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

[friendsfordinner]

[ Oh she's really going to die here.

Hickey sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose, then points out, ]

If there are other towns, then where's the people? Where's the signs? People don't just leave all their things behind like they do here. We're abandoned. There's no one else here. And when winter comes, the deer and the fish are probably going to be harder to find.

[friendsfordinner]

[ That makes me not real.

Yeah, right.

Unfortunately, Eddie is about to learn that out of all the Terror boys, Hickey is currently taking the crown for 'biggest shit.' He looks over at Eddie, looks down at his guitar, then reaches over to attempt to pinch him very hard on the arm. ]

[satanicpanics]

Jesus! What the hell, dude?

[ Of course that hurt, and of course Eddie is going to do what any mature adult would do.

He reaches over and pinches Hickey's arm in retaliation. ]

[worthallthis]

Thank you.

[The Asset waits, watching closely, ready to lunge out and grab if the ice cracks. He even holds out his hand, the metal one though it's covered in a glove. Normally he's not one to touch people, but if it will get Ken off the ice faster, he'll do it.]

[worthallthis]

This couple is done with the dying, at least. The man falls and the woman runs, right off the vision and into nothing. Exactly like the first time he saw it.

So the asset shakes his head. "This one won't come again for a while, probably. I only stop to watch when they happen."

He looks back up at the sky briefly, then turns away from the spot. "They might not even be real," he adds. "But it's the only intel we have."

[worthallthis]

The asset wastes no more time: the shot rings out immediately, one wolf falls, and the pack does scatter, two towards the woods and one around the edge of town. It won't last, they keep regrouping, but it will postpone any potential hurt or death for now. They can track the wolves later if they need to.

And Bigby looks pained. The asset doesn't know why, but frustration and anger are far more often turned on him than on anyone else, and he's-- wary. No one here has hurt him yet. It's almost unnerving. He expects some of them to at least try.

But no, it's just wolves, which he does his best to dispatch.

[worthallthis]

The asset can't help but agree, and while he did experience 1942, he doesn't remember much of anything about it. The town does still have weird things in it. "And not a lot of those weird things are useful," he says, a bit glumly. "Not as much ammo as I would like. And not necessarily ammo that fits my guns."

He's used to being outfitted, not scrounging for bits and pieces.

[worthallthis]

The asset catches the first attack on a metal wrist, which can't exactly get bitten through, and uses the wolf's own momentum to swing it into its packmates. They're fast, but he's been trained so intensively-- including against attacking dogs-- that he knows how to handle them.

The rest he threatens with the firebrand, distracting them from Rorschach's approach.

[solitarysoul]

"I guess. I haven't tried to figure out what a lot of it is. I'm not really good at that."

He nods, "Not as much as I'd like, but some ammo is better than no ammo. What guns do you have? I may have picked up some ammo for them."

you are forgiven as long as you forgive me for how late this is

[finefurryfella]

[ The kid is so pale that if he hadn't said anything, Roy would have easily mistaken him for a ghost. ]

Kicking the bucket? Popping one's clogs? Taking a dirt nap? [ The fact that he knows so many euphemisms for death is probably concerning and shows how dark his humour can be. ]

It's what I'd do if I died and came back as a ghost. I'd haunt all the pricks that annoyed me when I was alive. [ He can already think about ten people he'd like to spook as a spirit. Not that Roy needs to be dead to scare people. He's perfected a menacing way of carrying himself to make people cower. The only people he doesn't seem to scare are children, who just find his growling silly. ]

[finefurryfella]

Right, those lights. I suppose we should be grateful we got to see them when idiot holidaymakers spend a shit-ton of money on the experience so they can fucking brag about it when they get home.

[ Roy has Strong Opinions. Apparently he's got a problem with people spending money on travelling to see beautiful sights. Why? Because he's a grumpy bastard. ]

Fuck this Northern Lights trip from hell.

[ He wishes he could just leave. In most situations he can't stand, he'll declare 'fuck this' before storming off, but this time he can't. He has to look for answers by working with strangers, which might be the most daunting part - using social skills. For someone who likes to get by each day speaking the least amount possible - communicating by growling and glaring - he's screwed. ]

[friendsfordinner]

Seems pretty real to me, [ Hickey teases as he tries (and fails!) to swat Eddie's arm away from him. Yeah, he also straight up got pinched. ]

[finefurryfella]

[ That charming quip sounds a lot like something Jamie Tartt would say and Roy thinks, fuck, there's two of them. It's a thought that almost makes him turn the gun on himself...

