.

Interloper, it says, in the cold, inhuman voice of the stolen house creaking. You do not belong. It is nothing Rei hasn't heard before. She turns over, once, and ignores it.

But the voice does not leave her alone. It takes on the high-pitched tone of someone small, and it continues to speak. The sound is a thin, sharp knife, driven right through Rei's ear and into her skull, and she still cannot make it stop.

You possess a fake body and a false soul, the old-young girl-thing tells her. Do you know why?

There are two books on Rei's bedside table, and neither of them provide answers.

You have already been replaced. There is nothing for you here. Don't you want to go home?

The next thing she knows, Rei is kneeling on the shore of Milton Basin. She can see her own reflection by the light of the moon, and she hates it. She hates everything. She hates the world, which is not for her, and its people, who do not care about her. The only thing that Rei has ever liked is water.

She reaches a hand in. The water is freezing cold. It will chill her entirely, and then she will return to nothing, at last. ]

iv: wildcard

[ plotting comment is here, permissions are here! feel free to throw me a prompt or plot with me for a closed prompt. i'll post closed prompts in the comments as well. you can also reach me at moonlanding! ]

the aurora

[friendsfordinner]

Look at you, finally picked yourself up enough to find a place!

[ Oh great, it's this guy.

It's amazing how something that could possibly be a compliment sounds so indicting when it comes from Hickey. Look at you, you're not a huge fuck-up! Good job, you're actually kind of useful! As Rei sits on the stoop, Hickey, entirely unaware of the current battle going on inside her head, walks over to sit next to her. ]

You'll probably be happy to know that we aren't next door neighbors. My place is a few streets over. [ He pauses and looks down at those glasses before, ] What's that in your hands?

Nie Huaisang | The Untamed

[fanoperator]

Pre-Event: Tending the Home Fires

[Since arriving in this place, Huaisang has been extremely surprised to find that he's not completely terrible at this. He's only mostly terrible at this. He knows mountains and snow, so that helps, and he was forced to learn battlefield medicine (and actually retained some of that, partly because anatomy is important to him as an artist), which has let him help patch up several of the others who have been kidnapped to this place.

Most importantly, however, he knows how to tend to a fire. Learning the use of matches or a lighter was a quick adjustment, and much easier than using flint and steel.

So he's made it his business to keep the fire going in the community hall. At some point, he wants to move out and have a house, but he certainly doesn't want to live alone and hasn't resolved that problem yet. For now, he makes sure the fire burns warm during the day, and banks it at night so that it can smolder reliably until it's stoked up again in the morning. He's not necessarily the earliest riser, but with such short daylight hours in winter, it's not hard to be up before the sun.

There's always hot water to drink on his watch, and it isn't difficult to bring in buckets of snow to be boiled whenever the pot runs low. Turning that hot water into coffee will have to be someone else's business, as Huaisang refuses to intentionally inflict that awful stuff on anyone. There's no lack of snow to melt, and it's not his problem if they run out of coffee. But there is something he's keeping a close eye on the inventory: firewood.

Anyone coming into the community hall will be welcomed over to the fireplace to warm up, and Huaisang will triage any injuries until one of the real doctors returns. He'll provide a blanket for their shoulders and place a mug of hot water into their hands. Conversely, anyone heading out of the community hall will draw Huaisang's attention for a different reason: ]

Do you know how to chop firewood?


Aurora: Help Help My Television is Possessed!

[There's a house that Huaisang has picked out for himself, even though he doesn't feel he can live there yet. He doesn't feel safe living alone, and he's not good at taking care of himself or a home. Still, it's nice to have a place where he can go and be alone for a couple of hours, to read or to draw. He doesn't have his paints, but he's found a supply of very white paper and a wood-coated stick of charcoal that draws well enough.

Many of the items in the house are mysterious to him, including a glass-fronted black box which Huaisang assumes was meant to display precious items behind the glass, but he can't figure out how to open the box and it doesn't have anything on display. So when the strange box suddenly erupts to life, displaying a roaring sea of black and white sparks like tiny wéiqí (Go) tiles being rattled around on a tray, he shrieks in terror and flees from it without thinking. Bursting out the door without a cloak, dressed just in his diaphanous long silk robes, he skids on the icy front steps and falls into a snowdrift with a flailing cry.]


These Woofs Are Not Our Friends

[Huaisang still spends most of his time in the community hall tending the fire and pressuring people to report any findings on the message board he and Five put up, but when he's confident enough that there are other people around to watch the fire, he occasionally goes out to do his own searching through the empty stores and houses, or foraging in the woods. Not knowing yet about the threat of the wolves, he's heading back to the community hall after dark. He took no light, but the snow reflects so much of the moonlight that there's no difficulty in seeing.

The howl of a wolf sends chills down his spine. He walks faster, heart drumming as he hears another howl, then another. And here he is, unarmed and alone. All he can hope is that they're not that close, that they're not hunting him. But the first sight of a wolf disabuses him of that notion. He screams and takes off at a run, knowing that he's dead if he can't make it into one of the houses before they catch up, and they are much faster than he is at moving through this snow.] Help! Help!


Ledge

[He's heard the voice, but it's done very little to slow him down. He's long since accepted that he's useless and a failure, and then carried on being himself and doing whatever he wants. So he's heard such discouragement from other people whose opinion he cares far more about than whatever grumpy spirit is irritable about him being brought here.

Carrying on about his business, Huaisang is wandering through the woods with a basket. He's found a small trove of berries, and has set a few live-capture bird traps. No success catching birds today, which is partly a relief because Huaisang can't bear to kill the birds himself and he felt very silly the last time he walked back into Milton with a live pheasant flapping angrily at his side.

