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

Thomas Richardson | Apostle

[missionem]

permissions ⛮ ooc plotting ⛮ terriblepurpose

foraging - open

[missionem]

[ cw: finger amputation, general injury, resignation to death ]

[ The spans of time Thomas is capable of dragging himself out of his stolen house shrink by the day. Increasingly, he struggles to rouse himself from his fever-damp bed at all. Donning the dark outer layers of his winter clothing is a challenge even with the ingenious novelties of the future.

Only years of practice coercing his unwilling meat into animation permit him to do any of it. Endurance is as much a matter of mental tolerance as it is of pure vitality. He's witnessed feats of persistence that put the meagre miracle of his ongoing clinging to life to shame. He can only hope his will gives out before he comes to resemble some of the barely conscious rotten husks tucked into the corners of tenements and workhouse infirmaries.

If it does come to that, he takes some comfort in knowing that he's bound not to last long. In such a condition he would require care he will not receive, and so he can at least expect to succumb to thirst or fever not long after he becomes fully incapable.

Until then, he goes about his errands. With a durable satchel slung over his right shoulder he searches the empty houses and workplaces of Milton for supplies he'll never make use of, adding to a growing cache hidden inside of his temporary lodgings. He's long stopped thinking about the why of it. It's something to do with his time, what little of it there is, that preoccupies him more than staring at a ceiling waiting to die.

Sometimes, as he walks from building to building, boots crunching crisply in the snow, he almost forgets anything but the empty sky and the sleeping earth. There's a respite in that.

Every once in a while, a person might even hear a muffled hum of no tune in particular emerging from the shuffling figure. ]

[fidior]

[ Little has found his own respite in roaming the town. It becomes a daily thing, less of a habit and more of a task, a chore, but that's the way that feels most comfortable to him. He treats it severely, as though an order were given, although of course there has been none. His captain is gone.

But it's an order given by himself, the responsibility he's directed, some quiet, precious authority. He cannot lose himself to sorrow or complacency. There are things to be taken care of here.

Does some part of his heart grasp onto the notion as a second chance? A chance to do what he'd failed to do, once? Perhaps, although he isn't so foolish as to truly believe it will matter to his own soul, in the end. (And of course, there is one man here who knows exactly what horrors he has done. Goodsir, a ghost of Little's own, existing as though his conscience, dripping with guilt and shame, has willed itself from his body and into the form of a solid man. Each time Goodsir comes upon him, Little knows he is seen. He can never escape those eyes. He does not deserve to.)

This is all he can do. And so he does — patrolling the town, and as the days pass by in this place, with more and more assurance. He begins to introduce himself to others as "Lieutenant Little" again, always dressed in his uniform, keeping it as crisp as he is able. His shotgun stays strapped to his back, meant more as a symbol than anything. He means to serve as a figure of order to the people here, of safety.

This is all he can do.

He's making his rounds now, when he turns a corner to hear a faint hum, a sound that brings about its own memories — songs and humming, ways to pass the time among the men. Ways to fill the silence, to lift the spirits. Edward was never one to indulge in it, himself, may have even found it distracting in an unpleasant way once, but now...? He's drawn to that sound, soft as it may be, turning to welcome the shuffling movement. And the face he sees surprises him — brows lifting, coming to a halt. ]

Mr. Richardson. [ The town is so small that he's come across Thomas here or there, though never often, never for long. But enough to know that the state of him is consistently bad, and having seen much of it up close for himself, Edward may be one of the few who knows just how bad. ]

It's good to see you up and about.

[missionem]

[ Thomas has made note of Lieutenant Little as well. It's a habit he's slightly more self-conscious of the past few days, having been called out for it with perplexing serenity. He hasn't had cause or desire to think about the way he thinks in some years. It's not something he wishes to do now, but it comes across him in waves, as if his sturdy moorings have become loose and the unseen motions of the hidden mind ripple up through his surface thoughts.

