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

He doesn't really notice the door, but when Thomas speaks he jerks upright one hand moving towards his rifle. He takes a few moments to peer at the other man, to make sure that he's real, before relaxing and responding.

"Not getting drunk." He sounded drunk, though, and his cheeks were flushed. "Just needed a bit."

"That's a pity. If there's an occasion for it, I'd say the rousing of the restless dead would be it." He's as dry and harsh as the winter air, but there's no specific unkindness in his tone. It's more a general distaste for the world at large.

Thomas eyes the huddled young man now that he's closer. He's younger than Thomas guessed at first, he thinks. Not as young as plenty he's seen seek comfort in a bottle.

"Think you could spare any of that?"

He shivers a bit at the mention of the restless dead and takes a swig of the bottle. He peers at it for a moment; there's still a good amount left so he holds it out.

"It calms my nerves. Ghosts creep me out."

Thomas snorts as he takes the bottle, raising it to his lips in a practised swig before he hands it back. The dip in the level of liquid isn't excessive, but it is noticeable, and only the barest of winces crosses his face at the burn.

"I don't care for them either," he admits, readily, "Or the lights."

He takes the bottle back but doesn't drink from it. "Light's are fine. Nice to see things again. Or you mean the ones in the sky? Those can't be good."

"Both," he says, honestly, sounding more haggard to his own ears than he expected. He lets out a slow exhale through his slightly stuffed up nose, eyes half-lidding like an irritated cat.

"These are too harsh, and those are too uncanny." More reasoning than he might usually offer up, but perhaps generosity and liquor loosen his tongue. It would help explain why he adds, unprompted: "Thomas. And you are?"

He looks up at the ceilings. "These are too bright. I don't like it when they flicker."

He takes another swig, smaller this time, and looks back to Thomas. "Levi. This is a shit situation to meet in."

Thomas snorts amicably enough, a sound several tiers below a laugh.

"And I don't imagine it will improve itself any time soon." He leans his hip against the counter, taking some of the weight off of his feet.

He closes his eyes and leans back against the counter. "...they never do."

"Not as a rule."

Thomas lapses into brief quiet once more, flattening his hand on the counter. The air seems to be warming in here, or that's the vodka kicking in.

"Young, to be a realist."

He opens his eyes for a few moments to look towards Thomas before looking to a far corner of the store. He was young, sure, but he'd grown up much too fast. Everything he'd seen...well, this guy doesn't want to know about that. He closes his eyes again and sighs.

"...yeah," he says, voice breaking slightly.

"...saves you time."

They're not words of comfort. Thomas wouldn't know where to begin, and beyond that, there are weights that lie across people that are too great to shift with meagre words from a stranger.

But he does understand, in the way that two beaten dogs on opposite sides of a fence understand each other.

"Should I leave you to it, then?"

Levi wouldn't know how to take words of comfort, anyway. A grim understanding sits better.

"Yeah." He takes another, smaller, drink from the bottle and holds it out towards Thomas. "Take it with you."

That's a clear enough prompting to leave, as Thomas would certainly prefer to. Sometimes a person prefers to wallow in their solitary misery. He had hoped that would be the answer he'd receive.

And yet.

He accepts the bottle with his good hand, and sets it on the counter.

"There are some things I came here for," he lies, "Won't be long."

Thomas shuffles away from the boy to pretend at looking through the picked over shelves. He doesn't know what he's doing, or why he's avoiding the exit he's been offered. (He knows, and knows perfectly well.)

He grunts an affirmative and pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his head on them. He watches Thomas shuffle away through half-lidded eyes, more because there's movement for him to track than out of any interest.

Thomas doesn't make small talk. He prefers not to talk at all, if he can get away with it. But here he stands, buzzing with fever and pain as he stares at fantastically packaged foodstuffs, trying to come up with something to say.

"...do you have any idea what a 'hickory stick' is meant to be?" He asks, squinting at a bag of the stick in question.

He looks up, taking a few moments to respond. "...a stick made of hickory? Or its some brand name. Dunno."

"Hn."

Thomas plucks the bag from the shelf and throws it in Levi's direction, more or less.

"Open them and find out for me." He's only got the one working hand, after all. If Levi follows up on the request, he'll discover that they're a kind of thin, fried potato sticks with a mild hickory smoke flavour.

"Huh?"

He watches the bag fall but once again it takes him a few moments to catch up to what just happened. He moves forward, takes the bag and opens it. "Its...food."

He thinks its food, at least, so he grabs a stick and tries it. "...I think its a potato?"

"Everything is a God-damned potato," Thomas mutters. "It seems they've come up with a hundred new ways to slice, fry, puff, and - " he reads the label of another bag " - 'flavorize' the things."

He's put together that this is the future, relative to his own time. He has read The Time Machine, so while it's outlandish, he has a frame of reference.

"Is it any good?"

"Huh." He does not remember there being so many potato things, but his diet was pretty limited for most of his life. So he'll take Thomas's word for it.

He tries a few more sticks. "Its got some sort of...smokey? flavor. Or something. I dunno...its not bad."

Potatoes aren't precisely a staple in his diet, but they do make their appearances. This dizzying array of snack foods is beyond anything he was familiar with even in his more fortunate days.

"Good enough. Here." Thomas throws another bag at Levi, this one full of still half-frozen, brightly colored gummies. "It claims to be 'fruit drops'."

Levi almost catches this bag, but with the drink in him his reflexes aren't quite up to it. He picks it up after it lands and opens it. "Um...I think this one is candy."

Or some sort of dessert something. He's not sure if its supposed to be frozen or that just happened with how cold this place was. He pops one in his mouth anyway.

"...yeah, candy."

Damn, he has not had candy in...Levi has no idea when he last had candy, actually. Huh.

The gummies aren't meant to be frozen, not that either of them have any way of knowing that. Thomas grunts his acknowledgement and snags a few more loose bags from the shelves, balancing them precariously on his left arm as he meanders back to Levi.

"Give some over," he says, as he drops his cargo on the counter next to the vodka, extending his right hand and beckoning.

He takes a few more for himself before holding the bag out for Thomas.

"I haven't really paid attention to those kinds of foods. I don't recognize any of them." His knowledge of candy and snacks is a few years out of date for his time period, yet alone this one.

extinction is the rule

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