methuselah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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singillatim2023-09-09 11:30 pm
singmod) wrote in singillatim2023-09-09 11:30 pm
Entry tags:
- *event,
- barbie: zelly,
- bigby wolf: jelle,
- bucky barnes: gail,
- callisto: iddy,
- castiel: noodle,
- clayton epps: thalia,
- cornelius hickey: kates,
- din djarin: cosmo,
- eddie munson: hannah,
- edward kenway: effy,
- edward little: jhey,
- erichthonios: fey,
- grace marks: bobby,
- harry goodsir: karin,
- holland march: chase,
- joel miller: noodle,
- kate marsh: cheryl,
- ken: laus,
- kieren walker: cheryl,
- levi jordan: cirape,
- max briest: justine,
- mohinder suresh: anna,
- nie huaisang: marlowe,
- nikolai lantsov: eden,
- number five: kayla,
- remy "thirteen" hadley: kaye,
- rorschach: shade,
- roy kent: cathy,
- simon "ghost" riley: milk,
- steve harrington: katy,
- takashi shirogane: terra,
- thomas richardson: beth,
- vash the stampede: fen,
- zoey westen: bri
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
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.
1. Due to the Aurora's influence, these wolves are harder,
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.
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.
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.
gently holds this tag in my hands | also this is gonna be heavy suicide cw's throughout
... I'm... I'm sorry I worried you. You don't deserve that.
[ But... what can she tell him? How? Is he going to even believe her that the Devil whispers in her ear? That it hisses for her to finish what she'd set out to do back home, at Blackwell? How could he even begin to understand the things that've happened to her? It hurts to even think of them, let alone bring herself to tell him. Would he judge her, too? Just like everyone else? Shun her or shame her? Just like everyone else? Wouldn't someone so proper and polite turn in disgust? He would, surely. ]
What's the point? It doesn't matter any more. Nothing matters. [ If she could have one moment of peace, maybe she could grab the last shred of comfort knowing someone who treated her kindly could live without the knowledge of the things that've happened. ] My life is over, I've only been delaying this.
[ The edge is so tempting, she opens her eyes to gaze over it once more. She wants the fall to kill her, she wants it to be over. She should have just done it by now. She wants the nightmare to be over, she wants to wake up — and to sleep forever. If this is already Hell, then she can't go any lower than this. ]
I should have done it sooner, instead of being even more of a waste— to everyone. People are cold, hungry — and I've been taking up space when I should have jumped weeks ago. [ Disgust ripples through her. It's that shame that keeps her from looking at him. Her feet shuffle slightly forwards, but still she can't bring herself to jump. The idea of the fall not killing her is a horrifying one. If she lives, then they'll find her below. They'll try to keep her alive, try to look after her. And then she'll be more of a waste on precious resources. At least she knew if she leapt from the roof of the girl's dorm, the concrete would kill her. ]
I wish I'd never come here—! I wish I could have been left alone so I could have just died—!
no subject
'What's the point? It doesn't matter any more.
Nothing matters.'
Perhaps this isn't all so unexpected. To be trapped in this place, unable to get home to her parents, to her home... There is no way out. No ships, no help. And Edward has known what that is, knows how hopeless one can feel, even if he'd clung onto his own hope longer than most, not out of a truly naïve or even pure heart, but out of a persistence... one he'd always valued to be responsibility, and steadfast loyalty. Perhaps it was only ever delusion.
But it is... so much. Too much. Of course this poor girl would be feeling hopeless; this situation is a horror to anyone, but especially to one so young and so soft. She doesn't belong here, in this cold place with its corpses and abandoned homes. Not her.
But her next words startle him freshly. She sees herself... as a waste? Taking up space. It strikes against something painfully familiar within Little, and he swallows hard against that tightness in his throat. Carefully, he removes his gun from his shoulder and sets it down in the snow with a crouch, moving extremely slowly. Standing upright again, he's lifting both his hands now, looking to her with desperation.
'I wish I'd never come here—! I wish I could have been left alone so I could have just died—!'
