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

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.

[fidior]

[ He's all-too ready to lend one, and in fact is even beginning to reach upwards as though to take the satchel from the other man, when Thomas gives him pause yet again, Edward's eyes falling to that hand that lifts and waves.

Unfortunately, Edward Little is about as much fun as absolutely nothing.

To be sure, he isn't expecting to be faced with humour, and that in itself perhaps confuses him to begin with — eyes just locked onto that hand, expression unreadable for a moment that stretches on for a bit longer than Processing A Thing usually does. (What— what is this? What kind of response is this?)

Then— understanding trickles in, and Edward's generous eyebrows (wolfishly untamed by this point) lift with a bewilderment. He almost looks a little bit frightened. ]

.....You're jesting. [ He says with uncertainty, as though to clarify that is, in fact, what Thomas is doing. He's... being funny. ...Isn't he? But isn't this too morbid?? Sir?? Edward doesn't know what to do, help. ]