Coming out of the woods upon a rocky ridge, the first thing Huaisang notices is the view. It's beautiful, this snowy mountainscape. No matter how hostile this mountain region might be, it still reminds him of home.

Then he notices someone else on the ridge, standing very close to what looks like a cliff ledge. They do not seem to be considering the view. They seem to be considering the drop. Huaisang's stomach flips over anxiously.] Oh, hello! Be careful! It's so slippery out here. Please--please come back away from that ridge.


Message Board

𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙧｡ 𝘿𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙨? 𝙄𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜｡ 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜｡

[Huaisang's written the words down on a piece of paper that he's tacked to the message board in the community hall which he and Five put up. Below the quote, he's added his own commentary, written in artful ancient Chinese calligraphy. It's in clerical script, in hopes that will be easier for others to read. And while his handwriting is beautiful, reading logograms through the Aurora's universal translator may be a strange experience for people accustomed to alphabets. ]

𝔇𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔵𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔳𝔬𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢? ℑ𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔲𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔱 𝔠𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔲𝔰 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢, 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔱? 𝔖𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔲𝔰 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢, 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔬𝔯 𝔫𝔬𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔢𝔩𝔰𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔰 𝔲𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔢. ℑ𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔲𝔰 ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔪𝔶, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶? 𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔰 𝔲𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔬?

[Given that Huaisang can be found within fifteen feet of the message board more often than not, tending the fireplace in the main room of the community hall, he doesn't expect that anyone will write him a reply. But he's very interested in hearing other thoughts and theories on the topic, if anyone is willing to converse with him about it.]

OOC: I put this in brackets so it's less of a wall of text, but I generally prefer to RP in prose! Either style of tags is fine, though. Event Plotting comment. Feel free to PM or message me marlovingian for plotting!

Ledge

[solitarysoul]

It's fine.

[The boy with the rifle and oversized coat states flatly. Slippery was okay, maybe if he couldn't get the nerve to step off the ice would just do it for him.]

It doesn't matter.

Cornelius Hickey | The Terror (AMC)

[friendsfordinner]

the aurora
[ Hickey's found a place of his own. A three bedroom house which honestly, has more rooms than he could ever dream of owning. He's very quickly made it his own, stuffing it with whatever he could find, which usually involved looting things from the other abandoned houses. You can spot this man dragging dining room chairs, couch cushions, a mattress, curtains, any sort of furniture or home decor that can be carried by one person. And considering how his clothes change on a regular basis, it's obvious he's looting anything that can fit him.

There's one thing he hasn't been touching, though: electronics. They don't work, why would he take them, especially when he's got no clue what the thing is? So it comes as a complete surprise to Hickey when during one looting visit, the television suddenly springs to life, blaring on with a hiss of static.

It immediately gets hit and broken by the broken chair leg he's using as a bludgeon. Quickly scurrying out of the house, Hickey looks around, before spotting the first person he sees, ] Hey! Get over here!

the hour of the wolf, cw: animal murder, blood
Want any?

[ It's not appetizing. The fire is thrown together, made up of books and broken furniture, the sort of fire made by a man who only vaguely knows how to make a fire. There's some sort of meat roasting on skewers inside the fire. Hickey, who's got traces of blood on his hands and shirtsleeves, is sitting by the fire, poking at the meat that's roasting (though there's also a potato or two roasting as well. Waste not, want not).

And sitting behind him, on the snow, is the hastily butchered carcass of a wolf. This isn't a professional job. The wolf has been badly skinned and is still intact, head lolling to the side. It's cause of death is obvious enough: a shot, followed by repeated stab wounds. And the meat that Hickey's roasting has been hastily cut off of it's haunch, like someone cutting a slice out of a piece of cake. The wolf's eyes are still open as it stares off into space, unaware of the savagery inflicted on it's body.

Hickey, in contrast, is acting like barbecuing meat next to a vivisected wolf corpse is the most normal thing in the world. ]

the hour of the wolf, pt. 2. cw: vomiting, intestinal distress
[ Yeah that was a bad idea. Hickey can later be found behind his house, vomiting his brains out. There's the dulcet tones of a man retching, as Hickey horks up the wolf meat that surprise, has parasites in it! This didn't happen the last time he ate a dog! What the hell, nature?

It's not a pretty sound and it's not a pretty sight. Anyone brave enough to investigate the noise can find Hickey, vomit clinging to his mustache and beard, skin a sickly shade of pale, snow at his feet covered in vomit and partially digested chunks of wolf.

Someone's obviously having a bad time. ]

( ooc: hit me up via PM or allikateor if you wanna plot! )

the hour of the wolf, pt. 2

[missionem]

[ That's unpleasant. Thomas grimaces behind his scarf as he watches Hickey heave, having come around the edge of the building half-expecting to find a dying animal.

He might have, at that, although he rather hopes not. It would be a shame to have to add Hickey to the number of corpses around town. Thomas readjusts his satchel over his shoulder and shuffles over to the man, fighting down a sympathetic twitch of nausea from his own already queasy gut. ]

Go on. Get the last of it out.

[ Assuming there's anything left to bring up. Thomas would give it even odds, going by the wretched look on Hickey's face. ]

Thomas Richardson | Apostle

[missionem]

permissions ⛮ ooc plotting ⛮ terriblepurpose

foraging - open

[missionem]

[ cw: finger amputation, general injury, resignation to death ]

[ The spans of time Thomas is capable of dragging himself out of his stolen house shrink by the day. Increasingly, he struggles to rouse himself from his fever-damp bed at all. Donning the dark outer layers of his winter clothing is a challenge even with the ingenious novelties of the future.

