singillatim | extinction is the rule

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

"Y'know the Victorians used to believe that ghosts repeated patterns. Cycles, or whatever, re-enacting their death. Real depressing shit." He reaches for the power button, remembers Huaisang had freaked out about it, and decides maybe trying to find different channels can wait. He just doesn't want it to look like he crouched down for nothing, so he's going to pretend to look busy and give it a good solid whack like he does at home when the antenna's being a bitch.

Yeah. That'll do it. He glances back at Huaisang, still crouched.

"What do you mean, 'real ghosts?'"

Huaisang has no idea what a 'victorian' is and has learned by now that it's mostly better to just accept the weird nonsense that Ma-chu says without question, when possible.

"Real ghosts." Huaisang repeats, like it's an obvious thing which he's not sure how to explain. "The souls of people who have died who are not properly laid to rest or whose bodies have been desecrated and who haven't yet reincarnated."

It's the third, maybe fourth time March has looked over at Huaisang in the same manner, but he does it anyway without thinking. Ghosts aren't real, he wants to point out, except that the strange lights and whatnot are very much real, and Huaisang looks like he came out of a kung fu movie sometimes, so who the fuck knows anymore? Sure. Ghosts are real. Everything's real. The goddamn tooth fairy exists now, why not?

Thank God booze is soon to be happening.

"You, uh, deal with that a lot, huh? Ghosts?"

"Well, not me personally, hopefully, but it's what my clan are trained for, and the other major clans of cultivators. Dealing with monsters, demons, spirits, anything tainted and warped by resentful energy. I was never any good at it and I didn't want to be any good at it." Still doesn't. And now here he is, whereever 'here' is.

He heads downstairs to grab a bottle of alcohol. He still doesn't know the difference between any of the different types of alcohol in this place, with 'whiskey', 'vodka' and 'butterscotch schnapps' all equally unfamiliar to him. All the matters is whether the bottle says 'liquor' on it somewhere. He grabs one at random and carries it back upstairs.

Well. That's...a lot. March blinks a little, confused but not at all dismissing it. Huaisang could tell him he lives on the moon and he thinks he'd just sort of politely nod. It actually sounds kind of fascinating, even if he can't quite wrap his head around it completely.

He's not paying too much attention to what the other hands him, either: booze is booze is booze is booze and it's not like March is the poster child for clean and sober living. Once offered, March grabs it and doesn't give it much thought as he unscrews the lid, murmuring a 'thank you.'

"You said cultivator before. I thought you were telling me you were a farmer. This makes more sense."

"Oh, no. We cultivate spiritual energy. I'd say I could teach you but I can't sense anything in this place, and anyway I was never actually very good at it."

Huaisang settles onto the couch, curling up his feet under a blanket with a tired sigh. "I don't think I'd be any better at farming, and I wouldn't want to. I'd rather just paint."

"So you're an artist." March looks mildly impressed as he takes that leap of logic. Farming certainly isn't his bag, either, he hasn't even left outside LA. No need. It's big enough that it doesn't matter.

He thinks for a moment. Not for very long, but give him a second to dig into his breast pocket. Instead of his usual cigarettes and lighter, he pulls out a small notepad he keeps for work and a pen.

"Whatcha draw?"

"I have three styles," Huaisang explains, taking the notepad and pen. "Elaborate landscapes, like on my fan."

He looks around for a moment, picks up his fan, and unfurls it. "Not my work, it's by a master artist, better than I am, but it's the same style. Takes an enormous amount of time. Shanshui, mountain water, landscapes."

Then he starts drawing. A few brief swipes to learn the strokes of the pen, he adjusts his grip, and then continues, capturing the shape of a bird in a minimum of strokes, so that even those initial experimental movements of the pen get incorporated into the branches around the bird. "Xieyi," he explains. "Freehand style."

He signs it with tiny lettering, 聂怀桑, then hands the notebook and pen back with this gift inside. "My third style is people and figures. Mostly pornographic."

"Hey, wow, lookee." It looks good. It looks great, if March is being honest, because fuck, it's not like he has talent. As Huaisang shows his work March does his best to repeat the names of the styles, the words clumsy on his tongue but the effort clearly there.

Blue eyes lock onto the bird, a soft smile creeping up onto his face. This is fantastic, this is--

--wait--

"--you draw porno?"

