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

[burying]

[ Yeah, computer screens are kind of bright — even for the modern folks. There's a reason why eye-strain and headaches are a thing from staring at screens all the time. But god, there's barely just telegram at the point of time he's from—? This'll... absolutely be a shock to the system. ]

Christ, no one uses telegrams anymore. [ He laughs a little and then he cringes a bit. Sorry to shit on your fancy new technology, Edward. He clears his throat then considers for a moment: ] Well, I guess there's birthday telegrams but it's less.... words on paper and more 'person in fancy dress serenading you at work'....

[ Can you imagine such a horror, Edward? Can you? ... Anyway: ]

But... basically, yeah. It can do a whole lot of things, but you definitely use them for communication. You use them to get onto the internet and then with that you can do emails, private message, chatrooms, forums, all sorts. [ He can't... exactly show this to him. The internet's down. But there is some kind of email client he can access. ] Talking to people all over the world basically like how I'm talking to you now. Not waiting days or weeks.

[ He moves his hand to the mouse and with a few short clicks, opens up the email client from the desktop. Looks like whoever worked here didn't bother with passwords, and when the inbox loads, Kieren gestures: ]

Emails.

[fidior]

[ No one... uses telegrams anymore....? Anymore. Like it's an outdated concept. The thought is.... shocking, spikes Edward's anxiety immediately, and it's with that discomfort that he listens, brow pinched, features tight, more disturbed than he is curious....

A person in fancy dress serenading someone while they're working? A person acting as a telegram? If he didn't look distressed enough already, he's certainly looking the part now. His stomach aches with anxious knots, heart giving nervous spasms. Anyone else might inquire further about these.... birthday telegrams..... but for the moment, he can only handle one horror at a time.

So he's listening to what Kieren describes in regards to the "computer", eyes slowly traveling back to look at the screen, squinting again at its brightness. There are many terms he doesn't understand — internet, chatroom, forums — but he does grasp the gist of it. Communication. It would be fascinating if he wasn't so shocked by the idea, just staring blankly at that screen and then down again as the boy touches a strange little item that rolls and makes it do clicking things. He doesn't like that at all! It's weird!

But he's starting again as something appears on the screen then, shifting uncomfortably, everything within him wanting to tense away from this. Edward is no pursuer of knowledge, hardly driven by a thirst for the unknown. He has no desire to endanger himself or cause himself a necessary discomfort in the pursuit of understanding more. He'd very much like to turn away from this and not look at it again.

...But he won't abandon this young man (Edward it is not that deep, he's just showing you some technology).

And so, he's... trying. To understand. Still squinting, he scans what's on the screen, realising they are messages. God above, what..... ]

Eee mails. [ He draws out the 'e' a bit too long, looking uncertain; what a strange... word. He's so confused about so many things! ]

....How does one... sign them? These letters? Can ink even attach to such a..... surface? [ He lifts a gloved hand in gesture to the computer screen (not too close to it, mind.) ]

[burying]

[ Kieren supresses the urge to laugh at the pronunciation. But there's a smile that's a tell-tale sign of his mirth. God, this is honestly like showing your grandparents how to work computers. It's pretty funny for him. ]

You can still sign emails, just not with ink. Everything's digital. These should have an email signature on them, let's have a look. [ He clicks an open an email at random, and up pops an email chain from a couple of months ago, detailing a discussion over the lack of deliveries to Milton due to increasingly bad weather between whoever ran the Milton branch and someone over on the mainland. He scrolls to find an email signature: a man's name followed by: Postmaster, Milton Branch, Northern Territories, Canada. ]

There we go. That's whoever worked in here before— [ His throat feels tight and Kieren doesn't finish. Well, they know. His head bows for a brief moment before he tries to quickly move on. ]

But, yeah. You type them. Let me just— [ More clicking around, he pulls up a word document. ] So you use this, the keyboard.

[ He gestures to the keyboard in front of the monitor, then moves both hands onto it and starts to type. It's a little slow and fumbling with gloves, but he manages to type out: Kieren Walker and hits the enter key to make a new line before sliding the keyboard toward Edward. ]

Here, you have a go.

