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

[dr_unconscious]

Clayton visibly starts, a quick tensing of his shoulders and hands around the handle of the shovel, but he doesn't make any move to protect himself or run away. The words do a lot to temper those instincts out of him, along with his general perception of this town so far. The elements are the real threats - not the people stuck here in them.

"--Good lord," Clayton breathes through a nervous chuckle. He relaxes, sticking the blade of the shovel into the ground so he can lean on it while he twists to see exactly who's behind him. "Scared the livin' daylights outta me! How long've you been there?"

[moralabsolutism]

Who was behind him was a man with a full-face mask on. It was white but the most remarkable thing about it was the black spots that ran the course of it. They were constantly moving, forming into different shapes, often parallel or doubling one another, lasting for only a moment before creating a new pattern. It was quite fascinating to watch once one got over the initial shock of seeing something that made it look like Rorschach had no face on.

"A while," was all that he said. It was clear this odd character was a terse talker, saying no more words than absolutely necessary. Socially awkward didn't even begin to cover it with this one.

[dr_unconscious]

The change in Clayton's expression is gradual, but not subtle, morphing slowly from casually friendly to surprised to deeply confused within the span of several long, awkward heartbeats of staring at that mask. He'd convinced himself it was a mask, anyway - surely this wasn't the man's actual face. But how is he getting it to move like that? This isn't a trick of the light, Clayton's sure about that, yet he can't quite wrap his head around exactly how--

I'm staring. Abruptly Clayton blinks and shakes his head with another bashful laugh. "--Sorry," he says, slipping a hand into his hair so he can shuffle some of the snow out of it. The fact that Rorschach is being just as, if not more awkward than himself is something Clayton easily glosses over, absorbed as he is in his own embarrassment. "I just, ah - didn't hear you come up."

Then the awkwardness hits in a different way. Clayton squints a little bit, eyes darting between the man, the shovel, the body next to his feet, back to the man.

"--I found 'em like this," he blurts.

[moralabsolutism]

Rorschach's hidden superpower was being able to turn any situation as awkward as it could possibly get. Though at least in this case he could understand why. His face had a tendency to have the same sort of effect on people no matter where he was or what he did. He didn't mind. People finding him creepy was one way that helped keep a distance between him and the rest of the world.

He didn't say anything in response to Clayton's awkward attempts at an apology. The mention of finding the body as it was did manage to amuse him and cause a slight quirk of the lips which was almost a smile. It showed up on his mask as the dots congregating around the area of his mouth for longer than they were usually warranted to.

"If I thought you had killed them, you'd already be dead." Not a threat, exactly, just more like a stating of facts. Rorschach didn't suffer murderers to live long.

[dr_unconscious]

In spite of his apology, Clayton finds himself staring again at that mask. He shouldn't be able to tell what's going on underneath it, and yet - is he smiling? Or is that a coincidence that the dots are collecting in that shape? Maybe a little bit of both, considering the sort of humor (good god Clayton hopes he's trying to be funny) Rorschach settles for in response.

"...Hah," Clayton huffs with an overly toothy, nervous grin. This is, weirdly, not the first time he's heard someone say something like that in complete earnestness, but that doesn't make it any less unsettling to hear. "I...appreciate your faith in me, then. Thank you."

He glances back at the body.

"...You were offerin' to help?" Clayton asks after a moment. "Wouldn't mind it, if that's still on the table. Ground's frozen."

[moralabsolutism]

Rorschach didn't respond to what Clayton had to say, just lapsing into silence after he was done speaking. He wasn't sure what to make of this man, aside from seeming like a nervous sort. He was also decent enough to want to bury the body he'd found, so at least he had a decent streak within him as well.

He took the shovel from Clayton without a word and tapped it on the ground in a few spots. When one felt like it had a little more give than the others, he stabbed it into the dirt. For someone on the short side, there was a lot of muscle under all those layers he was wearing, and he managed to break into the frozen earth with a minimal amount of struggle.

[dr_unconscious]

That's...an answer, of sorts. Clayton doesn't stop Rorschach from taking the shovel from him - he even holds it out slightly when he realizes that's what the other man is reaching for - but he does still look kind of baffled when it happens, mixing with quiet appreciation when he easily punches through the frozen ground. Dense, then.

He gives Rorschach a few moments to work in peace before trying to bother him again. "What's your name, stranger?" Clayton asks. "Wanna know who to ask for next time I need to move a bookshelf or somethin'."

[moralabsolutism]

He paused for a moment. "Rorschach," came the reply. Not everyone always got the source of his name back home. Petty criminals didn't tend to exactly have much in the way of higher education. But perhaps this individual would, able to correlate how the name related to the black and white face he wore.

He didn't ask for Clayton's name in return. Either the man would tell him or he wouldn't. Rorschach wasn't entirely sure he wanted to end up personalizing the people here. So often when that happened, they tended to end up disappointing him. But at least he could do introductions with them if nothing else.

Then he just went back to breaking through the ground and getting a hole properly dug.

[dr_unconscious]

"Rorschach," Clayton repeats. He does recognize the name, and the quick flick of his eyes to Rorschach's mask verifies that he understands the significance, but he doesn't go out of his way to point it out. It could just be a coincidence - and even if it isn't, how frequently does this man have people ask about it, and how tired is he of giving answers? Clayton decides that the polite thing to do is to just not mention it at all.

Rorschach doesn't ask for his name back, but Clayton gives it anyway, following the routine unconsciously. "Clayton," he says. His hand tentatively leaves his pocket and hovers by his side, waiting to see if Rorschach stops shoveling to offer a handshake (he's not optimistic). "Pleasure to meet you. Sorry you're, ah. Taking over this whole operation here. Happen to see more shovels inside? I can still help."