"Yes. It's what I'm best at. Did you want to see?" He hasn't had much else to do in his time here, and paper is shockingly easy to find, in endless long sheets like it's come off of some kind of loom, with strange holes edging both sides in a perfectly uniform stream. In these circumstances, Huaisang hasn't much wanted to draw peaceful landscapes (the landscapes here want to kill them), and he hasn't felt meditative enough or had good enough materials to do xieyi the way he likes. So he's drawn what he finds most calming: hardcore pornography.

"Yeah," March's eyes are glued to Huaisang's, voice deadpan, emotionless despite a glimmer of joy behind baby blues.

"Yeah, I want to see, I absolutely want to see. Big fan. Big fan of it in general."

Huaisang gets up, going to where he's stashed the drawings that he's worked on so far. There's only a small stack of them so far, but he brings them back and hands them over to March. All of them are done in black ink, and there's a clear learning curve happening as Huaisang learns the bewildering ballpoint pens that he's mostly been able to find. The only thing he's found resembling a brush is a 'shar-pie' which only makes uniformly blunt lines and has no flow at all. It's maddening.

Some of the genders are difficult to tell, since almost all of the figures have long black hair and soft features and he tends to draw his subjects at least partly clothed, but there's enough genitalia showing in the various couplings to make it obvious that Huaisang doesn't discriminate much when it comes to genders or pairings (or threesomes, for that matter).

Only one of the figures portrayed is short-haired, with facial hair in a style similar to March's. It's difficult to tell the gender of his partner, who is bent forward with long dark hair falling around their body as the short-haired man pounds into them from behind.

March, well, he has an eye for this stuff. Sort of. Not from an art perspective, but living Los Angeles and doing what he does? Yeah. He's seen a lot. He takes the pictures, narrows his eyes and brings them up to his face, nodding studiously. Absorbing.

Another nod, and then he looks at another one with the same artistic appraisal on his face, expression carefully neutral.

"Fascinating."

At the last one, his brow quirks up. He points.

"That one's the best." Yeah, look, see how critical and artistic he can be? "Great use of shadow."

Huaisang's amused by his intent attention and limited commentary. Curling back onto the couch and pulling a blanket over his lap again, Huaisang sets his art supplies down within reach so he can sketch some other things as they discuss them. "Is there something else you'd like to see?" he asks, curious to hear more about March's interests from a more directly erotic aspect rather than technical artistry, especially since he's unconvinced that March's artistic expertise is going to provide any kind of helpful observation. "Pairings, positions, kinks?"

"I thought you were a mayor," March has just remembered there's booze in his hand--rather, by the table where he'd set it down to look at the pictures--and as he hands the papers back, he's completely non judgemental.

"Mayor with a nudie art side's not exactly uncommon, though." He slides easily onto the couch, exhaling, unscrewing the cap to the bottle and actually thinking about the question. His brows knit, wishing he had one of his cigarettes. Huaisang's not a mayor but that's still mostly what March has ascribed his job to. Or a chief of police, maybe.

"I dunno. I'm so used to being surrounded by it I haven't thought about it in a while. Dark hair's are pretty cute. Long hair's nice, too. Like the last one, she looked pretty foxy."

March finally takes a sip, and immediately winces. This isn't anything other than butterscotch snaps, which he confirms by looking at the label. Probably expired, too.

....He's still going to drink it, though.

Listening to Ma-chu talk always takes such a lot of mental translating, with the aurora's translation only able to do so much and Huaisang mostly has to just be satisfied with a blurry understanding of anything Ma-chu says.

"You really should be more careful about the fox-y ones," Huaisang warns him, concerned about Ma-chu's huli-jing kink, but he supposes he could draw some pretty fox women for his new friend. "Fox demons really will steal your soul if you aren't careful."

He reaches for the bottle, blinking in surprise at the taste. It's like burnt honey made into liquor. He likes it. "It's like syrup. Huh. I bet that ka-fe everyone likes wouldn't be quite as terrible with some of this syrup to ease the bitterness."

"I like coffee bitter, but there's Irish coffee, and that's--I'll tell you later." There's a more pressing issue, though March takes note of how Huaisang genuinely seems to like sweet things.

"A foxy lady, that's like, you know, a girl you really want to get freaky with. Boogie down. Have sex with. Curves in all the right places, and eyes just for you... There's no literal fox ladies where I come from. Just humans. But--there is one thing sort of like that... Playboy bunnies."

That far off look is definitely not calculated. He sighs.

"Give me that pen, I'll try to show you. It's only a matter of time before they have playgirl bunnies, too--when the rest of the country gets their shit together about that sort of thing."