[fidior]

[ Give him a moment to just.... squint. Digital...? As in... digits? Fingers? Edward's continuing to gaze so warily at the surface of the strange device, watching with all the energy of someone being held against their will.

But... all right, he understands this, yes. A message that the person had written on this.... eee mail, an entire conversation leading up to that one message, even.

So this was done right before they'd... died. Ah. There is a sombre hush that falls over him for a moment, a particular heaviness that comes in whenever one is reminded that this town had seemingly lost its entire population shortly before they arrived. Edward lingers in that pause for a moment before he, too, is moving quickly on, staring mutedly as he watches Kieren spell out his name.... Wait— oh, God. Oh no, Kieren. Kieren, please. Don't make him use that thing. ]

Ah, I'm not certain.... [ The lieutenant utters quietly, his usually rich-toned voice dropping even lower, a quiet sound coming from his throat. But there's an almost comical obedience to the way he soon enough seems to resign himself (can't bear to risk disappointing this lad.....) and the man's giving a full-bodied sigh before he slowly reaches one of his hands up. Gingerly, tentatively, his own gloved fingertips hover over the device, before he leans in and squints again, eyes trying to find the E.... ah, there it is. Edward gives it a tap — too light to actually do anything, and has to try again, a bit harder now.

E... d.... w.... s. Oh— he's made a mistake, mistyped....! Edward balks, pulling his hand back from the "keyboard" very quickly and back into his lap. He looks alarmed... and is practically wearing his stomachache on his face, with the way he grimaces. ]

I've made an error.

[burying]

You'll be fine. [ Kieren assures with a chuckle. Edward, please. It's not like it's going to eat you. Non-sentient, yeah? It's just a keyboard, and surely type-writers must be a thing? Or maybe not. Kieren doesn't even know when they were invented, maybe it's a little bit after Edward's time.

But he's wildly amused by this whole thing, and trying his best not to laugh still as he watches the man attempt to type his own name. Does he feel bad about making the Victorian use a computer? Mmm, not really. It's all good fun, right? Even if the other's face is clearly Not Loving Any Of This. ]

Ah, that's alright. You just need to hit— [ He reaches over to tap the backspace key, erasing the 's' from the screen. ] —there. All sorted. It's a hell of a lot easier than writing on paper.

[ Don't they just... start all over again if there's a mistake? What a waste of paper. Anyways, please continue, Edward. ]

Although you'll probably be pleased to know letter writing's still a thing, even if it's kind of fallen out of fashion. People don't really hand-write stuff anymore, with the exception of like... Christmas cards or people who really like being pen pals.

[ But, quietly, he recalls the postcard Rick had sent him. A portrait of Van Gogh. The assurances he'd sort out things with his dad. It sobers Kieren a little. ]

[fidior]

[ Tragically, type-writers are after his time, so this will be Edward Little's first experience tapping out letters.... a momentous day indeed.

Though he just wants it to be over....

He startles again when Kieren presses another one of the buttons and the letter he'd mistyped is... eaten. His eyes widen again, ogling the screen. How did it do that? Has Science truly advanced this far....? It's difficult to comprehend at all; it's all so fast, and overwhelming.

Now. A more curious or adventurous person might experiment with this new knowledge — perhaps typing out some nonsensical letters to then safely eat them up again. Someone might even have fun doing it. Not Edward. He just slowly keeps typing out the correct letters, and in fact uses more care than before not to make a mistake.... He seems very wary of the 'backspace' key... ]

Really. [ To think letter-writing could ever fall out of fashion.... and he supposes, practically speaking, he can understand why — these eee mails would make things move so much more swiftly, and without wasting materials when mistakes are made.... ]

...This must change everything. [ He realises, slowly withdrawing his hand after his name is complete. EDWARDLITTLE (because he didn't know how to add a space....) It breeds another thought, one he voices as he sits there in wide-eyed stun. ]

The spread of news.... it could even influence the course of war. [ These... telegram-like messages, sent so quickly. ] And if one were in an emergency situation....

[ ...Ah. Now that's an... odd thought, and the man draws quiet for a moment. If they'd had access to technology like this on the ships...