Only years of practice coercing his unwilling meat into animation permit him to do any of it. Endurance is as much a matter of mental tolerance as it is of pure vitality. He's witnessed feats of persistence that put the meagre miracle of his ongoing clinging to life to shame. He can only hope his will gives out before he comes to resemble some of the barely conscious rotten husks tucked into the corners of tenements and workhouse infirmaries.

If it does come to that, he takes some comfort in knowing that he's bound not to last long. In such a condition he would require care he will not receive, and so he can at least expect to succumb to thirst or fever not long after he becomes fully incapable.

Until then, he goes about his errands. With a durable satchel slung over his right shoulder he searches the empty houses and workplaces of Milton for supplies he'll never make use of, adding to a growing cache hidden inside of his temporary lodgings. He's long stopped thinking about the why of it. It's something to do with his time, what little of it there is, that preoccupies him more than staring at a ceiling waiting to die.

Sometimes, as he walks from building to building, boots crunching crisply in the snow, he almost forgets anything but the empty sky and the sleeping earth. There's a respite in that.

Every once in a while, a person might even hear a muffled hum of no tune in particular emerging from the shuffling figure. ]

vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original — historical/(secret) revenant

[m1895]

[ plotting comment with quick character summary here, character info here! ]

I. EVERYBODY THINKS THEY KNOW THINGS, BUT NOBODY CAN SAY THEY KNOW ME
THE AURORA; 1 TAKER PLEASE! CW: GUN VIOLENCE, DEATH, FLASHBACKS TO EXECUTION, DISCUSSION OF THE YEZHOVSHCHINA, PTSD EPISODE.

[ All of a sudden, the living room of the house Vasiliy's taken up occupancy in crackles and buzzes to life, overhead light and table lamp flickering and humming as the bulbs struggle to maintain a steady stream of power. He jumps, hand reflexively landing on the revolver on the side table, then settles back into the couch and tucks the pistol into the front of his waistband as his shoulders (partly) relax, getting up and grabbing his jacket off of the back of a dining room chair on his way to the door. He zips it up, concealing the weapon as he steps outside to join what seems like half of the neighborhood in looking around at the flickering yellow squares of nearby windows and buzzing streetlamps.

He turns to the person beside him. ]

Your power, it is on too?

[ But he's not attuned when they answer—as soon as he asks, the translucent forms of two men begin to materialize against the dimly lit backdrop of someone's cedar shingles a few meters behind them, both facing the same direction. One holds a pistol to the back of the other's head, and Vasiliy's suddenly aware of the phantom sensation of cold metal against the base of his own skull. His mouth goes dry and the skin of his arms prickles as the dark hairs stand upright under his jacket sleeves. The unarmed man falls to his knees, as tears silently trail down the ridges of his high cheekbones. His heart races.

This has to be a hallucination. I've finally gone crazy.

He stands, frozen with horror, unable to speak as he stares past his new neighbor's shoulder. ]

II. THESE DRUGS ARE FUCKING WITH MY HEAD, I THINK MY MAILMAN IS A FED
WOLVES; MAX 2 TAKERS PLEASE! CW: GUN VIOLENCE, ANIMAL DEATH.

[ Vasiliy seldom allows it out of arm's reach, even when (especially when) he's just answering the door: a double-action, seven-shot Nagant gas-seal revolver identical to the one he was issued upon his enrollment in the NKVD. An antique purchased at an Illinois gun show—quite something to hear a service weapon that was cutting-edge in his own time called antique, and himself by extension—issued in the same year as the one he learned to shoot with, as indicated by the numerals 1937 engraved beneath the five-pointed star carved into the gun's frame.

It works for him—he knows how this gun operates, effortlessly and unconsciously accounting for its idiosyncrasies because he's never known anything else. By default he squeezes the trigger of a gun hard enough to account for the weight of the M1895 model's. When he was getting his American concealed carry permit on a class-provided Glock, his thumb reflexively swiped through empty air in search of a hammer that wasn't there.

His walk to the town hall is no exception, and when the wolves appear and begin to lunge at another walker, he's ready, even if the situation he's spent years prepared for is a human one. An average aim among the ranks of the NKVD is more than adequate for the purposes of hitting center mass in a group of tremendously large animals.

The pose he immediately snaps into to fire at them may strike a 21st-century (or later) witness as slightly odd—instead of bracing one hand on the bottom of the frame with both arms in front of him to stabilize the weapon, Vasiliy stands with one arm out, feet spread, body turned to the side. Odd though it may be, it works. He jogs through the snow to approach them as soon as the body of the third and last wolf collapses into the snow; the animal, almost but not entirely dead, tries to snap at him and he promptly renders it motionless with a gunshot to the skull: he'd tried to conserve bullets, but while he's not particularly fond of animals, it would be wrong to let it suffer.

He immediately turns his attention back to the human figure that's fallen into the snow. ]

Are you okay? Are you hurt?

III. I KNOW MY MOTHER WANTS ME DEAD 'CAUSE SHE HATES THE SMELL OF CIGARETTES
THE AURORA; 1 TAKER PLEASE! CW: FLASHBACKS TO EXECUTION, DISCUSSION OF THE YEZHOVSHCHINA, PTSD EPISODE, SMOKING, POSSIBLE VOMITING.

[ Vasiliy would not, if asked, describe himself as brave, though he thinks of the other party on their two-man exploration team as such. What else would he do? He has a gun, most of these people don't, and this could be dangerous. Of course he volunteered to check things out.