Huaisang hands over the paper and pen, since he does have enough of both to spare, and he's very curious about the bunny-boy spirits that Ma-chu likes. "What do you mean that you're used to being surrounded by it? You ... have a lot of sex? Or you're employed at a brothel?" He's trying to come up with other explanations for the statement, but none of them make sense yet. Still, he scoots over close against Ma-chu's side on the couch, gently patting his blanket over Ma-chu's lap to help share the warmth and so that he can watch with intent interest at whatever it is Ma-chu intends to draw.

"Kind of. I'm a private detective. People hire me to solve mysteries. Usually it's a wife wanting to know who her husband is seeing, or moms trying to find their runaway prostitute daughters, or whatever. 99.9% of the time it's about sex, so I stay in the neighbourhood that provides that. Plus when I was a cop it was my patrol anyway, so."

He's leaning a bit--blanket's warm--and he passes the paper back to Huaisang with his drawing on it, smirking, clearly proud.

"There."

Huaisang presses his lips together in amusement at the result, which is ... minimalist. To say the least.

"Oh, that makes sense." All of that translates for him, for the most part. Wives and husbands and runaway daughters never change all that much, and the whole of human society has always revolved around sex.

Taking the pen and a fresh sheet of paper, Huaisang starts a sketch of his own, using the rough concept that he understands from Ma-chu's description and drawing. He draws on the legend of chang'e, goddess of the moon, and styles her like a bodhisattva, all scanty, flowing fabric and an androgynous body, adding the rabbit ears and white tail at the end for a slutty and divine rabbit spirit.

"We have some very beautiful brothels in my world. The ones in Yunping City are the best, probably, though I didn't often get to go there. And the past few years, everything's been all war and upheaval and ... well, I haven't gotten to go to any brothels in a while."

"You'd love Los Angeles. Whole city is a real den of inequity." March is kind of glad Huaisang seems to approve of his little drawing, mistaking amusement with being impressed solely because it suits him and the narrative he wants, perfectly content to chatter at the other while he sketches. It's a good way to pass the time.

"Sorry about your, uh... World." It's not like Earth has a bunch of war going around, but March is relatively unscathed by any of it. Still, he's genuine about it, and he takes another swig of the God-awful syrupy drink. If he pukes, it's not going to be from alcohol, it's going to be from sheer gut-rot.

He takes a second sip.

"Mm. Well, it's better than here," Huaisang points out. Though it probably would be difficult for anywhere to be much worse than here, since this place is actively trying to kill everyone in it. "But I like the sound of your world and all the sex and brothels. And the warmth." Usually Huaisang's content with the weather in Qinghe, and he doesn't like summers that get too hot. But after a couple weeks in this awful place, he's dreaming wistfully of the hottest summers he's ever encountered.

March grins.

"It's not bad, LA. Almost 3 million people now, I think. Excluding Long Beach, Santa Clarita... the rest of the county." This is boring, probably, but it's nice for March. He really, really misses it.

"Beaches and palm trees and none of this fucking snow. Cheap booze. No one giving you shit..." A beat. "Only some people giving you shit." And y yeah, he really misses it.

"What's Qinghe like? All that flowy fabric, it's gotta be nicer than this."

Huaisang cannot fathom that many people anywhere, much less in any one province. Three million, more than the stars in the sky. He's not sure he likes the sound of that, especially in addition to hot. But still, both things are an improvement on here.

"Qinghe is a mountain region, like this one but not as cold and snowy and dark." Huaisang puts down his pen as he speaks, a little lost in memory. "We have steel and silver mines, and hot springs, and my clan is very stern and strong and everything that I'm not, so nobody's happy that I'm now in charge, least of all me. Though I don't know what's happening without me. I ... I want to think that they're better off, but I'm afraid that there might be options worse than me."

He's sad and faraway as he speaks, suddenly looking like he's on the verge of tears.

Ah, he's done it again. March has got to stop stumbling into Huaisang's weak spots, especially now that he knows them a little better. He presses his lips into a thin line, tilts his head to the side, though he can't say he regrets learning about Qinghe. It sounds beautiful. LA can be nice, but mostly it's just convenient.

"Hey." Huaisang's staring off into the distance, and March shifts closer so he can wave the bottle in front of the other's face, their sides touching as he leans. An encouragement to drink: that solves everything March feels bad about, it should work with his new companion.

"The fact that you're worried about it at all is a sign you care. That's a step in the right direction. I'm sure it's fine. Tell me about the hot springs?"

extinction is the rule

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

all links are to classical chinese pornography ...

cw nsfw ig lmfao these two

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)