Of course, being Little, there's another thought soon to come, and he gives a bit of a stern look. ]

...I can imagine, with such a capacity for effortless communication, there could be.... tomfoolery involved. Surely there must be special laws put into place for that purpose.

[ Are there eee mail laws, Kieren?? He really hopes so. ]

[burying]

Really. Although, this is a Post Office, so don't worry too much. [ People still send mail. It's just... not so much the kind of letters he's thinking. Mostly spam mail and packages and bills. That sort of thing.

He can't help but laugh a little at the finished result on the screen. Okay, he's missed the space but you know what? He did alright. Was that really so bad, Edward? Was it really? ] Not bad for a Victorian, Lieutenant.

[ He nods along in agreement. Yeah, pretty much. ]

Even, like, seventy years ago for me, the technology we did have, even before email existed, did help with the stuff like wars. [ There's a beat before he tentatively adds. ] We had two massive ones in the twentieth century, enough to call them World Wars.

[ And.. plenty more since those ones, too. Kieren shifts uncomfortably in his chair a moment. Like the one Rick died in. He swallows the thought quickly. Oh, uh. Email laws? ]

Uhhh, probably? [ He doesn't... really know? He makes a little face, his lips tight in a smile as he shrugs. Fuck knows. ] Probably falls under fraud or something. Something to do with anti-hacking. Data protection, maybe. But I mean... people normally have their own email account and it's usually got a password.

[fidior]

[ "Not bad for a Victorian" is.... a compliment?? He thinks. It seems like one. Is this what it is to be complimented by a Modern Youth....

Though he still sits there, largely unnerved by the experience as he listens to Kieren speak. Two massive wars.... world wars. It's a lot to process, to try and swallow. To learn about what comes after one's own time.... it's humbling, and deeply jarring. Edward's sombre again, giving a soft nod as his hands come together in his lap. There are...questions that bubble up, inevitable ones — what was England's involvement in these wars? — though he doesn't voice them. It feels... strange, to ask. Wrong in some particular way. Over time, perhaps he'll be able to voice curiosities about the future, but for now.... he's still trying to sort through a dose of new things as it is. ]

A password.... I see. It's good that there are security measures in place.

[ .....He'd probably be the one to make his password just his name itself, and immediately get hacked. ]

It is all... fascinating, to be sure, but also quite... frightful. [ He eyes the computer nervously. ] With communication being so... swift, I imagine one could easily become overwhelmed by letters.

[ LOOK HOW FULL THAT INBOX IS.... His eyes move back up to Kieren's, looking concerned for him now. ]

Were you able to cope with it fairly well? Back in your world, receiving letters this way....

[burying]

[ Definitely a compliment, Edward. The fact you haven't run from the building screaming in horror is truly a testament to you.

(And well, at least it's better than making the password 'password'.) ]

It's not so bad. Everyone's kind of used to it. The internet, email... it's all pretty much normal, everyday life, now. People were probably kind of wary of it all at first, though. [ Back when things were really kicking off. New things are scary, after all. ] But... I suppose I did, yeah. Didn't really get many emails, since I didn't work or anything.

[ Not like in this case, with the postmaster's computer. Or some poor office worker. ]

Just ones from art school, scholarship stuff—[ There's a little awkward pause and he realises what he's just said. Yeah, the art school he got a full ride into. The art school he didn't go to because it didn't matter anymore. His jaw sets a little and he looks down. Shit. His eyelids flutter and he inhales, trying to sail right past it all as he hastily continues: ]

Usually it's just spam or stuff trying to scam me. Emails trying to get me to order little pills, or Nigerian princes needing me to send them money in order to unlock their multi-million diamond fortunes.

[fidior]

[ He's seen glimpses of the heaviness of the poor boy's emotional state, and so he can't help worrying that perhaps having So Much Mail could be an additional burden weighing on him...... So the response is a relief, and he's giving another soft nod before he looks up again, curiosity piqued.