He keeps his weapon drawn and pointed down and out with the hammer already cocked as he walks, the only sound he makes being the crunching of snow under his work shoes. More and more apparitions—as an atheist and someone who values logic and science (like all of his comrades, back in the Soviet Union), he's reluctant to refer to them as ghosts, which are a thing of back-country superstition—materialize as they walk, pushing open the door to some kind of municipal-looking building that shapes up to be some kind of tax assessor's office.

Nobody's upstairs, but the door to the cellar stairs—why would there be a cellar in a tax assessor's office?—is bowed. They head down slowly, Vasiliy holding the small battery-operated flashlight from his kit bag originally intended to check pupil dilation and give better lighting to wounds; while the beam isn't nearly as much light as they need, it's enough to go down.

He's about two thirds of the way down the staircase when the smell hits him—cold, earthy concrete, stale water, mildew, old papers. All at once his legs freeze, refusing him entry. His heart begins to race again. His body refuses to be sent forward as icy dread rushes over him in a single overwhelming wave.

He's there, for a moment he's there again, leaving nothing but the husk of a body in Milton, Canada. Dimly, he realizes it'll probably seem like he's afraid of the dark, a grown man afraid of the dark after making it this far, but propriety, the impressions of others, they're all too distant compared to the all-eclipsing fear.

He breaks one arm free of the sudden spell put upon him and reaches into his breast pocket to withdraw his lighter and a single cigarette. He holds it between his lips and tries, fruitlessly, to light it—the same shaking of his hands that makes the small beam of the flashlight in one dance makes the flame waver and jump in the other, refusing to stay still long enough to light the end of it. ]

Would you please—

[ He holds it out, hand still trembling. He'll deal with the humiliation of drawing attention to it later. ]

IV. I CAN'T TRUST YOU, I KNOW YOU BLEED BLUE

[ wildcard! pm this journal or pp bluehellgazette (but no friend requests unless we have ongoing cr please!) to hash out other plans! ]

iii

[jackdawvision]

[Edward’s own gun, a quaint little flintlock pistol straight out of the 1730s, is holstered at his side, but the deadlier and more reliable weapon he has is his hidden blade. It’s still in its housing on his bracer, but if something gets too close to them despite Vasiliy’s gun then Edward will take care of it, easily.

He takes up the rear behind the other man, his steps silent as a church mouse. It’s dark down here, but Edward’s used to darkness, as an Assassin. We work in the dark, and all that—it’s just more literal than usual, right now.

He stops when Vasiliy stops, confused for a moment before he understands all at once—some sort of shock, brought on by a memory. He’s not sure what to do with this, so he’s relieved when he’s asked for help, taking the lighter from the other man’s hand.]

Aye, here, let me. [And he lights the other end of the cigarette, watching how the other man reacts as his free hand rests onto Vasiliy’s shoulder. Squeezes gently, as if to reassure him of Edward’s presence.] Do you need to get out of here? I can search this room well enough on my own, if I must.

Rorschach | Watchmen

[moralabsolutism]

A. General Pre-Event Prompts

He’d settled on four houses scattered throughout Milton. He never stayed in one for more than a few days, his paranoia and conspiracy theorist nature making it easy for him to be a nomad. Stay in one spot for too long and people learned your routine. Once they did that, they could all too easily attack. Better not to give any of the people here such an easy advantage, not when he didn’t trust them yet. One could often find him either going to or leaving one of them, often lugging supplies he’d found by raiding other houses and stores in Milton.

What made up most of his days was searching for clues as to what had happened here and what was the reason all these people had been brought here for. There had to be a common thread that connected all of them. He just needed to figure out what it was and things would start to make sense.

The best time to interact with him was either when he was writing in his journal, perched usually in a location somewhere high up, or when he was digging graves. He wasn’t going to let all the bodies around town just lie there frozen in the snow. They had been people too at one point and deserved to have a final resting place.

B. The Aurora: Aftershocks

CW: ghosts portraying a murder/suicide pact and filicide as a form of mercy-killing

Seeing the sky light up was a novelty for someone as used to the light pollution of a big city as Rorschach was. He’d sit on the porch or just outside of whatever cabin he was spending time in and just stare up at the sky. Alright, so this wasn’t the worst part of being stuck in the snow and cold, he’d admit that much.

The electronics turning on had been most welcome for Rorschach. Now he had some light to work with in the cabins instead of having to waste any precious supplies on creating fire or lighting gas lamps. He’d tested some of them to see what worked and what didn’t, scribbling furiously in his journals as he sought to understand the patterns in this place.

The ghosts, while strange, didn’t get too much of a response out of him. As usual, Rorschach’s emotions seemed to be oddly muted in the face of this much human suffering. But there were certain ones that got to him. A woman looking skywards towards the east, an expression of terror on her face before she just dropped dead. A pair of lovers in a cabin, the wife hugging her husband, kissing him, and saying something before shooting him dead and then turning the gun on herself in a murder/suicide. A mother petting her child’s hair and whispering unheard words, a look of reassurance on her face before slowly putting her hands around the little one’s throat…

Those ones got much more of a reaction out of Rorschach. He’d either freeze up and continue watching the grisly scenes play out or do all that he could to put distance between himself and the ghosts in question. In particular, the scene of the mother and child got the latter reaction and anyone who tried to talk to him afterwards would find he was even less likely to speak than even his usual laconic nature was like.

C. The Hour of the Wolf

I. Rescuer

Rorschach had never been a dog person and even less so after the Blair Roche case. So when wolves started hunting down people, he wasn’t about to sit back and stay holed up in the cabin with the least amount of windows amidst those that he rotated through. Nope. He was going out and protecting people. That was his job and always had been. He’d need a lot of cunning, stealth, and a bit of his usual improvisational skills but he felt he could successfully deal with these creatures.