So it is that marking the improvement of Little's posture has come with an awareness that he is marking it, and making something of what he marks. The feelings of cynical distaste for the airs the man seems to put on are troubled by Thomas' acknowledgement of the real root of his irritation when he sets eyes on the man at a distance:

He's not sure the man can bear up under the weight he seems to believe he must shoulder, and that would be of no concern to Thomas, except that Little saved his life. A vexing sense of indebtedness plagues him. He thinks about this as the man looks him over, a hint of knowing concern already present in the evaluation. Thomas tries not to bristle at it. ]

Lieutenant Little.

[ Not Mr., not to start. The man has no ship and no crew. The least courtesy Thomas can afford him is his sense of who he believes himself to be. ]

The same to you. [ If he sounds more rough than genteel, well, it's not as though it will come as a surprise to the other. ] You seem well.

And I'll spare you making yourself a liar by saying 'as do you, Mr. Richardson.' Some of the corpses have better colour than I.

[fidior]

[ It was almost an alien thing in the early days here, to even equate himself with the position. Like the death of a loved one, a status changed. He'd tacked something on as though an afterthought, when introducing himself (and even to this man) as Edward Little — 'of the Royal Navy.' Not proud, not even wholly professional, not like how he presents himself more recently, voice rich in its tone, smoothed out and more sure of itself in its formality — 'Of Her Majesty's Royal Navy.'

(As though it still means anything. It has to.)

Still, it strikes him to hear it used back to him, a reminder of tangible weight and substance. It's another pleasant surprise, on top of seeing Thomas walking around so seemingly freely, and no matter that perpetually cragged edge to the other man, Edward finds his spirits lifted a little. He almost even smiles at the remark, a gesture seen more to the eyes than the mouth, warm browns giving an amused glint. It restrains itself soon enough; he allows himself such expressions in small doses (and tacked onto the fact is the mention of corpses, a sobering reminder of the horrifying state of this town....) On that note— ]

I trust you aren't over-exerting yourself? [ Edward looks the other over, eyes then finding the satchel on his person and lingering there. ]

Could you use a hand?

[missionem]

[ Thomas stares at Edward for a moment, clear of judgment or scorn, a simple boggled stare that cracks into incongruously bright amusement of his own. ]

Oh, but I could.

[ He lifts his left hand and waves it, a ripple of unvoiced laughter curling the edges of the words into nearly softened shapes. He's quite sure that's not the joke Edward intended, but it is the joke Thomas will take of it. There's a power to jokes. He's sure that's why anyone of any dignity tend to forbid all but the most attenuated versions of them in their presence.

That's all the more reason for Thomas to slip in his sharpened slivers of dark humour. He appreciates the effect it has on people. ]

Are you offering yours? I did once long to tie knots as the sailors do.

malaise - open

[missionem]

[ cw: finger amputation, infection, illness, emetophobia, opiate withdrawal, drug addiction, general injury ]

[ The last time Thomas changed the bandages on his side, his sutures were pulled tight over inflamed red flesh that was hot to the touch and spewed foul effluvia at the lightest prod of exploratory fingers. He'd cleaned it as best he could, clumsily rewound fresh bandages around his abdomen, and knew it was the last time he would do so.

That wasn't the moment of acceptance. That moment had come a world away from here, and by now was long settled into his marrow. This was only the end of a temporary deviation from a fate fixed as soon as the knife slid into the red, wet interior of his guts.

He's not at peace with it. He wonders, at the end of his life, if he's ever truly been at peace with anything, which is the sort of melancholy pap that tests his patience for himself.

Dying itself certainly isn't peaceful. It's a messy, unpleasant degeneration of bile and reek and sweating fevers. He spends much of his time heaving into a bucket or floating in and out of hideous dreams. More than once, he wonders what obscure purpose was served by dragging him so far out of place and time to die like this. Perhaps there was no purpose at all. That would be fitting, in its own way.