If she hadn't come here..... she would have died...? He may not understand fully, but the severity of this is plain, it's worse and worse, and he winces sharply as though pained. Again, he remembers what she'd said on their first meeting. How she deserved to be in Hell. The horrors she's known came before this place, that much is clear. ]
Miss Kate. [ Again, the lieutenant says her name, tries to find her. He isn't... good at this. He doesn't know how to help someone who stands on a precipice with their heart in such agony. He's weak, and lacking. There are braver, stronger men.
But not here. Not now. There is only him, and her. (What can he say? How can he say it?) What comes is what feels right, what he most would want to tell this poor young soul. ]
You are not a waste. You are.... a gift. [ A source of light and warmth, it does not matter how softly. It is there. ]
Please. Can I tell you... how? Why you are? [ A gift. ] Will you let me tell you?
no subject
Not a waste, he tells her. Not a waste, but a gift. And she utters a sob — undeserving of such a kind thing to be told. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what happened to her, the things she did — her life is already over, now. She doesn't have anything else to do but this. And she's selfish to have stayed as long as she has. ]
I am. I am a waste— [ An assurance. And in turn the voice whispers in her ear: A waste. Such a waste. Do not let him tell you otherwise. Lies are only ever too sweet. She hugs herself, the voice is colder than any snow. Dread washes over her, stares at him huge eyes — haunted.
... But Edward Little is so kind to her. Numerous times over these weeks, stemming from when they stumbled upon one another out in the cold. He offered his coat without hesitation, stepped first into the thick snow to make it easier for her to walk, held her hand to help her hurry. And since, the quiet times he stops by the check in on her. Or the times she'd noticed him hanging back to listen when she stood to practice violin on the times he might catch her playing.
Slowly, she nods. She'll listen. Even if they might be sweet lies, as the voice tells her. Even if, deeper down within her, she knows it too will be a waste on her. ]
no subject
If this poor girl truly believes herself to be a waste.... well, it comes from somewhere, doesn't it? Reasons, clearly more than he could know. Perhaps spun so intricately within her heart that they may never be unbound.
Edward's quiet for a few long moments, only the sound of his own heavy heart pounding in his chest with adrenaline, working itself painfully. She nods, she's willing to hear him out, but.... he already knows his words can't possibly be enough. How could they? Who is he, to her? Just a man, largely a stranger, trapped here same as she. He can do nothing for her, can not satisfy the vow he'd made to return her to true safety, to her home.
But he knows, at least, how he feels, even if he'd not looked at it so directly until this very moment. He can't speak to the horrors and grievances that have made this young woman think of herself so poorly. To what has driven her to stand on the brim of a ledge, bits of snow crumbling over. But he can speak as to his own feelings, and though it is a concept Edward Little has so rarely allowed himself to indulge — speaking of his feelings, not him, who keeps his own so tightly wrapped within himself, and oh, he is nothing like the captain, capable of reaching through to the spirits of the men with such powerful words — ]
You are not a waste— to me. [ He adjusts his words, softly, though his eyes are wide and frantic still. There is a needling discomfort behind the intimacy of it, such words; he is not used to such things. Ordinarily, he could not say them. But if there is a chance it might help... if she could know her worth, even if it is only to a man who has little worth of his own. ]
This place.... in so many ways, it is very much like how it was— before. When we were trapped. It is easy to forget... warmer places. To forget the comforts of home.
[ His hands come up in front of his chest, fingers worrying themselves slowly against one another. ]
But please know that when you play — your music, it... reminds me. Of home. I look forward to those times. Some days, they are the only thing to look forward to. [ He admits, quietly. ] They are a light amongst all that is so dark, here.
....Miss Kate, please forgive my presumption to detail your character, but you have.... kindness, and goodness. Those things are precious, and I believe that they— have meaning. In a place like this... to people like these. [ All of them trapped. Damned. ] You have meaning.
no subject
She matters to someone, and her expression shifts as he speaks. Not just a statement of it, but the proof of it, too. The words hold weight — gleaning a fragile slither of hopefulness in her spirit. When she plays, it reminds him of home. Of something warmer, brighter than the frozen darkness they've been thrown in, that what he'd been trapped in for so many years. 'I look forward to those times. Some days, they are the only thing to look forward to.'