If anyone had the wolves trying to attack them, they’d find the superhero coming to their rescue. Some type of fluid would be tossed on the nearest of the creatures. Lighting a match, Rorschach would flick it onto the wolf. Being set alight was enough to get the predatory beast to back off, yelping in pain as the fire scorched through its fur. Wash, rinse, and repeat until they’d all been temporarily driven away. Any who were stupid enough to stay would risk getting stabbed by the butcher knife he was keeping close.

He would turn to whoever he’d been protecting, the blots on his mask moving around as usual. “You alright?” He asked, his voice gravelly and raspy.

II. Rescued

But eventually he’d fall victim to the same attacks that he’d been trying to prevent. On the move, he heard the howls just before they came after him. He looked around for anywhere he could use as shelter to get away from them but he was on the edge of the town and there were no buildings he’d be able to run to before the wolves caught up to him.

So he ran for the tree line. The first one he came to, he used his grappling hook to quickly get up and onto a branch, out of the reach of the pack that was after him. He was barely high enough to avoid their snapping jaws but couldn’t go higher without risking the branches snapping under his weight. Every time they leapt up, they almost reached his feet. He had no way to drive them off this time and he doubted they were going to leave. Some of the members had burnt fur and patches of raw, shiny skin showing. He just knew these had been some of those he’d driven off before. Apparently, they had taken that quite personally and were now keen on killing him to return the favor.


III. Survival Through Luck; (Open to one person, can be rescuer or rescued in this one)

He’d certainly gotten stuck in a precarious situation now. The wolves had either gotten smarter or just taken advantage of the fact he was only one man. This time, they refused to back down and he was running out of supplies to fend them off with. When one of them lunged at him, he stumbled back and landed in the snow. The biggest of the bunch decided to press their advantage and came after him.

Desperate to keep from being bitten, he scrambled in the dirt, grabbing the first thing that he could wrap his fingers around and shoving it towards the wolf in a stabbing motion. He fully expected he was going to lose his hand and was bracing with his eyes closed for the feeling of sharp teeth on his skin. When that didn’t happen, he opened them back up.

He’d stabbed the wolf with the large tree branch he’d grabbed and the timing had been insanely perfect. Its mouth had opened up a fraction of a second before he’d lifted it up and the branch had gone straight down the open jaws into the beast’s throat. The image of shock was the same on both faces as Rorschach realized the streak of luck that had lasted him so long as a superhero was still holding out and the wolf realized its throat had been punctured. It gave a strangled ’Urk!’ sound and staggered away, the branch still sticking out of its jaws.

He wasn’t sure if that would be enough to dissuade the other wolves from attacking him but he knew for a fact he’d never be able to repeat that feat in a thousand years. It was time to retreat and let discretion be the better part of valor.


D. It Speaks

CW: attempted suicide by hanging

Rorschach did his best to ignore the voice at first. The one that whispered to him about all his failures, all the people that he’d been unable to save over the years, the many that had suffered because he’d been too slow or too stupid or just not good enough to get to them in time. Why did he keep trying so hard if it was all so pointless? He tried to ignore it, to tell himself these thoughts had come before and would go away. There was good and evil and he was needed to combat the latter.

But it wouldn’t go away. It kept telling him the worst bits of self-doubt he kept buried in his mind. What good was he, one lone man against a world full of corruption, evil, and filth? Take him out of the equation and it wouldn’t even matter, just another body completely obliterated by the tsunami that was the end of the world, so soon to happen if the news was to be believed. Hell, maybe the end of the world had already happened in this town. That would make a lot of sense.
There was no place for him, not back home and not here.

Well, he could remedy that. If it was useless to fight, then he’d stop trying to. He got a thick bundle of rope from one of the homes he’d been staying in, a box thick enough to support his weight, and went looking for the nearest tree so that he could get the whole process over with. He calmly attached the rope to the tree, threw one end over a branch, and started to form a hangman’s knot.

E. Wildcard!

[Want something different? Hit me up on my plotting post, at Light_shade or .lightshade on Discord!]

C III

[solitarysoul]

While the remaining wolves are still processing wtf just happened, a stone flies through the air and hits one in the face. Levi is not sure what he just watched, it was pretty amazing but there's not yet time to relax. He grabs another stone from his satchel and lobs it at the wolves. Its no gun, but his aim is pretty good.

Harry Goodsir | The Terror

[bestsir]

[ CW for ... everything about Harry's canon tbh, and especially for suicide references and ideation. ]

I. Aurora

A few days after the ghosts begin to appear, you may see Harry Goodsir going around town with a notebook, and a pencil—actively seeking out activity. He's drawn himself a rough map of the town and has begun making small notes on the map regarding where events of particular importance seem to have taken place. It seems a rather chilly, clinical thing to do, and indeed his manner as he makes his notes is the abstracted manner of a scientist making observations. Whether this information will add up to anything useful is anyone's guess, but perhaps that's beside the point. It is something to do, after all, that's not breaking down.

II. Wolves

Goodsir knows that he's not going to be much use against the wolves, and so he retreats indoors whenever they're about. If anyone needs to be patched up as a result of a run-in, though, they can go to him.

III. It speaks

It takes him a little while to recognise the voice as anything other than that of his own guilty conscience. Then he thinks he's going mad, and withdraws into himself and away from the others. The voice starts getting its claws into him, and he vacillates wildly between knowing he needs to find some kind of help and the conviction that he does not deserve help at all.

