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

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy takes a long drag, inhaling until his chest aches and his ribcage stops his lungs from expanding any further, and tries to anchor himself in the rush of nicotine. It doesn't do as much as he'd hoped, but at least it's a familiar feeling.

The touch is welcome, an additional tether to reality, though the offer is shameful. It's unbecoming, having raw, undeniable fear on display like this, especially while in uniform: his only coat is his EMS jacket. What does it say, when the person responsible for getting the situation under control is afraid too?

Vasiliy silently struggles for something to say, some reasonable excuse for why he stands paralyzed halfway down the staircase like a deer frozen in the middle of the road. He exhales shakily, the breath materializing as smoke in the dim air, and momentarily holds his cigarette between two fingers. ]

No. I will come with you.

[ He has to. ]

[jackdawvision]

[You don't have to, he wants to say, because he doesn't want to drag Vasiliy deeper into whatever fear had taken hold of him just now, but the problem is that he does need the light, and between them Vasiliy's the only one who knows how to work the little device in his hand. It doesn't give off as much light as Edward would like, but anything's better than nothing.

So he sighs, and lets go.]

All right, then. But if something's wrong, tell me, I'll get you out of here. [He means it as a reassurance. He takes a few steps down the stairs past Vasiliy once he's certain whatever shock came over him has passed, and looks around, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Papers, he thinks. Plenty of papers down here, plenty of records—they might find answers down here, but Edward doesn't think those answers are the ones they're looking for.]

What do you think they kept records of, down here?

[m1895]

[ He's in the middle of another long drag when the question's asked; he plucks the cigarette from his lips and holds it between two trembling fingers as he answers, the words materializing in a plume of cigarette smoke as the cherry glows red like hot iron in the darkness. ]

I think this is... tax man's office. Property records. Names of people who lived in these houses.

[ But as to what a tax assessor's office would have in the basement, it's beyond him. Maybe an oil heater, or extra storage. They'll see.

His heart still races; he's not sure if it's better or worse to have another person present, witnessing his shame. At least he seems to have a modicum of understanding, although that, too, might be a problem as opposed to a blessing; someone here now knows that something happened to make a Russian man freeze with fear when faced with a basement... there aren't many possibilities, and he'd probably feel wild with anxiety and dread over that were every neuron and synapse in his body not preoccupied with overriding the primal urge to turn and run. ]

[jackdawvision]

[Ah. A tax collector. Edward has long since left the life of a pirate behind, but at the mention of his being in a tax man's office, he makes a sour face almost instinctively, mouth twisting into a tight frown. Still. It's information, even if it's not strictly information they need.]

At least we'll have names to put to all these dead bodies around town. That'll come in useful should we decide to put up grave markers.

[From his tone, and how he crosses his arms, it's obvious he doesn't think they will. Respect for the dead is one thing, and it's admirable, but their own collective survival comes first. They can't waste resources.

He stretches out a hand in the darkness as he walks on, touching—something cold. Feels like metal, which is honestly a good thing, because Edward had half-expected to trip over a dead body while down here. How much of the town have they cleared out so far? It can't have been a lot, the number of survivors who stumbled into this ghost town is far less than the number of dead bodies scattered all over the place.]

Mate, can you get your miniature lantern here? [Odd thing to call a flashlight.] I can't quite tell what I'm supposed to be touching.

[m1895]

[ Two things stand out to Vasiliy's Stalin-era Soviet mind: one, calling what he knows as a flashlight a miniature lantern, and two, the familiar form of address. Mate strikes him as serving a similar purpose to comrade in his own time, an assertion of fraternity and equality, and it's a small comfort, something familiar to grasp as his blood continues to circulate cold in his veins.

Apparently he predates the invention of the flashlight, though Vasiliy certainly didn't have any knowledge of them in his own childhood, either. It's easier to grapple with, interacting with someone who comes from a time earlier than his own, as opposed to someone from the future, someone who can't live without luxuries he personally never had, never even knew of.