The voice stops dead in its tracks.
But it makes her stomach twist painfully, her chest feels too sharp. A hand moves to her middle, clutches there in some feeble attempt to soothe it. But it aches, peace and horror all in one — touched by the words and wrestling with the horrible truth within her. It bubbles up into a sob, the tears spill down her cheeks sting. ]
I'm glad you think so highly of me. [ She does mean that. There's a watery smile. It makes her feel better. ] That I matter... that I— that means so much to me.
[ But there's the rub, her eyes close for a brief moment and she shakes her head. ]
But even if can get home, it won't matter. My life's over. [ She deliberates for a long moment. He'd asked her what was wrong: 'What's happened? Please— tell me.' Before she knows it, the words fall from her. ]
I went to this one party at my school. And the next thing I know I'm waking up the next morning outside my dorm room, and there's a video being shared of me all over the internet doing— [ She can't even say it, far to ashamed to admit to her actions. Especially not after he said such kind things about her. And that shame's plain enough to see, she flinches away from him — and then remembers he won't even know what a video or the internet is. ] Pictures. Moving pictures. Someone recorded me at the party and then shared it with everyone. It... it wasn't me, I'm not like that. I don't even remember it happening. I had one sip of wine and I got... I got dizzy and I don't remember.
[ Nathan said he'd take her to the hospital. It makes ache oddly: did he hurt her? She doesn't even know. ]
But nobody cares. Nobody. Nobody believes me, in the truth. Not even my family. [ Her mother, her aunt. Her father... he believes in her — but she hurt him so horribly with this. And it's another wave of shame that threatens to drown her. ] Everyone at my school's made my life into a nightmare, and it's like I can't ever wake up from it. I don't know what else to do but this.
no subject
'But even if I can get home, it won't matter. My life's over.'
He waits, lingers there in that moment of upset with Kate, still not daring to draw any closer, maintaining this distance. And things begin to reveal, to unravel, what's.... happened to her. There's parts he can't understand, but she puts it into context for him, and what comes surprises him in a fresh way. A party — a drink.... Little stares, confused for a long moment. Truly, he'd assumed Kate to be quite young, not necessarily a child, but certainly more of a girl. What with talks of school, and her mannerism, and even the length of the skirt she typically wears being considered quite short (for his time, anyway...) But as girls become young ladies, their skirts grow in length, and so.... admittedly, he'd categorised her a certain way, despite the fact it's become clear she isn't from his own time.
But hearing this now.... the man blinks, quietly taken aback. Is she older than he'd presumed? She must be, and there's a quiet horror to that thought, beneath everything else (to have been referring to her as boldly as Miss Kate.....) but that thought must be focused on later. For now, there are others. A party, a drink, and lapse of memory. Things immortalised; he finally understands. Her reputation has been tarnished.
It's horrible... a horrible thing, and the man's expression, though controlled, likely betrays how severely he understands the situation. He certainly well-knows the value of reputation, it's of utmost importance, and particularly for young ladies in this regard, this sort of thing is truly a horror, isn't it? That this kind young woman should know this sort of shame.... ]
I am truly sorry.
[ He is. Senior Officer Little, who most certainly knows the value of honour and social standing, who has clung to it so fiercely.... who knows that he has betrayed his own and carries that shame with him, always. Although what happened to her is.... ]
That someone made.... record of the incident, and intentionally spread it.... is a deplorable act.
[ A mark of that person's character, to so impudently defame someone... It's a shame in its own, that outright public smearing. (Certainly, gossip and such are no foreign concepts in his time, but even then, there are standards and rules concerning such things...)
There's a disgust within him, and his lip might curl for a moment, even if he still tries to control his expression. Such cruelty is disgusting; this is not how civilised people behave, tormenting a young woman. ]
There is... no one? No one who will help you? Who will protect you?
[ A beat, quiet, something restrained within him but only barely. It leaks through in his voice, something wounded for her. ]
How have you coped with it all this time? How have you done it....?
no subject
... I'm glad someone thinks so. That.. that you think so. Everyone else is too busy laughing at it. [ Laughing, or judging her. Or calling her names. Take your pick. ] Even my teacher thinks this is all just me trying to get attention, that I'm acting like a martyr. He doesn't even know me, even... even though I help in his class. I hate being in the spotlight, I don't want attention.