What gave you the right? To pass judgement on them all? To engineer your own death and do so in a way calculated to commit murder? All that knowledge, all that learning—for what? To harm others where you should have helped.

You could have protected her. You could have stood up to the men, but you didn't.

What would your father think if he could see you now? What would John think?

He's got his scalpel in his hand. He's staring at the scars on his arms and thinking, I could easily follow those lines all over again, and that would put an end to it all.

He stares at his medicine chest and thinks: calomel, mandragora, morphine, laudanum.

He ventures out into the cold at night and thinks: take off your coat, go out into the dark and freeze.

IV. Wildcard

[ Choose your own interaction! Plotting post here. ]

I

[solitarysoul]

The ghosts still freak him out, but after a few nights of appearances Levi isn't hiding from them anymore. Just keeping a wide berth and trying his best to ignore them. He's used to people doing the same, but Goodsir is the first one he's seen studying them. Or whatever he's doing with that notebook.

"...what are you doing?"

Edward Kenway | Assassin's Creed

[jackdawvision]

i. the aurora - the aftershocks live on

[The house that Edward takes over looks like once upon a time, it might once have been a family home. The television set downstairs is the sort one would set up for the whole family to watch on movie nights, and the room Edward’s set himself up in has a personal computer decorated the way a teenager might decorate their very own computer. There is a phone on the drawer that Edward hasn’t bothered to throw away, because well, what would he even do with it? He knows nothing of how it works, and it can’t harm him.

And then it starts ringing, waking him from a troubled sleep. He sees the computer whirring to life, which is so utterly baffling that Edward blinks at it for a minute trying to comprehend what he’s seeing. Then he heads downstairs just in time to hear cacophonous static coming from the radio in the kitchen and the TV in the living room.

The phone’s in his hand. It’s buzzing now with text after text—the last texts of their owner’s friends, begging to know what happened to them. He stuffs it into his pocket and pushes the door outside, to wave to the nearest person.]

Oi! Tell me you’ve some idea what’s going on here, it’s as though everything in my house is coming alive.

ii. the aurora - the start of the end of the world content warnings: past murder and mention of past suicide

[Once Edward’s gotten a better grip on his bearings and been informed about electronics, he’s actually not that startled by the ghosts. Terribly saddened, sure. But they’ve all known from the start that something must’ve happened to this town, and they all saw the state of the bodies. The semi-automatic handgun stashed in a drawer back in his house is only in his possession because he pried it from the hand of a man who’d killed himself with it. They’re just now getting their suspicions confirmed.

Edward takes to the roofs, clambering up the side of the house with the ease of someone who’s done it damn near all his life. Thus situated, he watches this latest vision playing out in front of him: two men fighting over a horseless carriage, before one of them flicks out a knife and comes at the other one with fury in his eyes. He doesn’t get far, before the man frantically fires a gun once, twice, three times. The man with the knife drops, his weapon clattering to the ground, and the victor of this doomed fight gets into the car and then disappears.

Then it starts over again. The argument, the knife, the gunshots cracking the silence of the otherwise quiet neighborhood.

He looks around, and catches a glance of someone else nearby.]

They’re ghosts, [he calls down to them.] There’s no talking them out of this. Do you want to come up here instead? It’s a nice view.

iii. it speaks - how can a body withstand this?

[What kind of father leaves his children with a man he can no longer trust?]

Shut up. [Edward says this while pushing a dumpster into place, one full of soft materials meant to cushion a fall.

What do you think he’ll do to Jenny? To Haytham? All because you weren’t there to protect them. You can’t protect anyone. What good are you, Assassin?]

Shut your fucking gob, already. [He checks the padding, reaching in and experimentally pressing down with his hand.

You can’t help anyone. You couldn’t help Thatch, you couldn’t save Mary, you couldn’t even protect your own family. What good are you, Kenway? You changed your course too late—you might as well lie down and die. You’ve died already, after all. Your body just hasn’t accepted it yet.]

Shut the fuck up! [He screams it, swinging around and flicking out his hidden blade and finding—nothing. No one, except perhaps a very surprised fellow survivor. He coughs, and sheepishly retracts the blade.]

…I’m sorry. That wasn’t—I wasn’t aiming at you.

iv. wild card
[obligatory wild card option here! feel free to hmu at mollymauktealeaf or on Discord at foggytealeafs if you want to hash something out!]

the hour of the wolf — little.

[jackdawvision]

[Well, this is a spot of trouble Kenway’s found himself in.

He’d been patrolling for the night, restless and unable to quite get rid of the idea that he ought to be doing something, besides set up dumpsters full of soft things around the higher points in town. That’s really just busywork for himself and he knows it, so he’d decided to do something actually useful and head out on patrol, flintlock pistol in hand (and some ammunition and gunpowder scavenged from someone else’s house) and hidden blade at the ready.

And then the wolves came.

Kenway had managed to fend off one before it could sink its claws into his arm, kicking it off with a snarl, but when he’d fired on it, the damn thing had blurred. Now he’s being chased, and while he’s shockingly good at keeping to the trees and staying just out of their reach, he can’t keep this up for long and he knows it. He needs time to reload his gun, but they’re too damn fast and he can’t slow down—]

Little! [Oh thank god.] Watch out!

roy kent | ted lasso

[finefurryfella]

★ open & closed prompts to follow!
★ wildcards are also welcome
★ plotting comment here or hit me up on spied

( open ) aurora; ghosts

[finefurryfella]

[ When the "ghosts" manifest themselves, Roy thinks - so this is what happens when I don't have football to keep me sane.

In his head, he hears his iconic Roy Kent football chant, except the words have changed to - they're here, they're there, they're every-fucking-where, dead people! Dead people!