He swings the beam in the direction of the file cabinet, though the circle of light jitters with the ongoing trembling of his hand. Even with a cigarette almost finished, the nicotine in his blood isn't enough to calm the wild fear. It's a wonder he's able to get his legs to move at all, or to think enough to speak, though in this instance he doesn't. Speaking in English requires conscious effort and thought he's finding incredibly difficult in his present state. ]

[jackdawvision]

[It's a steel box made up of three drawers, and even in the shaking light Edward can guess these are the records that the tax man must've kept. He pulls one of the drawers open, notes the alphabetical order, the careful handwriting on display as he brings out one of the files more or less at random.

He glances at Vasiliy, catches the tremble. Steps closer, places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. When he speaks, it's kind:] We don't need to keep going down here if this is too much for you. We can just pick up the files and make for higher ground—the tax man is rather too dead to care.

[Like everyone else in this town.]

[m1895]

[ The man seems to have kept meticulous records, the kind he himself kept when he worked in the party office at 18. He gets the sense that the county tax assessor probably would fit into his old home better than Vasiliy fits into his, or at least this part of it.

Again a large hand rests over his shoulder. He both appreciates the sympathy and chafes at it—he's a grown man, and he said he was fine. People do things they're terrified to do all the time—every soldier in the Great Patriotic War was scared of dying, and that didn't stop most of them for fulfilling their duty to their country. He just happens to be cursed with a body that shows it, no matter how stone-faced he may otherwise be. ]

I am okay. We have job to do.

[ He glances at the filing cabinet. ]

The drawers should pull out. We can carry them upstairs to read in the light.

[jackdawvision]

Suppose you're right. We have to do the job in front of us.

[And that means looting the shit out of this filing cabinet. Edward lets go of Vasiliy's shoulder then, but he shifts his body, putting himself between Vasiliy and anything that might come out of the darkness. Certainly there's nothing there, they both know that, but just in case. Just in case. Edward's fingers brush briefly over the hidden blade strapped to his arm. Between the two of them, Edward figures he stands a better chance in a fight against some shadowy lurker than someone who's frozen up twice now.

To Vasiliy, to keep his morale up and keep his attention off the claustrophobic darkness of the basement:] What do you think our friendly tax collector kept in there, besides property records? I figure if it was just that he'd have kept them upstairs instead. Perhaps it's something unsavory, like blackmail. [He doesn't actually think this, but if it keeps Vasiliy thinking of something, anything, he'll spin whatever bullshit comes to his head.]

[m1895]

It is possible.

[ Yezhov, allegedly, had been found with files upon files of evidence against Stalin, Beria, all of them. It's not a particularly outlandish suggestion to someone from the NKVD, or even just Vasiliy's particular time in Russian history. Especially given the general atmosphere of hysteria that seems to have descended over this place.

Vasiliy returns his cigarette to his mouth, tucks his gun into the front of his waistband, and pulls the middle drawer fully out, then tilts it upwards and frees it from its tracks, carrying it in both arms. It's heavy and cumbersome, with sharp bottom edges that press uncomfortably into his forearms, but despite his small frame he has the strength to easily bring it upstairs.

He feels like he can breathe again as he steps back into the light and puts more distance between himself and the dingy basement, barely; the memories making his skin crawl still hold him in their icy grasp. He's finished the cigarette he was leaning on, and briefly glances around for an ashtray only to find nothing.

He sets the drawer down on the table, then cracks open the window and tosses his spent cigarette out into the snow before and heading downstairs for the next one, chest tight. The sooner they finish with this, the better: it's duty, and it must be done. ]

[jackdawvision]

How exciting it must've been for him.

[Edward watches Vasiliy pulling the drawer out, then goes for the top one—how had he done it? Pull it fully out, then tilt it up and free it from whatever is keeping it locked into place. An easy enough motion for Edward to imitate, and he's carried heavier chests than this in his day. It ought to be easy to cart this up.

It is, but the problem with no longer being the spry 23-year-old he'd been when he was a pirate is that his back complains at the worst times. He lets out a pained grunt as he carries the box up the stairs, then puts it on the table and glances back at Vasiliy, falls in behind him.]

