singillatim | there'll be oats in the water

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there'll be oats in the water

JULY 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: REDUX: A storm finally arrives, and with it — Enola extends her hand to help the Interlopers once more, granting them new abilities.

PROMPT TWO — PENSIVE LOOKOUT: With the Forest Talker efforts focused on sabotaging hunting efforts, Interlopers can attempt to explore the Pensive Lookout Tower, where they can uncover secrets from the diary of Sam Bouchard — the former firewatch worker of the summer of 2014.

PROMPT THREE — A PEEK INSIDE: A group of Interlopers get their hands on one of the Forest Talkers in search of answers — and get a little more than they bargained for.

THE AURORA: REDUX

WHEN: Mid-month, for three days.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural/extreme weather; lightning storms; potentially disturbing dreams; dreams of being trapped in ice; dreams of animal death; dreams of the death of loved ones.

July brings warmer weather. The fog has lifted, and the daylight returned — but an odd kind of pressure lingers in the air, the kind that feels similar with oncoming storms but something still feels off about it all. Measurements and readings are erratic, with them often making little sense. It’s hard to predict just what might be coming, but sure enough something is coming.

Hold on a little longer, Enola told you. A storm is coming.

It comes quickly, the gathering of storm clouds. At first, it looks as if a kind of snowstorm is moving in, but there’s something else at play here. Within the grey, cloudy skies, there is a tell-tale sound of an Aurora mixed within those clouds.

And with it, in amongst the dark, the swirling colours. Greens, pinks and purples weaving through the clouds, almost mesmerising to watch. The air is alive with sound: static noise, cracks and pops: a storm and the Aurora mixed into one. For those who’ve been here long enough, it’s a worrying, unnerving sight. The storm rumbles with the low roar of distant thunder, growing ever closer. The electronics of the world begin to come alive, and in the static of it all — you begin to hear Enola’s voice even clearer than before.

After so much darkness, now there is so much light. A lightning storm — aurora colours mingling with the grey clouds, punctured with crackles of lightning. Something powerful and strange — flash forking across the skies, followed by booms of thunder.

The storm lasts three days, and even though her voice is soft — you hear it over all the noise, nestled gently in your ear.

“You're still here. It means something. This isn’t the end, I refuse to let it be the end. It can’t win. You won’t go into the Dark.” Enola tells you. ”I will make you more than what you are, more than what was stolen from you. This place will not be your end. I have to try. We have to try. Together. I showed some of you, once. I’ll show you again.”

She tells you to sleep. For some, they recognise this and realise what may end up happening. For others it feels like going out on a limb. But you sleep, and perhaps a dream may come to you.

COLD FUSION: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of a great hall of ice: as if it had been carved into some great ridge of it. You walk through it, marvelling at the beauty of it — a blue gloom, echoing with each of your footsteps. But as you take one particular step, the ground cracks and collapses beneath you, sending you into dark, frozen waters. In seconds, the water freezes around you, encompassing you in thick ice, your entire body trapped within it. The coldness burns you, and you are stuck there — frozen in agony. The pain is immeasurable, your entire body crushed and searing from the ice. There is no escape, no reprieve.

A voice speaks to you, perhaps it is the voice of a stranger, perhaps it is the voice of someone you know: Do you know how you survive the cold?’ They ask you. You do not know, and you wait for the answer: ‘You become colder than it.

Your eyes close. You believe those words, you do. You must become colder than the cold itself. And so you will. Your breathing slows, your heart slows and the cold… it stops hurting, it doesn’t burn. The ice around you begins the crack.

When you awaken the first thing you realise is despite the temperature, you are completely cosy and warmed. You do not feel the slightest chill. It is perhaps only once you are around other than you truly notice the difference to you — you are cold to the touch, lacking the heat you once had. An understanding comes: you are at one with the cold, it will not beat you, it will not cause you agony. Winter is at peace within you: perfect Cold Fusion.

MOON TOUCHED: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of running through the silent woods at night. The moon is full above you, the air is calm and still. Hunger draws you forward, everything is so sharp and vivid in your senses, even in this dreamscape. You hear the crispness of the snow beneath your feet, smell the scent of the pines on the air, feel how warm you are against the coldness around you.