Instead he aims it at the door that leads to the rest of the apartment, just in case the occupier walks in and stumbles upon two random men in their home, one of whom is bleeding on their floor, and decides to respond with violence. He raises one of his crazy eyebrows at Nikolai. ] I mean, if anyone should be looking at your arm, it should be you since it's your fucking arm, but if you're gonna be the King of Ignoring Shit...

[ King of Ignoring Shit. Now there's the title Roy should have used to introduce himself.

He walks towards the nearest piece of furniture, strong enough that he doesn't need Nikolai's help to push it in front of the door, securing themselves inside the room so for the moment they don't have to worry about anyone or anything bursting in and attacking them. For now, they can focus on Nikolai's injury, which Roy intends to do until Nikolai asks his question. ]

No. [ Well, yes, but it's a long-term injury Nikolai can't help him with. Roy guesses he probably saw how he was hobbling earlier and sighs. ] My knee's been fucked for a while, alright? Unless you can cure it with charm, it ain't worth talking about. [ So drop it, his tone says before he pushes a chair towards him with his foot. ]

Park your arse. [ He uses his Coach voice. ] Now.

[finefurryfella]

[ Her use of the word heck reminds him of Ted, which he can't decide is comforting or not. He also wishes he could do what this woman just did - freely admit she's scared - instead of hiding it. He wishes he could voice how he's feeling without a million doubts running through his mind telling him it's a bad idea to be open and honest with anyone.

He doesn't answer her question because he doesn't know how to answer it without sounding like he needs a hug. He clears his throat, swallowing down his emotions. ]

Can you forget what you saw? [ He's looking for something for her to dry her hands with and settles on a tea towel. Avoiding her gaze, he's clearly uncomfortable with the vulnerable side of himself she witnessed him display in front of the wolf. No one gets to see that side of Roy Kent. Only one person has, and he pushed her away. ]

Pretend I wasn't pathetic as f— heck, back there. [ He clarifies, choosing a word she might be more comfortable hearing. ]

[finefurryfella]

[ Roy can't believe it when he hears the stranger pounding on his door. He really thought the man would have the common sense to save himself. He doesn't know Roy. For all he knows, Roy could be an awful person who deserves to die being eaten by wolves. But here he was, joining his plight, maybe out of pity or simply to help get rid of the wolves so they could both get some sleep. Either way, Roy unlocks the door, flings it open, grabs Mohinder by the scruff of his neck to yank him inside, then slams the door closed again. ]

Are you fucking mental? [ Are the first words out of Roy's mouth instead of thank you (he'll feel like a dick about this later). ] You were supposed to get the fuck away from here, not join me–

[ He pulls Mohinder away from the door just as the wolves return on the other side, one of them almost taking a chomp out of his leg thanks to that hole they made earlier. The smartest thing to do would be to push a great piece of bloody furniture in front of it, something he probably should have done earlier instead of antagonizing the wolves by yelling at them through the door, so Roy grabs one end of a dresser. ] Oi, help me with this. [ There's no time for please, not that Roy is particularly known for his manners. ]

Re: iii

[bestsir]

"Once again we arrive at very different conclusions, Mr. Hickey," Goodsir says, but he's starting to feel the ice around his heart shift. He's already given into despair once. It would be stupid to do it again. Hickey has—he hates this—a point.

He turns back toward the town, toward his cabin. "I'm going back."

[amo]

Huh, interesting.

[ There's a pause before Vash takes a tentative step further into the home, neck craning towards the bookcase in the living room. ]

Actually, there might be a bible here that describes what angels look like, if you're curious.

[solitarysoul]

I'm not interested in anything connected to a God.

[He really, really doesn't like Gods]

But are you connected to one?

[amo]

[ He understands that all too well, if because of his own long-lived life with all his best intentions, then because of all the kind people he's seen suffer or perish undeservedly along the way. So Vash takes no offense to the words and seems pretty unfazed. If anything, the almost abrasive way of speaking reminds Vash of his closest lost friend; comfortable and dear in its familiarity. It's exactly the sort of thing Wolfwood would say and it brings a fond, aching pang to his heart. Countless nights spend out in the desert bickering over their ideals have become a thing sorely missed.

Vash tried to do everything right — even if he failed a lot of the time — and his body is littered with too many scars to count, largely inflicted by the humans he did his best to save, as a living testament of what Bigby is saying. (The voice tells him he deserved it. All of it. And maybe Vash believes it, but he has to carry on regardless.)

He hums an affirmative, placing his elbow on his knee to rest his chin on his hand, looking contemplative. ]

That's true, but it's no reason not to try your best and strive for nicer things. It also takes a lot more strength to remain kind in the face of adversity and unfair treatment, don't you think?

Re: iii

[friendsfordinner]

Yeah, Hickey knows he has a point. Hickey's expression, something which could generously be described as 'so fuckin' smug', is the expression of a man who knows he has a point.

