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

[ 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?

[ 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.

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.

[ 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. ]

[ She's initially cowed in the face of that anger, the harshness of him, even if it's not directed at her — her head bowing, turning to slightly to the side. But the upset in her bubbles up, she feels chastised for doing what she believes to be right — under the hurt of knowing what he wants to do out here. ]

And what kind of person would I be serving if I'd just watched you go and done nothing? Ignored you? Pretended I hadn't seen you walk out on your own? [ She still can't quite look at him for a moment, shifting uncomfortably — her hands shake and she curls them into fists. She wouldn't have forgiven herself for it. To let someone just... walk out here into the woods? It isn't in her nature, nor would her conscience allow it.

There's a steadying breath or two, trying to soothe herself. Her hands shift up, fingers splayed — a defensive gesture. She lowers herself down to her knees. The cold is biting but she swallows the thought down. ]

Please, come back with me. [ She wants to help. ] You don't need to die out here.

[ A living one, he might say, but he already knows that she wouldn't consider that sufficient. She values herself and her life too little to think anything of risking it for a near stranger.

A very nearly funny thing, when there are so many worse than she is who cherish their wretched lives far more. The selfish survive, and the selfless perish, and the world churns on with its endless teeth tearing all that's gentle into so much shattered meat for the scavengers to sup on. ]

I need to die somewhere. [ He tells her, voice cracked like black lake-ice. ] Everything dies somewhere. In some bed, in some hole, in some field. Or am I to be denied even that much?

[ He drops his eyes from hers to the dark earth. His fingers flex in it, black under the nails. It's so cold, and so soft, this half-sleeping soil. ]

I'm dying anyway. [ He breaks this to her with whatever gentleness he has in him, which is so little. ] Let me have this much.

Everything... does die somewhere. [ She quietly agrees with that. She isn't stupid, she knows everything dies, and it must happen somewhere. For as much as she is sheltered from the world, she does understand that these things happen — even if she's never seen it. And then here, there's been bodies, ghosts. People dying out in the snow, in their homes. ]

... But not yet, not for you. This isn't it.

[ She watches him quietly, her eyes heavy. She doesn't think she's the right person for this, she doesn't know how to do this. The thought of it makes her skin crawl, her chest feel too tight — of not being able to help this. It's a terrible restlessness within her. If she could will him to believe such a thing, she would. But she knows she can't. She can only pray he might.

I'm dying anyway.

It stuns her, enough to knock the air out of her lungs. She looks to his ruined hand, held against his middle. He has looked ill ever since she first laid eyes on him, and time hasn't done much to help it. Her lips press together briefly. ]

... Are... are you sick? [ There's a beat, and then — more gentle pleading: ] There's doctors here, in the town. They can help. I could take you to them.

[ She knows it's not the hospital, but it's something. ]

[ On the island, he had the spur of urgency and the aid of another set of hands to ease the parting. Out in these woods, there's no one here to drag Kate unwillingly away, no imminent certain end to force her to flee against her compassionate instincts.

If he was dying faster, perhaps he could convince her with that, but this long, slow end would keep her at his side for who knows how long, even with the cold.

He knows what comes next. He's always possessed clarity at the worst of times. But his spirit bucks against it, convulsing like the insensate animal thing it is. ]

So I can be dosed and scourged in turns, rotting in a sickbed? I've had my fill of that. [ He scrapes his nails through the dirt, dragging up another palmful. ] And to what end, knitting this poor flesh back together? What purpose do you see for me here? Can you afford to coddle a invalid, then a cripple?

Even if you could bear it, I could not. Not - [ a shudder runs through him, his mouth twisting ] - not at the cost.

You're so fragile. All of you. Brief lives on the earth. All flesh is grass, and such- such shallow roots.

I don't know. [ There's resignation, for a moment. She is not God, isn't all-knowing, all-seeing. She doesn't know what purpose she sees for him here. She shrinks back from the words. They're horrible things to hear, and her head dips low for a long moment. It's painful, this is painful — twisting her stomach into deeper knots. What can she say to them? What can she tell him? Her eyelids flutter and she shakes her head, brow furrowing. ]

Don't talk about yourself like that. [ There's a hint of fierceness in her with that. Even if the words of gentle and hushed, there's the firmness that she won't stand for that kind of talk. ] There's no cost that isn't worth it. Just because you're sick and injured doesn't mean there isn't any value left in you.

If you want meaning, then we can find it. We work out what you're supposed to do now, what purpose you're supposed to find for yourself.

[ But he has to give it a shot, it means he gives himself a chance. ]

... I think we're like trees. [ She says softly. Fragile, yes. Maybe he's right in ways, but not so fragile as grass. ] Did... did you know when a tree's sick in the forest, the other trees send help? They send nutrients. I read that once.

[ (the ten thousand thousand tiny white roots the intricate clamour the warm and breathing earth)

He knows. She says it, and he knows it, as though it came to him in a vision. He brings a torn noise from the back of his throat, as something ripping, and his shoulders threaten to curl in on themselves for half a heartbeat. A shudder that has nothing to do with cold runs through him. He pulls his fingers from the earth and tucks them under his arm as if by reflex, preventing further chilling for the time being. ]

I had it.

[ His voice is dark and rough, overcome by an emotion he has no name for. It's not fever that sings in his blood for this, he's half-sure - or if it is fever, it's not a fever of the body.

There was a time when he longed for what he was given. He prayed to know what he could only take on faith: that he had a reason to be on the Earth, that there was a place for him in the plans of the Divine, that he was known, that he was loved. God, how he had yearned for that love, sick as a beaten dog for it. ]

I had it. My calling. I was called. I was chosen. [ His eyes burn in their sockets. ] She found me in my wilderness and made a vessel of me, and it was- so much. So much, where there had been nothing. Green and breathing.

[ And then it had been given, and then it had been taken. ]

And now I am hollow, but I know what it was not to be.

[ It... is a strange thing to listen to. To waver between understanding and not. The words make sense, but the context doesn't. Like she's listening to words from behind a veil. To be empty then filled, to be called. And then... empty once more. Hollow, he says. To have something taken away.

She wants to reach for him, as if to comfort in the face of some peculiar grief. She doesn't know if she should. Maybe he wouldn't accept it. ]

I'm sorry, Thomas. [ She utters it softly. It's a difficult thing to try to traverse, and her next words are hesitant as she tries to grasp at understanding. ] But... but we can go back? We're stuck here, just for now, but we can go home again? Right? You just have to hold on.

[ Still, there's gentle urging. This isn't the way. He can go back. What he had isn't lost forever. But there's... questions. As much as it feels familiar to her, there's still so much unknown in all of it. ]

Who... who do you mean by 'she'?

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extinction is the rule

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cw: suicidal intent, gallows humor

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cw: ableism, suicidal intent

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cw: suicidal intent

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