Sorry, Kieren, he most definitely didn't miss the bit about art school. Edward's brows lift at what follows (little pills? Nigerian princes? ...Tricks? He really doesn't like this in the least), listening as he folds his hands across his lap and takes a moment to chew over that. Again, there are probably.... a variety of questions to be asked about all of it, but Edward is more keen to shift gears to something else, and returns to the tidbit he was given, thinking that it surely must be a more pleasant topic of conversation. ]

You attend university? Back home.

[ He genuinely looks interested, body language attentive and eyes bright. ]

[burying]

I, uh. Almost. [ He doesn't have the heart to lie, despite the discomfort in him. He was proud of getting in, of course he was. He worked so hard to get in. ] I got in, with a full scholarship. I... I didn't go.

[ He could leave it at that, he thinks. He could. But the absence of an explanation will likely lead to more questions and Kieren can feel himself sinking in his seat a little. He looks weary, his stare blank for the longest of moments. ]

My... my, um— [ He decides for a beat or two, goes for the safer option. It isn't any less true, though: ] my best mate, Rick. He joined the Army.

[ His fault. He knows it is, even if Jem had told him different. Kieren didn't blow him up, the Taliban did. But Kieren was the reason Rick joined the Army in the first place. It was his fault, because he loved Rick more than anything in the world. And even though Rick loved him, he wanted his dad's approval even more. ]

He... got killed, in Afghanistan. [ His mouth forms a thin line, finishing with the barest of shrugs — his shoulders feel heavy. ] Didn't see the point in going, after that.

[fidior]

[ The man's curiosity is polite, but earnest — though he's pausing as soon as the younger starts replying. He.... didn't go?

He waits, listens, and it's clear from Kieren's demeanour that something is wrong. Edward's expression slowly shifts as the boy continues to speak, revealing the details slowly. Just as slowly, his heart begins to sink.

Killed.

His eyes soften, visibly wounded, and he bows his head for a moment. Ah. To lose a dear friend... a companion.

One is never the same. ]

I am truly sorry for your loss. [ Once again, Edward reaches a hand up to the boy's slender shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze of comfort. He leaves it there for a few moments, leaning in closer towards Kieren as the boy sits slumped. When he asks, it's quietly, not meant to press. ]

Do you ever still create?

[burying]

[ Rick will always be a touchy subject for him. It's not often you say you lost someone twice, that the person you loved the most was killed twice. But he appreciates the condolences and the attempt to comfort all the same and he can only nod in reply, his mouth a thin line. He looks... tired, his gaze listless for a moment. ]

I didn't, not for a long time. [ There's a thick swallow, his voice a little hoarse. ] I, uh— I started up again, though. Portraits. That's what I do, mostly. And— here? I guess it's a good way to pass the time.

[ They have so much of it on their hands. He's started drawing more. Portraits of his parents, his sister. Amy. Even Rick. There's even ones of the people here, too.

He's quiet for a long while before he finally sits up again. It's uncomfortable to dwell on it all, and hey— he's doing art again so it's fine, right? It's totally fine. Anyway— ]

I guess we should use whatever this— [ Kieren gestures above them. This weird... sky shit. ] is to our advantage and try to see if we can tell what the hell happened in this place while we can.

[ Who knows how long it'll last. ]

[fidior]

[ There's another soft movement of his mouth into a thin line, the slightest dip of his head forward in acknowledgement. Sitting with grief is... strange, and a thing he's not done much of himself, as of yet. He has barely been able to let himself mourn the friends and companions he'd lost — or mentally explore deeper into what truly happened to some of them. Everything... happened so violently, so strangely. Like some nightmare.

But then, perhaps, that is what loss is frequently like.

It's good to hear that the lad still partakes in art, though. Edward won't inquire more about it, but makes a note to keep it in mind, as he has all of the information he learns about the residents here. As Kieren moves to sit back up straight, the man claps his hand to his shoulder before finally withdrawing it, looking back to the screen. ]

Right. I'll follow your lead, since you are far more experienced in the....changes that have come about.

[ The.... computers, and the way the building somehow manages to be lit up despite there being no candles, lamps....... It's all still surreal for him, but Edward will put his trust in the younger man to check out what they're able to. ]