At least then he'd had the sky to look at while he died.

It's that at least that has him crawl perversely from his deathbed and swaddle himself in puffy winter clothing so he can sit on his borrowed front step and smoke a cigarette, eyes fixed on the watercolour glow of the horizon as the sun sets. His coat hangs open, the chill of the air going unnoticed against the furnace of his torso. He looks like a corpse already, his unwashed hair plastered to his scalp and his face waxy with unwholesome pallor.

His eyes are still bright. Too bright, glossy as marbles, and fixing sharply on anyone who might approach him. He lifts his cigarette in limp salute, ash scattering from the tip before he takes another drag. ]

What do you want?

[ Charming and congenial as ever. ]

[moralabsolutism]

[Fortunately, Rorschach was about as much of a people person as Thomas was, so he didn't even notice the rudeness directed towards his way. He stomped up in winter boots that were about a size and a half too big for him. He paused in front of the man, his gloved hands shoved into his pockets. As always, he was wearing the white mask with black shapes which constantly moved about of their own volition.]

Look terrible

[Rorschach observed in the stilted way he had of speaking. Pale skin that looked clammy, eyes that shone with an unnatural light, and not apparently feeling the cold? The man clearly had a fever and likely more.]

Should rest.

[missionem]

[ Thomas squints up at the space where the approaching stranger's face ought to be. It takes what feels like a considerable amount of time to determine that the black on white pattern is shifting in reality and not just in Thomas' swimming vision.

It's unpleasant to look at. There's a slipperiness to it that he doesn't care for, flowing into shapes that suggest other shapes without ever coalescing into them directly. They remind Thomas of dead leaves, or flowers. ]

Am resting.

[ He counters, blithely, taking another shaking drag of his cigarette. He can't even taste it. ]

[moralabsolutism]

[That glance at his face Thomas gave had an uneasy quality to it. The superhero was used to it. His face was disconcerting even at the best of time for people who had known him a long time, let alone complete strangers.]

Rest inside.

[Rorschach said in an impatient manner, as if this was the most logical thing in the world. Really, sitting outside here like a moron was only going to end up with the man catching double pneumonia at this rate.]

[missionem]

[ Of all the things Thomas might have expected, being harangued by a faceless apparition over the state of his health wasn't one of them. It's very close to amusing. ]

Too hot.

[ He retorts, just as tersely. He can appreciate the other man's (if it is a man, and not some sort of benign monstrosity) economy of language. ]

Fever. [ He taps ash from his cigarette. ] Won't be long, I expect.

[bigbaddy]

You look like shit.

[ Two can play the charm game here, clearly. Though Bigby would say it's less about lacking charm, and more about just cutting out the bullshit. Why be indirect about it when you can just say it as it is?

Surely Thomas has noticed his own state too, after all. It'd be hard not to, given its severity.

It's why Bigby actually approached the other. Because Thomas definitely looks worse than he did when they spoke on their first day here, and Bigby can't help but notice these things, no matter what he might claim about himself.

For example, one such claim might be that he just came over to keep an eye on things. And while that's true, there's something deeper to it, a chasm where at the bottom he actually cares about the fact that Thomas looks like shit, because a part of him can't help but fuss over the wellbeing of any place he finds himself in. ]

What happened?

[missionem]

[ 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.

[bigbaddy]

[ 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. ]

cw: resignation to death, stabbing

[missionem]

[ 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. ]

[babysitters]

( nobody is looking great around these parts. everybody is freezing their balls off. doesn't seem like anyone has a clue what is going on except for maybe that old dude that bailed the second everyone showed up. electricity really doesn't seem to be a thing which is sort of a problem when it's so goddamn cold. Steve has seen some rough looking individuals, safe to say. hard to just get into the swing of their new circumstances, he accepts that. it took him awhile for him to wrap his head around his cruel and sudden transplant from Hawkins to running around as an emotion filled dinner mint for a spider monster in the sky. he's trying to be patient, for it all to unravel, the campfires to be obvious and the crazy guy with a chainsaw to come grunting and squealing in.