[ Jefferson's words still sting. The last thing she remembers before she walked out of the school building, out into the rain. To the girl's dormitories, to the roof. She's never wanted attention. She worked on the Meals on Wheels program because she wants to help, to do some good in the world. Everything she does, all her work, she does it because she only hopes to do good — to quietly work away, never to seek attention. Not glory, not infamy.
There's a shake of her head at his question. No. There is no one, and in her misery that's what she knows. No one to help, no one to protect her. But she does pause, eyebrows raising slightly as if in realisation. But she knows that's not quite true, and it wouldn't be a disservice to Max and her friendship were she to deny it. ]
... Max. She's my friend. She... she thinks a boy at our school did this. That he... he drugged me, or something. She told me to go to the police. [ Max, who wrote on her slate outside her room, who answered her phone call, to told her to go to the police. The one person in her corner. There's a shaky exhale and she shakes her head. Even with Max's help, what can she do? ] It won't help. His family owns the whole town. If he did hurt me, how can he be punished for it?
[ No one wins against the Prescotts. No one. It makes her feel sick to her stomach and she hugs at herself, the cold making her teeth chatter. ]
I don't know. [ Has she coped? Really? ] I can't— I just... I just want to sleep forever. I'd already decided I was going to die before I came here, and I wanted to. Then— then I came here and— it's... like I'm drifting.
no subject
And so he can see why this young woman would stand on the edge of a precipice, why it would be easy for her to be drawn there now, in this desolate, frozen place. That she'd already decided she wanted to die back home....
'I just want to sleep forever.'
He's quiet for a few long moments, breathing as steadily as he's able. When he finally speaks again, his voice has lost some of its usual rich timbre, more hoarse now from the chill of the air and his own upset, bottled inwards but leaking through. ]
When we were.... trapped, for so long, my men, my captain, and I.... [ he begins, and he finally dares to move forwards, though only slightly, and very slowly. ] ....it was very difficult. For all of us, but for some.... more difficulties were faced.
[ Some of them had fallen apart so much more quickly than others, rotted away by sickness. He thinks of poor Morfin in such agony, begging for death. Of proud Captain Fitzjames, his abrupt degeneration. Of Peglar, whom Little had to help hand into another man's arms, unable to walk forwards at all.
Of Jopson, skeletal and fading, curled onto his side upon his cot, perhaps mere days or hours away from death— Edward gives a soft hitch of breath, heart clenching in ache. ]
Many of them wanted to die. Some— some begged for it. [ He swallows; he'll not upset Kate with the worse details of their deterioration. ]
When I woke in this place, I did not understand why I had been spared. I still do not. Why I should be alive, and my belly warm and fed, when my men.... [ The words fade off, the point made, and he shakes his head sadly. ]
But it was the wise Dr. Goodsir to remind me. There are people I can help here. There is purpose. I do not know if this world is only a temporary dream from where we come from, but... I know that while we are here, we can do good. I know that you can — that you already have.
[ As he'd said, and holds firm to now: she is no waste to him. Edward nudges closer, still giving the girl a wide berth of space, but he's a few noticeable feet closer now. Finally, an arm lifts, though he won't grab her, only further closes the distance a little bit this way. His eyes quickly dip to her feet for a moment, worried that the edge may crumble, that she may fall before she can jump. Then he's looking back up, opening his fingers towards her. ]
If you are drifting, then I will extend my hand to hold onto you. Please— know that there is a hand there, and so long as you are in this place, it will be there. Please know that.
no subject
But she's spared the details of it all. She... imagines it would be very difficult, so far from home, and... no one to rescue them, for whatever reason. To hear that some would beg for death is sobering, cements the reality of the situation. How hopeless they must have been, how alone in such a cold, unforgiving place. To want nothing but to die. It makes her chest ache, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks.