It's the first supernatural experience he's ever witnessed, if you can even call it that. Whatever the fuck is happening, it's not normal. You're not meant to see someone's final moments. It's private, Roy thinks, and he doesn't want to look but it's impossible to ignore every death scene playing on a loop around him. He didn't think there was anything worse than being subjected to TikTok videos from the lads in the locker room, but this is a whole other level of discomfort.

He hears a bone-breaking thud beside him, almost jumps out of his skin, then stares down at the lifeless body on the ground. Eventually the scene repeats itself so Roy can see the cause of death: the person jumping from the second-floor window. Lovely. Just what he needed to see today. Cheers for that, Milton. ]

Well done. You almost made me shit myself. [ He speaks to the "ghost" like he just pranked Roy. ] Better luck next time.

Clayton Epps | Original

[dr_unconscious]

Individual prompts below!! manicmuse or manicmuse@discord if you want a closed starter or have other ideas.

1 - Aurora | OTA

[dr_unconscious]

1a.

[It started with the flashlight.

[Clayton had noticed that it wasn't working when he arrived. He understood all of the power being out on a conceptual level; they were in the middle of nowhere, pretty much everyone was dead or seems to have left in a hurry, so it stands to reason that the power grid was not maintained for much longer after that, if it hadn't failed to begin with. But the fact that the little LED flashlight keychain in his pocket wouldn't turn on was more of a puzzler. Surely the battery hadn't died. Those things last forever.

[He hadn't thought about it much after that, but the last attempt must have left the switch on without him realizing it, because he's going about his business inside the community center and, suddenly, Clayton catches an odd glow in his peripheral from his thigh. Abruptly he stops what he's doing (getting an inventory of their dwindling medical supplies for the thirtieth time instead of sleeping) and, brow furrowed, rifles around in his front pants pocket. The flashlight, attached to a pair of rattling keys, shines bright in his palm as he stares at it.]

The hell...?

1b.

[Clayton hasn't gone outside much. The bitter, persistent cold reminds him too much of the worse winters he's experienced in Michigan - one of the few things about his second home that he never got used to. The dead bodies he keeps stumbling upon really don't help, either.

[Nevertheless, he has to go out sometimes for supplies, to check on people, to clear his head with some fresh air. And now the mysterious auroras present a whole new obstacle for him to deal with.

[A man in a heavy coat storms out of - no, through the front door of a dilapidated house, then promptly disappears. Clayton, just passing by the stairs to the porch, stops in his tracks and stares at the very still, very empty home for several long seconds. Looks around, furtively, like he's in trouble and worried he'll be caught. Clayton is used to his abilities giving him glimpses of things he shouldn't see; sure, he hasn't felt his powers pull at him at all since arriving here, but his flashlight hadn't worked, either. Things can change.

[With so far uncharacteristic paranoia, Clayton slinks his way up to the porch and ducks through the front door.]

Bucky Barnes/the Asset | MCU

[worthallthis]

I. The Town

The asset doesn't choose a house. He has a hard enough time choosing cans at the market. Choosing a house is so far beyond his pay grade (he was, after all, not paid at all for the work he did) that he can't even fathom it. Mostly he sleeps in a back room of the grocery store, or amongst the pews of the church. He doesn't go near the bank. He doesn't remember a lot about his past, but he knows he was kept in a bank vault. Even if HYDRA isn't here, he's still not going anywhere near that.

He spends his days patrolling, mostly, with the occasional foray into the woods to set snares he only half-remembers how to use or stalk rabbits with his bare hands. He doesn't dare use a bullet unless he finds a deer that looks healthy enough to take down.

So occasionally he'll be found somewhere out doors with an open fire roasting a rabbit or a squirrel or maybe a bird. This, surprisingly, he knows how to do. He'll offer a piece to anyone passing by, wordless and without eye contact.


II. The Ghosts

The first ghost that forms up in the asset's path is taking a swing at something he can't see, and the asset reflexively swings back, only to find himself stumbling past when his fist hits nothing but air. He spins to try again, but the strange man is already wrestling with a strange woman, as if he hadn't seen the asset at all.

He finds himself seeking out as many of the ghostly tableaus as he can, watching with a small furrow of confusion between his brows, sometimes swatting a hand through them and getting nothing but a little chill, sometimes circling them as if studying them from another angle, but always watching closely.


III. The Wolves

The asset is unsurprised by the sound of howls. He's seen the tracks in the woods, and anyway, it's only to be expected really that there'd be wolves. It fits the whole... everything of this town.

He is more surprised by how close they get to the town. He starts prowling the edges of the light at night, eyes on the dark woods beyond. So he's ready when a small pack charges out of the trees towards the houses, gun out and firing in one smooth motion.

After that, he's on the hunt, looking for people the wolves might target as weaker or easier to take down, and shadowing them in order to get better access to the wolves. Not to protect them, of course. That's not what he's for. He has his mask on, now, because that's what he does on missions, even if that might unnerve anyone he's stalking.


IV. The Voice

Hearing a voice telling him how he doesn't belong and is insignificant and is weak is... kind of par for the course, really. The asset, after all, is just a thing. And things don't get to make decisions about their own fate. There isn't enough of a self for the old voice to pick at. So he mostly ignores it.

"Oh, shut up," he even dares to growl at it once or twice. Under his breath. Mostly.

I

[solitarysoul]

Levi originally followed the smoke just in case the fire meant some sort of trouble. That it wasn't was good, but that it was someone cooking raised questions. Sure, the ovens and stoves in the houses didn't work but there was still a lot of food that didn't need to be cooked. Or didn't need to be cooked as much as a fresh kill would. He knew that was a problem they'd have to deal with in the future, but he was sort of hoping some other solution would be found.

