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

[buriedpast]

The problem was this wasn't the first time Ghost had heard the ghosts whisper to him from his past. They found him most often in the dead of night and in the emptiness of his room. There was a reason he preferred to be on constant active duty. Always moving, always thinking, always surviving. When things slowed down, things crept in. The odd thing was that strange things were happening around town and that, normally, should have had him on his game.

And he was, for a few days. But as the days went on, he kept hearing his laughter mixed with his father's. He kept hearing his brother. The bubbling laugh of his nephew. He felt like the earth was swallowing him again and the stench of rot kept him rooted in his spot for longer than he realized.

You've never belonged anywhere. That's why you're the Ghost. You're meant to be the thing left behind. The voice wasn't wrong. The voice had never been wrong. He didn't deserve warm, witty Scottish remarks or bulking men in strange armor looking after him.

His body has gone stiff from how long he has been sitting in the same position. As a sniper, he was used to that sort of thing, often sitting hunched over his rifle for anywhere up to ten or more hours. Minimal food, minimal water, minimal everything.

He should hear Din's ascension. Ghost doesn't move an inch, and his head is tipped in such a way that his eyes are cast in shadow, making his mask all the more gaunt and haunting. He's on his own knees, knife in hand, but loosely, and it looks as if he had been in the middle of cleaning it.

He doesn't even move when Din settles in front of him as he typically would. While not always a man of many words, he still acknowledged Din vocally. Liked the man well enough to say hello. To thank him for the strange gestures of kindness. Simon still couldn't wrap his mind around why Din brought him anything at all, but appreciated it regardless.

His silence echoes louder, somehow than Din's words. He shifts ever so slightly, a mild shake of the head as if some part of him is still with it enough to tell Din to leave him alone.

[metaldad]

Ghost isn't the most talkative of people, Din has learned, but he's also not the type to just straight up ignore someone like this -- and as Din pauses awkwardly, he considers the idea that he may not be the only person with a voice in their head right now.

He knows the source has to be external. Din's a man that dwells largely inside his own head, and he knows that he's usually mentally stable. He doesn't go from mostly fine to constantly on the verge of a panic attack for no reason, even if he has been flung across the galaxy with no ship and no kid and no creed and half his weapons gone. So, something else is interfering with his thoughts.

It stands to reason it could be happening to other people, too.

That's just a guess. But a man like Ghost would have a lot that a voice like that could talk about, just like Din, enough to make a man vanish into his thoughts. Enough to freeze him in the middle of his actions and drag him down into a darkness from which escape is nearly impossible.

"Ghost," he says, voice abrupt, "snap out of it." He thinks briefly about reaching out, patting him on the shoulder or something, but he doesn't. The knife might be a problem if Ghost gets violent, especially in tight quarters. "You with me?"

cw: vague suicide ideation + ptsd

[buriedpast]

Din's voice reaches him, but only mildly at first. Some buried part of him knew he needed to snap out of it and felt embarrassed to even be told to in the first place. But the voices are louder now and he doesn't move right away.

You with me?

Ghost snatches onto that small thread.

Barely, he wants to say, but the words die in his throat. The hand around his knife tightens hold, the leather glove crackling with the force. But then he's moving his hand out slowly, a slight, uncharacteristic tremble to it. Blade facing out, away from both men, and pointing instead at a wall. He lowers it even slower until finally, his hand and the blade are hovering just above Din's lap.

He lets go with some difficulty. There is no real grace in the gesture, and not for the first time, he thinks it's a good thing Din wears all that armor. He snaps his arm back as if the gesture alone had burnt him, and beneath his mask, he scowls.

"Trying to be," he finally manages to get out. His voice was already deep, but in this state, it came out in a growl. "Can't trust myself with that right now, don't think." It isn't spoken in a way that suggested any concern of him hurting Din or anyone else and perhaps it is clear enough who he is truly concerned with hurting. He may have thought about ending it all before, but even he knew something was gripping him beyond his own will, and the idea of turning a blade on himself because of that felt like losing a battle.