And she finds herself breathless, unsure if it's the cold or the horror of it all — shallow, hurried breath as she stares over at him. There's realisation in her eyes at the mention of Mr Goodsir's name, recognition of it. It... was the very same voyage, wasn't it? This... journey to find a trade route. She likes Mr Goodsir. He's kind and polite and really smart — so interested in everything. And wise too, something shifting in her face — warmth, thankfulness for that wisdom he'd bestowed to the Lieutenant: 'There are people I can help here. There is purpose. I do not know if this world is only a temporary dream from where we come from, but... I know that while we are here, we can do good.'
... He's right. They both are. There is nothing she can do about back home, and it feels like a dark and lonely place, too. More so than this place. But.. there is good she can do here, good she has already done — for him, maybe for others too. Even if none of them know why they're here, if it's Hell or a dream or something else entirely. There is worth in her here, there is more than whatever there is for her back home. He sees that in her, even as hopeless and dark his own situation has been. Even as he wonders why he should be here when his men are now. It slowly splinters through the bleakness, cracks running through it — snapping open.
'... know that there is a hand there, and so long as you are in this place, it will be there.'
An arm raised, a hand outstretched. She hesitates for the longest of moments, her gaze flicking from the out-stretched hand offered to her and him. The arms tight around her middle slowly loosen their hold, unfurling ever-so-slightly — she stares unblinking, shaking. God put her here, didn't He? She wonders. Because she doesn't know her way? Maybe, she doesn't know. It's such a precarious thing to grapple with. ... Or maybe he put Edward Little here, with his hand offered out to her.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
She wants to take that hand, she thinks. Why would she doubt him, when he has been nothing but kind to her all this time? A hand is there. She... believes that. Her legs move stiffly in small, shaky steps, as they'd been half-frozen by the cold, the muscles struggling to work with the demand to move — steps away from the edge of the Basin's cliff and towards him.
Her own arm lifts, slow and tentative at first, reaches out forwards. Her fingers tremble, stretching — clumsy as they collide with his, and she crumbles with the contact. ]
... I'm sorry. [ It comes out softly; half-cry, half-whine and it quickly falls into outright sobbing. Shame and upset and she's sorry. She's sorry for everything, for all of this. She grips at his hand, and her head bows, stiff legs still staggering towards him as they close the distance between them. ]
Sorry. I'm sorry.
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But it's all he can offer — and so he will offer it. That one thing, quiet as it may be. Perhaps to know that one is not alone.... can be something. He feels it here, too; no matter how conflicted the relationship may be between Goodsir and himself, having someone else from before here with him.... it has helped immensely. A friendly face, a door that welcomes him in, even if Little knows it is with some weariness.
And Goodsir has helped him to see his own purpose, here. Given him some... spark, helped him reach for hope again. He will try, to give that to Kate too, in this moment of darkness. To help her see that she has purpose, worth. He doesn't know if it will be enough. He stands there, heart hammering, throat tight. And then he sees that Kate is moving towards him.
Slow and stiff, but she's coming. Edward almost gasps but controls himself, doesn't dare to make a sound. Part of him readies himself to rush forward if needed, still worried that the clifftop may crumble down, but slowly the girl's moving away from the danger, and he allows himself to give a soft, encouraging nod, eyes not leaving her. That's it. You can. You can do this.
The smaller hand finds his own, and Edward still doesn't move, doesn't grasp hers yet, just lets her find him. Then she's crumbling, faltering, staggering forwards with words drenched in sobs. Finally, the man's hand closes around hers, firm and tight, quick. His other hand moves too, to catch her — grasping the girl's shoulder.
Displays of outright, intense emotion are... strange for him to witness. There was a time, one he still clings to, where such things were almost unthinkable. But then, on the ice..... he'd seen men succumb to it. Sobbing, weeping. It was uncomfortable to see, and a horror. He'd not allowed himself to break down, swallowed everything down until he felt like he might burst from it, but seeing it in others was... difficult. Their pain, absorbed into himself.
He feels his heart grow heavy now, eyes glossed in the face of someone holding onto his hand and weeping. Head tipped forwards a little, he leans closer to the girl, swallowing past his own discomforts even if he remains a bit awkward overall — hand staying at her shoulder, squeezing, as his hand wrapped around her fingers does the same. ]
It's all right. You've done well. You've done very well.