still, this guy looks notably awful, melted across a stoop like he might not be able to get off of it, and still rolled the dice and gave it a shot anyway. it feels uncomfortable to witness, as to be honest Steve hasn't had the misfortune of seeing an appropriate reaction to a grievous injury in a long time. he wonders if the pukey priestess got to this guy, and contemplates asking, because just one person that remembers where they are would be nice.

but for fear of sounding like a crazy person, he doesn't. )

You got another smoke? ( it is possible, and probable, that somewhere in the many foggy murder trials, one's response to injury gets a little muddled. surely a better question is what the hell is wrong with this guy and if he's sought any medical attention for it. instead Steve comes across very cavalier, ignoring the obvious (the guy looks terrible) for something more remarkable. Bill is the only one who ever had a cigarettes, and the old bastard never shared any of them. )

[missionem]

[ Another young man with a seasoned air. The town seems to be well-populated with the type, and Thomas wonders if it's coincidence or if the woods are dotted with the bodies of those who found themselves incapable of managing their way to the town before they succumbed to the elements.

Frankly, he wonders why he wasn't counted among those potential unmourned, undiscovered dead. Comparing his decrepit state to the hard but healthy look of the young man asking for a cigarette, it almost seems laughable to categorize them both as survivors.

Thomas holds his cigarette between his lips as he fishes a crumpled pack from his pocket and starts to tap one loose, stops himself with a snort, and tosses the third-full pack to the inquiring soul. It's a terrible throw, and he suspects it'll hit the ground before the young man's hand unless he's particularly quick about it. ]

All yours. [ He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and exhales. ] Matches inside the lid.

[importance]

[ among the corpses of this wretched little village, with its tombs of quiet homes, thomas isn't so misplaced. even from her distance on snowy streets, he has the look of a restless spirit — close to the hour of death, if yennefer had to make an estimate, one leg already settled into his coffin. she's seen it countless times before, will see it countless times more; watching the world rot and wither is merely another burden of the near-century she's walked the continent.

she couldn't give a reason, them as to why it gives her pause over a perfect stranger, here and now.

light skims across the beaded sweat clinging to the waxy gleam of his forehead. so do yennefer's eyes, piercing things that they are — though there's a distinct absence of shame as his question pulls her from her study. an unapologetic aura as the violet of her gaze lances into fever-bright one, as though she hadn't been caught observing his sickly disposition at all. ]

Is that how you greet all guests? I'd have thought a dying man to be more forgiving.

[ the words come bone-dry. she's never had much of a bedside manner to boast about, after all — but the yennefer of yesteryear might have kept going forward. would have scoffed if she could see how easily she takes it upon herself, now, to lean into his porch railing. there's a feline-like stature to it, like some imperious creature that has no qualms with inserting itself into someone else's space. perfectly at ease. ]

My list of wants is longer than you would know what to do with. [ the edges of her mouth curl; a private joke. then, she gives a dainty head tip toward the glowing end of his cigarette, watching as the wispy tendrils float up into the air. ] But to begin with, you might learn to share.

[missionem]

[ The first thing he notices about her, which is also the first thing he imagines anyone notices about her, is that she is one of the most gorgeous creatures he's ever laid eyes on. It's a noticing that comes without any attendant desire or supposition - even if he had ever been quick to kindle that particular candle, the state of him now leaves that metaphorical wick inert.

But he appreciates it, as he appreciates the swoop of a hawk or the setting of the sun that paints her in such flattering shades. He also appreciates the stark absence of pity, which would render the contrast between her sleek vitality and his grubby debility practically unbearable. ]

How rude of me.