Do you need another one of those to make it through this? I can carry the last one up, no matter how my back complains.

cw suicide/hanging from here on out, mentions of death by alcoholism/hypothermia

[m1895]

No! Absolutely not.

[ Vasiliy frowns and furrows his thick dark brows, concerned. ]

You should have told me. I can do this alone.

[ From each according to his ability, as the saying goes—and he has, unknowingly, been demanding more of this man. That he is willing to endure physical pain for the wellbeing of the collective, though, raises him in Vasiliy's estimation.

The grip on his throat progressively tightens as he goes further down the stairs; heart racing, he pulls out the last filing cabinet, already itching for the comfort of another cigarette. The thought, the craving, they're cut short—abruptly the single lightbulb overhead, controlled by a pull chain, buzzes to life, flickering unsteadily and illuminating the refrigerated body of the man Vasiliy assumes to be the tax assessor.

The corpse hasn't decayed like the ones he'd found on the backs of doors and hanging in attics on welfare checks, but he still hardly looks human. His face is a dark blue-gray, eyes bulging. His neck seems to have elongated from the weight of his tall body pulling down on it for what Vasiliy estimates to have been weeks. His bare feet and hands are swollen and a similar shade of slate blue from the pooling blood stagnating within them; it would appear he was overlooked when he and Grace and the other were burying the bodies strewn all over the town. He halts, staring silently, but there isn't much change in his face.

Other people, probably, would react more strongly when presented with a dead body. But the majority of people in this era haven't had much occasion to see them. This one isn't even particularly gruesome; he wasn't shot in the middle of the street, or mutilated by factory equipment, and while he doesn't look serene, he reminds Vasiliy much more of a dead drunk frozen on the sidewalk than anything else.

They'd just walked around when he was a child in Petrograd. There was nothing they could do about it. He doesn't remember if he reacted with the horror he's come to recognize as a more normal reaction in this new society back then.

Vasiliy turns to Edward, gauging his reaction. ]

We need to cut him down and bury him. Animals will come if we do not.

[ His voice is quiet, sober—but also matter-of-fact. ]

tw discussion of execution via hanging

[jackdawvision]

Yeah, but you didn't need to do it alone. [A shrug.] Besides, a little back pain won't slow me down.

[He isn't lying, he's done more on worse. He follows Vasiliy downstairs anyway, ready to step in should he have another of those episodes, and thus is caught off-guard himself when the light flickers and he catches sight of the hanged man, not far from them. His own breath snags in his throat.

Edward has seen many dead bodies. Has made many himself, with no regrets. In coming here, he'd seen more bodies dead by their own hand, and buried a few of them in his own backyard, a way of honoring the dead occupants of the house he now lives in. Still...there's something about a hanging that's different. Perhaps because he'd come so close to that fate himself when he was much younger. Perhaps because he'd seen so many people he'd known die that way. His hand steals briefly towards his neck, as if the noose might tighten around his throat at any moment.

The tax assessor looks like the men who used to get strung up, sometimes, on the docks as a warning to pirates. More intact, though. That's what happens when you string yourself up in a basement away from where the birds can get to your body. Edward breathes out a shaky breath, then his jaw sets and he nods.]

Aye, we should. We will. [Looking around now for something to climb, then:] Help me get this—this thing into place, I'll cut him down. I have something for that. [And he shows Vasiliy the hidden blade strapped to the underside of his forearm.] Can you carry him?

[m1895]

[ He's been carrying a weapon too. Instead of the alarm most would probably feel, Vasiliy finds a trace of himself reflected back at him. They share, even if only slightly, a modicum of sameness. This is a man who realizes how quickly one can find their life in danger; the knife he carries is for puncturing, not utility, at least not like a jack knife is. He can respect the sensibility; it is familiar to him in a way that so much in so many places isn't. ]

No. This body is too old. He will have rigor mortis. This is when it freezes and cannot bend. [ Which is utterly prohibitive when one's stature requires that they use a fireman's carry. He pauses, lips pressed together as he assesses the situation they've found themselves in. ] We need a stretcher. There are some at the church. We should get it first, then cut him down. It will be easier that way.