"...is it safe?" He asks, nearing the asset and his fire. He didn't trust the animals here to not be somehow plagued or mutated.

Number Five | The Umbrella Academy

[forasecond]

ooc

notes

Permissions / HMD / Plotting / @ loyalwolf[/88] on plurk[/discord]

The Aurora: Aftershocks

[forasecond]

Electric Bugaloo - OTA

If not for the flickering electricity in his chosen house, Five may never have noticed the Aurora. Too busy pouring back over notes he’s made over the time he’s been here— Day 33, by his own personal count. But the lights get his attention. The soft electrical hum that comes with the sudden resurgence of power, like in the wake of a storm that knocked out the power. He’s sure it was more than just a storm that led the town of Milton to its haggard state.

Still. It’s an intrigue if nothing else. He starts checking the electronics in the house— the tv provides no help, except a stock standard emergency alert that comes through the haze of static occasionally; the long-dead phone he’d given up hope of ever accessing the contents of holds nothing particularly interesting except an unsent message that reads:

We’re headed to the coast, meet us there, it’s
The other contents on the phone are typical, shopping lists and photos of family or vacations or whatever else people might just have lying about in their phones. Nothing spectacular, nothing notable. But the unfinished text… that digs under his skin. ”It’s coming.” he’d almost bet that’s how that statement would have ended, had the sender had the time to finish it. That or ”It’s happening again.”, though neither of these assumptions make him feel any better (and assumptions are all they are, he has no basis for it, it simply seems the most logical conclusion of the sentence to him).

Eventually, he will wander outside to investigate the state of electricity through the rest of the town, and make his way to the community hall to discuss these new developments with others.

The Strange Haunting of Milton - OTA

With the brilliant burst of color and screeching sounds of crackling thunder come strange, spectral visions dotted around the town. Each scene is played on repeat, some sad sucker stuck playing out their final moments on a loop they can’t escape.

Five can be found wandering the town to investigate these mysterious phantoms, furiously takes notes in one of the journals he keeps on his person at all times. He writes basic descriptions of the people trapped in this neverending loop of misery, any dialogue he can make out during a scene, and any other significant pieces of information he might later find useful.

Find him wandering through the town, barging into houses or public spaces seeking out as many of these ghosts as possible. He isn’t interested in trying to help them— they’re already gone, but they are somehow refusing to be forgotten, and Five intends to unravel the mystery of it all. He’s seeking some kind of noticeable pattern in the scenes being played out, so if you want to compare ghost notes? He’s definitely your guy!

Zoey Westen | Original Character

[pythianwoman]

Starters in the comments below
plotting! | ThriceWiddershins

PRE-EVENT

[pythianwoman]

Zoey’s settled in. This isn’t her first rodeo, and she’s figuring it won’t be her last. But she’s here for however long that ends up being, so she might as well make herself comfortable. As best she can, anyway. She’s found a house and claimed it as her own, not neighbouring the town hall but not on the outskirts of town, either. With neighbouring buildings far enough away to give at least the illusion of privacy.

She’s been spending her time scouting and gathering supplies. Both for herself personally, and for the group of ‘interlopers’ she’s found herself a part of, as a whole. Clothes, food, and other things that are key for survival.

For herself, she’s been looking for art supplies, too. Pens and paper and pencils and journals and paint and sketchbooks. She likes to keep prolific notes, and if she’s going to map this place out she’s going to need something to put it down with. There’s a wall in the house she’s claimed that she’s already cleaned off with the intention of using it for a more permanent map.

Scouting, she tends to keep to the rooftops as best she can, watching and observing. Keeping an eye out for danger. And for new arrivals. There’s no telling when there might be others joining their number. She can be found, perched silently along the edges of rooftops, skirting the boundaries of perilously as she gazes out.

nikolai lantsov — grishaverse

[ravkas]

( closed starters below )

— closed to BARBIE.

[ravkas]

This isn’t how I normally invite people home.

[ tracking blood through the snow, being chased by feral wolves — such things like that. on second thought, this is fairly normal for his life, which is a disheartening thought. best not to tell barbie that the king of ravka can’t be trusted to show a woman a pleasant night.

he keeps his voice at an even kilter, his composure steady, which seems paramount since barbie looks as though she’s going to start screaming, or perhaps simply stop moving. neither of those options are ideal. he needs her. he might have allowed her to believe that if they made it into his house — the house he commandeered as his own, anyway — they would be safe, but that wasn’t entirely the truth. the wolves are coming despite closed doors. the nasty little creatures are relentless. they are very likely fjerdan.

and beneath his coat, the right sleeve of his shirt is soaked in blood, teeth-shaped gouges in his flesh bleeding profusely from a wolf bite. his arm has gone numb, and his fingers are on their way there. he was the one doing the shooting, and now — well. his aim with his left is good, but not when he’s dizzy with pain and weakened from blood loss.

ergo, he needs barbie. ]

Check the windows, would you? [ nikolai heaves a bookcase in front of the door with his shoulder, wincing. ] Make sure they’re locked and all the blinds are drawn. Bonus points if you put something heavy in front of them.

[ keeping busy means less time to dwell on very recent horrors.

in the yard, he’s left a bonfire burning. he knows the wolves will stay away from it, but it will only keep them safe for so long. they’ll circle the house soon enough, and they’ll be trapped inside. he can’t believe he’s being forced into a stalemate with an animal.

luckily, he has an idea. ]

Have you ever fired a gun before?