[ He agrees, as dryly as she observed his dying, and for the sake of that he bothers to tap a cigarette loose of the crumpled pack he fishes from inside his coat instead of merely offering it to her whole. The machine rolled type have a pleasing uniformity, and he attempts to smooth the one he retrieves back into better shape before he presents it to her.

He isn't sure of the last time he gave a woman a cigarette. It's not a vice ladies of a certain class indulge in, but he's had occasion in the past few years. More so earlier on, when there was something rakish about his ruin, instead of only wrecked. He wonders if she recognizes it as a favour she's bestowing on him. He wonders why it does feel like a favour to be asked for anything, and why he's grateful for it, in his own miserly, miserable way. ]

Have you found the dying to be particularly forgiving, in your experience? [ He asks, his own cigarette tucked to the corner of his lips and words slurred thereby. ] If so, I would hazard our experiences have been quite different.

[ Of course they have. One only needs to look at either of them to know that. ]

[importance]

No.

[ simply put, without the need for trussing it up. he gives the impression of a man who'd hardly tolerate it, regardless — a preference for the filth of honesty than the honeyed sweetness of a lie. it seems he's made his peace with truth, besides, the way yennefer has had a near century to explore the ugliness of one's own existence.

the long cylinder of the cigarette dangles between her fingers delicately, awarded the same treatment as she might extend to the stem of a wine glass. when she shifts to sit beside him in a billowing flow of fabric — appropriately black, some shadow of mourning that's come to crow on his doorstep — it's without invitation, or the need to seek one at all. not that she suspects a dying man to forego company, in the lonely stretch of hours before a final breath.

above, the bruised shades of the sunset seem almost mockingly peaceful, smiling down upon his weakened body. yennefer tips her face towards it, lets the gilded light kiss the slope of her cheekbone, and promptly ignores what memories it brings to life. another corpse in the sand, another life taken; another beautiful sunset that had been taunting, amidst all the cruelty and grotesqueness she had glimpsed. ]

I've found it to be as forgiving as life itself, [ she drawls, a cynical dryness to it that alludes to a life hardly lived well. that's the peculiar beauty, she's found, of keeping the company of the dying — secrets spill out easier, sincerity bleeds out of her quicker, knowing they'll simply take her words to their grave. expectantly, she extends the cigarette, waits for him to light its end. ] A sentiment we appear to share.

[ or so she's comfortable assuming as much, at least. no one would so readily accept their mortality without much of a struggle, otherwise. ]

it speaks - open

[missionem]

[ cw: suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, opiate withdrawal, drug addiction ]

[ He hasn't even managed to die after all.

Of all his life's many failings, he's always found that one among the most perplexing. He has no special fear of death, and he certainly has no particular interest in living. Yet whenever a choice has presented itself between one or the other, he's chosen persistence.

By now, he puts it down to habit. Something cultivated when he was a boy and carried into his adulthood, retained well past its original purpose.

But that's never sat entirely right with him. Habits can be abandoned or broken. They don't compel the sort of doggedness required to keep breath in the body. As his fever clears and the foulness of his injuries subside, he can't put his diligence in following his instructions for recovery down to mere rote action.

Why do you go on?

The voice is gentle, understanding. He knows it well. He'd been surprised how much he'd remembered of it when he heard it again the first time, but he's not surprised by it now.

Haven't you done enough?

Too much. More than he knew he was doing, more than he thought he could. There had been so little of him left. There's even less now. The dull hollow at his centre has spread like rot in a fallen tree. Sometimes, he dreams that a hand touches his chest and sinks straight through. There's nothing held between his ribs but dead leaves.

Don't you remember what it felt like to end?

He does. Heaven help him, but he does. As his right hand claws at the frozen black earth in the middle of this clearing he barely recalls walking to, he remembers everything he has told himself he cannot.

The voice has changed. He doesn't understand the words anymore. He knows exactly what she's saying to him all the same.

Come back, she says, wind in the grass, roots in the loam, Come back to me.