[ He'll stand there with the younger as she needs, offering a quiet stability, though he's simultaneously aware of the frosty breeze, the chill nipping at his own face, and knows hers will be all the worse for the wet tears. ]
Let's return you someplace warm. I'll accompany you back to the Community Center — or to my cabin, if you prefer privacy. It's quiet there.
[ He offers, to give Kate some modesty from the eyes of others. He can make her some tea, or coffee, fetch her some blankets, and she may take some time to herself if she likes, to recover. ]
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He catches her hand, grips it back and catches her. He keeps her steady, upright but her body folds inwards. Her other hand comes up, towards the arm bracing her shoulder. She grips onto his forearm, fingers curling tight and rigid into his coat-sleeve. A white-knuckled grip beneath the fabric of her gloves, holding desperately onto him. Her head drops, enough for her chin to hit her chest, becoming small.
She doesn't feel like she's done well. She doesn't feel like she's done anything good here. But Kate doesn't bring herself to argue, or can't. Instead, she just let's the words sit with her — still uttering the same words in between sobs: I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
(In time, she'll come to feel ridiculous for the whole display.)
Soon enough, the sobs give way — moving into something softer and quieter, her teeth chattering in the cold. Weariness sinks in easily, exhausted by the cold and crash of adrenaline now she's away from the edge. Her wet cheeks once stinging now shifting into something more like tingling and a little numb, like she can't feel them quite right — red burned into them, the tell-tale sign of frostnip taking hold.
There's a dim awareness of the Community Hall being mentioned and it makes her stomach lurch painfully. She'd left her things on her cot, laid out like a goodbye — for others to take. With that, the idea of those in the Hall. Even with those who stay there, there's plenty that use the Hall in the day to day — a kind of central hub for those stuck here in this place. ]
I can't— [ The words stumble out of her, and she shakes her head — the rest of her trembling too. She can't stomach the thought of others seeing her like this. They'll know, surely. They'll see her things and see her and they'll know. And the idea of that, of being in the spotlight has her wilting a little. ] Not there.
[ But there's another offer. Privacy, and quiet. Her eyes close briefly and she sniffles. She would like that, a whole lot. ]
... Can we... go there? To the quiet, please? I don't want to be around... everyone, right now. I— can't.
possible wrap!
She needn't be. There's nothing she needs to be sorry for, but Edward stands there and lets her say them, lets her get out the waves of upset. His hand stays at her shoulder, gently squeezing, while his other remains in hers, holding on, taking slow, even breaths to keep himself steady so that he may remain something secure for her.
He doesn't speak after that, not for awhile. He only stays a silent presence, until those sobs begin to settle a bit, and his eyes search over Kate's face again, frown tightening at the sight of red cheeks and nose. He's nodding at once, gently letting his hand move from her shoulder, and beginning to shrug out of his greatcoat — gently letting go of her hand so that he can pull his arm through the sleeve. At once, he's wrapping her up in it, coaxing it over Kate's shoulders, and she can put her arms through the sleeves or leave them inside the torso, but either way Edward tilts towards the front, and quietly begins to fasten the buttons. ]
We'll go there at once.
[ He assures. She doesn't need to ask for anything else; it will be done, and he well-understands why she'd prefer quiet, solitude. She needs a place to recover, to rest her aching heart and warm up from the cold. But first — offering the warmth of his coat as he had once before, though this time taking the time to bundle her up himself, to fuss over and fasten every button, making certain that the warmth of the wool will stay closed and secure over her. Once that's done, Edward's reaching to gently pull the thick lapels of the coat upwards, framing her cheeks and ears. It's more protection from the cold, security. On another day, it might be a fairly amusing sight, the lengthy collars of his coat tugged up and practically swallowing Kate whole. In this moment, however, his smile is only sad, faint — though there's a warmth to it. ]
You need not worry for a thing. I will take care of it all.
[ He'll make her food, or hot tea — and a warm spot near the fireplace, wrapped in blankets. She can sleep, rest. He'll watch over her. ]