"...Can't..." He begins, shaking his head slowly. He rests his hand next to his own knee on the floor. He exhales slowly. He could feel how hungry he is, how nice that drink smelled. He could feel that his knees were bruised and stiff from how long he had been sitting there with his full dead weight on them. It was going to hurt like a bitch to stand.

But first. His mind.

"Like a goddamn flashback except..." It wasn't. Not really. Flashbacks at least had the mercy of robbing you of your sanity temporarily. This was...Simon had just enough of his sense about him to grit his teeth. "Damn loud."

[metaldad]

Din's gaze fixes like a hawk on that trembling hand, waiting for it to move. His relief is immeasurable when it swivels the blade away from them, and that shaking grip releases the knife into his lap. Din catches it, and stashes it in the boot sheath where his vibroblade had once gone -- it's not out of Ghost's reach, but he'd have to make a pretty obvious move to get it, and Din would be able to intercept in time.

For now, the most important thing is Ghost's state of mind. Because Din's been there. Yesterday he'd gotten so lost in the voice that Rorsachach had had to tackle him and pin him down and stop him from trying to walk out into the snow and disappear. He knows exactly where Ghost is right now, and it's not a pretty place.

So he takes that hand that Simon put down, and he puts it against his chestplate, and breathes in enough that Ghost can feel it move. "Match my breathing," he says, as gently as he can, modulator crackling. Even through two pairs of gloves he can feel that Ghost's hand is cold, not moving well. "Focus on your external senses. What do you see?"

When he'd been a young foundling, there'd been things that had triggered him into panic attacks. The sight of droids, the smell of smoke. Loud explosions. His buir (parent) had always sat with him and used this trick, making him describe his sensory experiences to draw him out of the flashbacks.

"Describe it for me. Focus on the details."

[buriedpast]

Ghost has never been around someone else for this long while going through a flashback. He was good at vanishing just before this sort of vulnerability made itself known. As far as most people were concerned, Ghost may as well have no feelings at all. If he had the choice to vanish now, he would. He didn't want Din to see this part of him; didn't want anyone to see it, but least of all the one ally he's felt he's made.

But there is no choice to run away or tuck it down deep. His hand shakes as Din brings it to his chest. It's the first time someone has really initiated any sort of intimate touch with him ever and that alone is enough to jerk his attention to the right place. He's hyperaware of the exact size and shape of Din's hand, and then slowly, his breathing as well.

His own breath trembles as he pulls it in and then lets it back out, doing as Din instructed.

"You." It's a blunt assessment, but it's true. He's not really looking anywhere else except Din's chest and Din's hand. He tries harder though, clearing his throw lowly.

"Your armor. Your hand, mostly. It's warm." Unlike the cold bodies stacked up in his mind. He looks slowly over Din's armor, tipping his head slightly. "I've never seen armor quite like yours before. Reminds me of a knight."

[metaldad]

It's not particularly detailed, but it's a start. Ghost's starting to focus on something other than his own thoughts, and that's the direction he needs to keep heading in. Whatever's happening to cause a malicious voice in people's heads, Din at least figures that distraction will work.

It's not a long-term fix. Din has no idea what that would be. He's always just shoved shit down and kept going. For now, this trick his buir taught him will do.

"Good," he says, so soft his modulator barely picks it up, so soft it only barely crosses the air between them to reach Ghost's ears. "That's good. Keep going. What do you hear? Tell me everything."

The leather of his glove creaks faintly as he tightens his grip on Ghost's hand, keeping it against his breastplate. He can feel the pressure against his chest as he breathes steadily, the locked joints of Ghost's hand underneath his own. Besides Grogu, he hasn't had this much contact for a long time, not unless someone was trying to kill him. It's confronting, but... not unpleasant.

[buriedpast]

Ghost didn't believe there was such a thing as a long-term fix. Men like them tended to die with their ghosts right beside them. There's some creeping embarrassment crawling in as he starts to ground himself in Din's presence. He wasn't the sort to fall apart. He had to be able to take care of his own men. Grinding his teeth together, he has to take a particularly deep breath to keep himself from shoving Din away.

Din was trying to help. And he was succeeding in it too. Just as Ghost's mind was about to slip away, Din's voice pulled him back. He shifts at last and the pain in his legs is a bit agonizing.