So with his head bent, his knees in the dirt, Thomas keeps digging. ]

[castitas]

[ A lone figure wandering off out of Milton pulls her from the foraging book in her hands as she crouches to examine a fallen tree stump on the edge of town. She watches, confused for a brief moment until Kate realises she recognises the shape of them, straightening with wide eyes and lips parted. Where is he going? He can't go out there, not on his own. The growing wolf presence is a needling thing, and it prickles uncomfortably in the back of her mind. The packs mostly come as daylight fades, but it still isn't safe much — even in the daytime.

She looks about her, briefly, for someone else — there's people who patrol around the town through the day, Lieutenant Little is one of them. But the stars have not aligned, and there's no sign of him nor any other the others she's seen sweeping the streets to check on things. And the more she wavers, the further Thomas strays from town.

Her feet are moving before she can stop herself, hurrying off after him — as fast as she can go through the thick snow and uneven ground. She tries to call out (faintly, too worried of rousing wolves) but she goes unheard, unnoticed. By the time she reaches the clearing she's breathless from the journey but thankful he doesn't seemed to have gone any further.

And he's... digging...? ]

Thomas? [ It's softly voiced, uttered between breaths. She's still looking about them, nervous of the tree line as she draws close. They're alone, at least. She prays they remain unnoticed from glowing eyes and hungry teeth. This is... kind of freaking her out right now. ]

Thomas. What are you doing?

cw: suicidal intent, gallows humor

[missionem]

[ Thomas looks up at Kate's calling with unfocused eyes, fingers still buried in the dirt. His other arm and its throbbing end remain wrapped around his middle, less protective and more for lack of any better way to hold himself without jarring it on anything else.

He blinks at her until dull recognition blooms, then lets out a dry, harsh burst of air. ]

It's you. [ He says, which qualifies as no kind of answer. ] I could ask you the same.

[ Which is even less an answer. It might qualify as defensive if he could manage any force or heat behind it, but even to his own numb ears it only gets so far as pathetic. ]

I'm digging a hole, and then I'm going to put myself in it. [ His mouth twists, crooked and awful. ] So as to spare the hallowed churchyard ground my corruption. And you ought to leave these woods before you find your own grave in the belly of a ravenous beast.

[castitas]

You wandered out of town all alone. [ It's obvious, but it's softly spoken, her brow knit for a long moment — there's worry there, in amongst the fear. He walked out of Milton into the wilderness and there's all the dangers that come with that. The wolves, the cold, and whatever else lies in this place. Even the whispers. ]

There was no one around I could ask to help. [ So here she is, running off after him. Because she was worried for him, because she didn't want him coming out here alone, because she didn't know what else to do but to follow.

The answer makes her cringe back in horror. It's a terrible thing to hear, and there's no hiding how much is wounds her, how harsh and coarse it is on her. It's jarring against her own thoughts, against what whispers she's heard. ]

Listen— [ There's a shaky inhale as she fights for words, steps a little closer to him, crouching slightly. ] why... why don't we head back? We could talk there? You don't need to do this.

[missionem]

[ Thomas has little to do with shame these days. The sort of life he's led has been a cure against it, as one cures leather against rot.

But there's the shame that comes of being judged, scourged by eyes that skim over you like you are a contamination on the face of the Earth, and then there's this. One is the shame that the world would have you carry, and the other is the shame that creeps up from within. His defences against that type are oblivion, and oblivion is what he is denied.

He meets Kate's sad, dark eyes, and thinks of wounded rabbits, and shame burns in him like bile. As so many things do, it makes him angry, but not at her. He can manage that much. ]

I told you that you'd be better served looking after your own self. [ He says, harshly. ] Do you plan to chase every vagabond you see into the forest, girl?

[ He is angry she's here. He's angry he permitted himself to be followed this far, trampling forth unaware of who he was baiting into danger. Now it's complicated, again, by some stranger who imagines there's something left of him to salvage. ]