"Safe travels, Mr. Goodsir. Try not to walk out into the woods to die."

[importance]

No.

[ simply put, without the need for trussing it up. he gives the impression of a man who'd hardly tolerate it, regardless — a preference for the filth of honesty than the honeyed sweetness of a lie. it seems he's made his peace with truth, besides, the way yennefer has had a near century to explore the ugliness of one's own existence.

the long cylinder of the cigarette dangles between her fingers delicately, awarded the same treatment as she might extend to the stem of a wine glass. when she shifts to sit beside him in a billowing flow of fabric — appropriately black, some shadow of mourning that's come to crow on his doorstep — it's without invitation, or the need to seek one at all. not that she suspects a dying man to forego company, in the lonely stretch of hours before a final breath.

above, the bruised shades of the sunset seem almost mockingly peaceful, smiling down upon his weakened body. yennefer tips her face towards it, lets the gilded light kiss the slope of her cheekbone, and promptly ignores what memories it brings to life. another corpse in the sand, another life taken; another beautiful sunset that had been taunting, amidst all the cruelty and grotesqueness she had glimpsed. ]

I've found it to be as forgiving as life itself, [ she drawls, a cynical dryness to it that alludes to a life hardly lived well. that's the peculiar beauty, she's found, of keeping the company of the dying — secrets spill out easier, sincerity bleeds out of her quicker, knowing they'll simply take her words to their grave. expectantly, she extends the cigarette, waits for him to light its end. ] A sentiment we appear to share.

[ or so she's comfortable assuming as much, at least. no one would so readily accept their mortality without much of a struggle, otherwise. ]

continued cw for.......... a lot........

[importance]

[ death clings to the air like the sweet rot of fruit. every inhale tugs it into her chest anew, fills it with a cold that penetrates down into her organs and wrenches her insides into a frigid ache. it should be a welcome reminder of the life still in her blood, and yet — the fatigue that works her muscles as she limply tosses aside a crimson-soaked knife serves as a cruel testimony to the chaos beyond her fingertips. a missing pulse at the heart of her.

a distracting enough prospect, that she misses the flash of nikolai's intent when it comes. her eyes find the silver of the barrel, first; the dripping red of his fingers, next; the twist in his expression last. it hardly makes sense, to struggle for his life and end it here amidst the wreckage ]

Nikolai.

[ the steel caution in her voice bends, brittle from breathlessness. this isn't you, she could say, some greater appeal to his nature — but they are, when their circumstances are stripped away, little more than strangers brought together by unfortunate circumstance. the only decisive action to take, then, is to remove part of the equation. talking him down from the ledge won't do.

her hand claps out, knocks the gun to the ground in a cold clatter, before he can find purchase on the trigger. there's only a split-second of delay before she's scrambling for it, lest he thinks to recover it, where it's gone skidding across layers of icy ground. ]

[satanicpanics]

[ It’s the arm of his fretting hand too, and Eddie would sooner cut off every other limb he owns than risk an ounce of damage to that hand. Still pinching Hickey's arm tightly, he hisses: ]

I will bite you, dude. I don't care how nasty you probably taste.

[ He looks gravely serious. It’s the good old kindergarten approach: you do something I don’t like, I’ll bite you. ]

[satanicpanics]

[ Eddie has to snort at that one. ]

Yeah, you’re right. Since we’re being honest…plenty of offense intended.

[ There’s no malice in his words. It’s just the tone of a kid who’s used to being a bit of a jokester and a bit of a rebel. The cop voice makes him raise his eyebrows, but he keeps up a steady strum of the guitar as he tilts his head and considered whether he wants to tell him anything or not. ]

Man, I’d normally say you’d think I was ten types of screwy if I told you, but considering where we are? I’m hearing voices. Not like, in my head, but kind of...right here.

[ He pauses his strumming long enough to gesture to the space between his ear and his shoulder. ]

It’s sort of annoying, really. Just kind of wish it would shut up, you know? The music helps.

[strongnarrativevoice]

[ Truly, a man after Mohinder's own gratuitously-brusque heart. Or a man he's destined to have ever-escalating arguments with, as Roy's colorful turns of phrase erode all of Mohinder's scruples about profanity. Perhaps they can figure out which it is once they're done barricading the door. ]

What, and just let them bash their way in?

[ As if Mohinder hasn't let enough people die in the past few months. Those, at least, were mostly unintentional failures--nothing so deliberate as going home and barricading his own door and blocking out the howls until they stopped. ]

You can't have expected me to--

[ He grabs the other end of the heavy dresser, grunting with the exertion as he helps pull it along. ]

--just roll over and go back to bed while they ate you alive.