The snuffling of a rabbit catches your attention, and you swiftly leap after it, jaws opening and closing around its neck as you capture it. You bite down hard, feeling the crunch of its bones as they break, the sweet coppery taste of blood filling your mouth and nose. You lift your head towards the stars, blood on your tongue. You realise you are not a person at all, but a beast on all fours: a wolf, content and filling your belly with meat.

You wonder, for a brief moment: were you ever a person at all?

You do not know the answer to the question. You do not seem to worry about such a thing but there’s a flash of warning on the air. Something you cannot quite place, but you know that you should not forget it.

When you awaken, you feel… different, somehow. Everything seems a little sharper, as if the world around you had been dull, or behind some pane of frosted glass. With it comes a strange balance of calmness and chaos, tameness and wildness, fear and bravery. You find yourself looking for the moon in the skies and when you finally find it, it hits you — this is what it means to be Moon Touched.

INTERLOPER’S SACRIFICE: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape and then fade into nothing. You dream of kneeling in a darkened, charred wood. You are not alone. In this dreamscape, you dream of a loss, or a time you have never felt more helpless in your life. Perhaps it is when someone you knew died before you, or you stood as someone was sick and injured and you were unable to do a thing. As you kneel, they are there with you: sick or dying or even dead in your arms. You cannot do anything but hold them, and the helplessness is overwhelming.

You look up and a woman in furs stands before you, her expression solemn. Enola herself. There are tears in her eyes, as if she shares the very pain you do: the loss, the grief, the hopelessness, the powerlessness. She approaches you and lowers herself to kneel in front of you and your companion, bracing your shoulders for a long, lingering moment. There are no words, none from neither of you.

Enola shifts slightly, leans forwards. She kisses your forehead, much like when a parent kisses their child: sweet and tender.

And then you feel it, as if you are set alight: an agonising pain that encompasses you whole — so painful you cannot even open your mouth to scream. You feel yourself growing weak, the corners of your vision blurring into black. It feels as if you might die from the pain, and you want for it to stop but it doesn’t.

Enola pulls away and you gasp, slumping in exhaustion, but still alive, somehow. You stare at her, sweating and clamouring for breath, and she offers you a sad smile. Never again. you feel the words inside of you. This time, it will be different. Better.

When you awaken, you can still feel the kiss upon your forehead — enough to make your fingers reach up to touch it, your entire body tingling a little. A small voice in the back of your mind whispers, reminding you as you find yourself looking down at your hands: never again. Never again, you tell yourself and the comprehension comes to you: you have chosen. This is what it means to be: this is your sacrifice. The Interloper’s Sacrifice.

NOTHING: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape, but only for a moment. The edges of your vision begin the blur with black, slowly closing in until everything goes dark and you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. You awaken, and although you feel rested, as if the dreamless darkness has helped you feel a little more ready to take on the day — nothing else about you has changed.

PENSIVE LOOKOUT

WHEN: The month of July.
WHERE: Pensive Lookout Tower, Lakeside.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; possible fall injuries/treacherous climbs; themes of terror; themes of diminished sanity; themes of starvation.

The Old Hunting Lodge is located in the southern-most area of Lakeside, and its surrounding area is generally considered no-go territory with the presence of the Forest Talkers. As June turned into July, the Forest Talker’s presence in the wilds of Lakeside has begun to grow again — but their efforts appear to be focused on sabotaging the efforts of Interlopers, Methuselah and Young Bill in hunting fresh game. If anything, it could mean that with attentions drawn away — perhaps the braver sorts of the Interlopers can explore the area a little more fully.

There’s little in terms of buildings of interest in this area. The wilderness is thick and deep here. Perhaps the odd ransacked cabin once belonging to a local may be stumbled across — its contents picked clean, presumably by the Forest Talkers. Many of these buildings will be completely inhabitable due to the damage done — with some cabins being razed to the ground.

However, on higher ground, with a good hike to access it, stands a watch tower.

These lookout towers could mean a number of things: a chance to access supplies that may have otherwise been forgotten about due to the hike to get up there, a better view of the surrounding area, and the possibility of a radio — given the sign of a radio transmitter that can be found blinking a feeble red on Aurora nights.

