singillatim | extinction is the rule

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Of the prospects available for uninvited callers, Bigby ranks relatively highly. The reason for that is proven at once with the welcome lack of courtesy returned to Thomas, which prompts a sickle-sickly smirk from his pallid lips. ]

It's a very long story.

[ That's the thing rakish figures of mystery are always saying. He doesn't know exactly where his fits of levity are bubbling up from, these days, but he sees no purpose in puncturing them.

He also sees no purpose in drawing out the false mystery. Most long stories can be told shortly, if one elides the unnecessary chaff. ]

But to save you some time - I was stabbed, and have since been in the rather tedious process of dying of gangrene.

[ On the one hand, Bigby feels really relieved that Thomas just continues to speak on, saving him the breath of having to tell him to try telling it anyway.

On the other hand, maybe it would've been easier if Thomas just hadn't told the story at all, since this isn't what Bigby was expecting. Sure, it lines up with the way the man looks right now, but-- it makes Bigby frown.

It's mostly surprise. If asked, Bigby would claim it's all surprise. But there's actually worry in it too, though hidden a little deeper. ]

What? [ It's mirrored in his tone, already there before he can stop it. ] You were stabbed back home?

[ Has Thomas just been slowly dying all this time? Bigby doesn't think Thomas looked that half-dead the last time they spoke, but then again, Bigby had been a little distracted by trying to figure out how to deal with the new situation they had all found themselves in here. ]

[ Thomas isn't certain if he hears concern in the midst of Bigby's surprise or not. He'd prefer on the whole if he didn't, so he proceeds under that assumption, even with the slight awareness at the back of his mind that a man like Bigby is unlikely to be convinced to indifference.

But they can both engage in that most civilized game for at least a while: lying through their bloody teeth. In that spirit, Thomas strives to look diffident as he ashes his cigarette again, though he mostly only manages to look like a wrung out rag. ]

The wounds were more healed than they ought to have been. [ He says it like that's a mild curiosity, and not an unnerving miracle knit into his own flesh. ] But not sufficient to repel corruption. Gut wounds. You know how it is.

[ Everyone does, to one degree or another. Thomas remembers, even more acutely than the pain, the slick and twisting wrongness in his belly as he'd stumbled from that burning hell. Even if he'd made the boat, there would have been no hope for him. ]

I've come to terms with it.

[ There's no boast or bravado in that. He sets it out matter of factly, and not entirely without relief. ]

[ Damn. And Bigby thought he was having a hard time here, worrying about everything he left behind, about the sheer state Fabletown might end up in when he's not around.

But at least he isn't slowly dying from the inside, even if that isn't even an idea he thought he'd have to consider in this place. It sure is slapping him in the face right now though, and he has to momentarily drag a hand through his face as he tries to process this idea.

(He does know how it is though, given that Bigby would have been dead at least fifty times over if his injuries would work by normal mundy standards the way they do for Thomas.) ]

Have you talked to a doctor about it?

[ Because Bigby knows they have one here. One he actually trusts, too, which is far rarer. Otherwise he never would even bring this up as a suggestion in the first place. ]

I know we're not really in a place capable of surgical miracles. [ To put it.. you know. Very mildly. ] But maybe there's more to be done about it than you think.

[ Or maybe Bigby just vehemently dislikes the idea of this. Of just.. giving in to the idea of death, of just giving up. He's never been like that.

He can understand it enough that he isn't getting angry with Thomas at all here, but it bothers him just enough that he can't help but put forward the suggestion all the same, even if he knows it might not mean much here. Even if he knows there's very little they can actually do. ]

I've spoken to a surgeon.

[ That this was entirely by chance and only resulted in Thomas obtaining inefficacious medicine are details that can be omitted. They aren't relative to the conclusion Thomas came away with. ]

I'm beyond what aid medicine can provide short of easing the passage.

[ Another drag on his cigarette. The smoke curls warmly in his lungs, distracting him very slightly from the pull that breathing has on his wounded side. He looks out at the orange bloom of the sky, undergirded with rose and gold. ]

Even if I wasn't, to what end would you have me survive? The last thing that you need is another useless mouth. You'll have your hands full with those as it is.

.. fuck, man.

[ It's not even necessarily an angry 'fuck.' Maybe partially, but it sounds more surprised, especially in the face him trying to process all this information Thomas is giving him.

Hope there's some space left where he's sitting, because Bigby is moving to sit down as well as he tries to think about all of this. It's not like he hasn't considered the possibility of people dying here, considering the circumstances, but to think there was someone slowly dying of gangrene right underneath his nose the entire time.

He drags a hand down his face the moment he's sitting, before taking his own pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one.

He's been trying to save them up, but-- he needs one right now, alright. ]

Listen, you're not just some useless mouth. You've actually got sense. [ Even if he might not have spoken tons to Thomas just yet, Bigby could tell just from their initial conversation.

It doesn't take too long to pick out the people who can think about these things in a reasonable way from the ones that don't. And Thomas - while a little odd, but considering Bigby has been dealing with Fables, really not all that odd - seemed very reasonable. Practical. ]

Are you really trying that hard to tell yourself you're okay with dying?

extinction is the rule

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cw: resignation to death, stabbing

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