"Your voice." Again, blunt, and obvious, but it's a decidedly nice enough voice and he can't help but think back to Los Almas and how grounding it had been to just be able to hear Johnny. "Wind."

He plants his other hand down on the ground next to him and carefully adjusts his weight. He hisses lowly as he sinks to the side, shifting so sit on his ass instead of his folded-up legs. There's an immediate flood of pins and needles.

"Your- glove. Our breathing." The latter of which isn't too loud. He closes his eyes briefly, head bowing forward. "Creaking of the building."

[metaldad]

Ghost's moving, finally, even if it's just to shift his sitting position. Din doesn't know how long he'd been crouched like that, but with how gingerly he'd shifted... it's got to be a while. A day, maybe. Maybe longer. Snipers like Ghost how to stay still for long periods of time and how to get up quick if they need to. However long it's been, it's beyond Ghost's usual limit.

"Good," he repeats, a husk of a word. "Birds, too. Do you hear them? Not many of them, with this cold. But they're there. Surviving."

Just like they're trying to.

They've been through sight and sound, but taste and smell probably won't be too useful for bringing Ghost back to himself, here. Din's not sure how much he can smell through that mask, and if he hasn't eaten for a while, he won't be tasting anything. So:

"Now. What do you feel?" Din feels pressure against his armor. Hard wood under his kneepads. The cold seeping in where his armor doesn't protect. The slight sway of the bird's nest in the wind. He feels unusually grounded right now. Anchored in his body. "Any pain?"

[buriedpast]

"Yes." Answering simple questions was easier than digging through the murkiness. It also reminds him to actually take in that noise and carefully catalog it.

Ghost takes in another slow breath. His hand slides down the front of Din's armor. He brings up his other hand at last and winds up resting it against Din's arm, holding onto the man. His body caves toward Din, almost as if he is about to collapse, but he doesn't.

"...Yes," he eventually says, more reluctant to admit to that. "Nothing I can't handle."

He's dealt with far worse, he thinks, but all that does is drudge up what it felt like being inside that godforsaken coffin again and this time, Ghost does wind up curling entirely forward. He doesn't mean to slump into Din's personal space, but his head winds up somewhere against Din's shoulder. Ironically, he's trying to take that other step of trying to ground himself in smell. Anything other than the rot of a corpse and earth.

He winds up gripping Din tighter where he can, his body tensing back up.

"I'm sorry about this," he manages to get out.

[metaldad]

It would be worrying if Ghost wasn't in pain right now, so the answer is a relief. His body's still working, at least, and sending up signals that something's wrong. It's better than numbness.

The motion of Ghost's hand feels jarring, the touch of his other hand on Din's arm feels impossibly weighty, and before Din can do anything, Ghost collapses in toward him. Din doesn't budge, just lets himself be a steady rock as Ghost's head comes to rest against his shoulder, just above where his pauldron lays and into the bunching of his cloak.

Din stares blankly at the bird's nest far wall, frozen. Unsure.

He wants to apologize, because he tended to his armor this morning with what little polishing oil remained on the cloth in his pocket, and with his nose so close, Ghost's probably getting a noseful. He wants to apologize for not being so readily tender like some people he's met, the type of people who would open their arms and murmur soft comforting words and reassure Ghost that it's all going to be okay.

Ghost apologizes, and Din doesn't say anything. He merely moves a fraction, one hand coming up to grip Ghost's bicep. An anchor.

"There's a voice," he says, low and soft. "It called me an interloper. It dredged up things I try not to think about. It sounds familiar, but... not. Is it in your head, too?"

[buriedpast]

It's the smell of something that was living, something that could move and decide and breathe. That would always be a more welcome smell than earth. It's an interesting enough odor that cuts through the bitterly cold air and even the smell of the food Din had brought him.

Ghost would have dismissed such an apology. He was hardly a man of tenderness himself, after all. After this whole event passes, he will no doubt be gruff and quiet about it all. Prickling with something that he would never call embarrassment. Soft words and comfort were something he had stopped deserving a long time ago.

He doesn't expect to be touched back. His body twitched involuntarily at the gesture, and that alone proved how on edge he actually was. He listens to Din, for a moment not fully processing his words and instead just processing the smooth rumble of his voice. Not a voice as deep as Ghost's own, but it was a fine voice. Just fine. After a few seconds of silence, he processes what Din had said.

"Yeah," he begrudgingly admits, "...That'd be the one. Can't say it's wrong either." He wasn't from this world. He pulls himself upright from Din a little but doesn't quite pull away yet.

"Bloody annoying as hell." It was more than just annoying, but he's trying to alleviate the situation a bit. He pushes himself further up until he's no longer leaning on Din. He's still in his personal space though, eyes exhausted, not really looking anywhere.

"Did it make you feel..." He hesitates and winds up clearing his throat. "Like you might be better off six feet under?"

[metaldad]

Ghost hefts himself up, and it's not long before he's not leaning against Din anymore, and there's a part of Din that aches quietly in the aftermath, like a strange, anxious twisting in his stomach. He can't quite puzzle out what it's about, though, so he guesses he'll just put it down to the mood of this month, with the voice in his head and dark things being dredged up.

He hesitates for a long moment before he answers: "Yes."

Din doesn't elaborate. He is not proud of the fact that Rorschach had to tackle him to stop him from trying to perish in the frozen nothingness outside of Milton.

He picks up the thermos, cradling it briefly. He can feel the heat ebbing in through his gloves; he offers it to Ghost, twisting the cap off. The smell of coffee is suddenly sharp in the air between them. "Here. This will help." Warmth, and a strong taste, will help ground Ghost some more, he hopes.

After a pause, he asks, "How long have you been up here?"

[buriedpast]

It made something unwind between Ghost's shoulders. Not that he really wanted Din to be able to understand where he was coming from, but there was a source of comfort in knowing he wasn't actually the only one nearly losing it. Though that comfort quickly slides into concern and he finally looks at Din properly.

"How are you handling it now?"

Was Din okay? He doesn't know how to ask that without sounding like he cares too much, so naturally, he leans for a more neutral angle. His gaze falls from Din's helmet down to the offered thermos.

He can't even deny how good it sounded right now. His whole body was stiff with cold. He rearranges himself with a grunt, pulling his legs out from under him completely. He sits on his ass, knees bent, and sighs.

"Honestly not sure. At least one full day." He was in and out of focus for most of it. He takes the thermos from Din with a nod of appreciation. He lifts the edge of his mask just enough to expose his mouth and the bottom of his nose. From what the skin does show, it is heavily scarred, especially around the neck and at the corners of his mouth. An unusual scar puckers the left side of his mouth like a snake had bitten him. He keeps his head low, used to eating and drinking alone, but right now, he can't be bothered to be private. He brings the thermos up to his mouth and takes a long drink. The coffee's heat sinks into him and he shuts his eyes, merely relishing in the simple comfort.

"Thank you."

[metaldad]

The question makes him sigh, stifled just enough that his helmet's vocoder doesn't pick it up. He'd hoped that Ghost wouldn't ask further about Din's own state of mind, but it's not a surprise that he would. Din has just witnessed Ghost at a vulnerable time; Ghost may be looking for reassurance that he's not the only one going through this.

(This concept that Ghost might just care for the sake of caring doesn't even occur to Din.)

Before he answers, Ghost starts moving, drinking the offered coffee, and Din's stuck by the sight of his exposed mouth and jaw. He's got a strong jawline, an expressive mouth, and a lot of scars. Those kinds of scars are sources of pride in Mandalorian culture; they say I survived and I'm stronger than what tried to kill me, and even more than that, a good scar is considered a beautiful thing.

Din's not sure if he should be looking. From what he can tell, Ghost's permanent wearing of his mask isn't a cultural or religious thing, but a military thing, and a personal choice on top of that. But it still seems disrespectful to stare the way that Din is, so his helmet dips down, visor pointing toward Ghost's boots instead of his mouth.

"I almost succumbed to the voice's suggestions," he admits wearily. "Another survivor had to tackle me to the ground to stop me from trying to perish in the frozen waste." (Thank you, Rorschach). "After that, it... seemed easier to push it away."