With the snow on the ground it’s a little more treacherous, but given the circumstances, anything’s worth a shot, right? Those who attempt the hike may fall foul to slips and trips along the steep slow to reach the tower, and should take care in the ascent. Even with the warmth of July, it’s difficult. One might hope this might make the place a decent outpost, if you think about it. Somewhere hard to reach, and with such a vantage point.

Reaching the tower and climbing it to its interior will it largely intact but a mess. Someone has lived here for some time. Interlopers will find no food here, but some useful tools that belonged to the lookout: binoculars, maps, a compass, an alidade. There is even a radio sat upon a desk, and with it — a journal.

The journal, Interlopers will find, belonged to a man named Sam Bouchard — the firewatcher for the season during the previous year, detailing the months of his arrival and ending in November last year. It is unknown what happened to Sam, but his journal will perhaps offer some insight and even some information.

A PEEK INSIDE

WHEN: The month of July.
WHERE: The Gas Station, Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of kidnapping; imprisonment; self-starvation; blood/minor injuries; psychological torment, supernatural abilities.

The Forest Talkers have a long history in the Northern Territories, long before Interlopers started arriving in Milton. Champions of nature, they have sought to put an end to the industries and tourism-related expansions in the Lakeside area, first peacefully and then… not-so-peacefully. But with the events known as the ‘The Flare’ last year, Forest Talkers have been… acting peculiarly, disturbingly, aggressively.

There are plenty of questions to be asked. But the Forest Talkers are difficult to communicate with. Previous attempts have ended up in aggression or being ignored entirely. And now, even with the events of the previous month coming to an end — game remains difficult to find, and Forest Talkers are keen on sabotaging any attempts of hunting made by Interlopers, Young Bill or Methuselah. And more importantly: what is the yawning grave?

It starts as mutterings between tired and disgruntled Interlopers. They need answers, and there’s got to be a way in trying to get some. They’re hungry and exhausted and so many of their numbers are now dead. Those mutterings grow, and soon enough a plan is put into place. A small group of Interlopers embark into Lakeside and wait.

Soon enough, it bears fruit. A man is captured, bound and blindfolded — quietly and secretly brought back to Milton to be held up in the unused Gas Station to be questioned. It is not the leader, but surely one of them is better than no one at all. He is injured, but not enough to kill him. It will prove challenging in trying to get answers out of him, but soon enough the Interlopers will get him to talk.

News of the Forest Talker in their midst will inevitably spread, as most things do in small communities. Secrets are hard to guard. It won’t be just those behind the kidnapping who might end up coming across the man being held in the Gas Station.

Anyone who goes to investigate will find the man sat on the floor in quiet contemplation. Attempts of conversation will be met with long, silent stares — holding your gaze for an uncomfortably long time. He will spurn any gestures of kindness: spit on the floor at Interloper’s feet, refuse any food offered — as if the man has chosen to starve himself in protest. He says nothing, at first.

But after some time, he will look into an Interloper’s eyes and utter something. A word. A phrase. It may be a name, or a place. It may be a specific thing an Interloper has read, or been spoken to by someone. Something that holds meaning to the Interloper. It may be the name of a loved one from home, or the last words ever spoken to you by a friend. Something the man shouldn’t know.

Whatever it is that he speaks to you, it is not something that will fill you with hope or fondness to remember — but quite the opposite. A reminder of something painful, of a loss, or some other thing that caused you misery. As if he had reached right inside your mind and plucked some painful part of your past from you and spoken it to the wind.

The Forest Talker smiles, and will say nothing else. The damage has already been done.

FAQs

THE AURORA: REDUX

1. The next three Aurora Feats are unlocked! Please see the following page for more information.

2. Aurora Feats are completely optional.

3. Interlopers will only receive ONE Aurora Feat. The only time this is available is this month. After July, players will have to wait for the next Feat round for another chance at an Aurora Feat.

4. This Aurora/storm will last a full three days, darkening the skies almost to night.

PENSIVE LOOKOUT

1. Interlopers who dwell in the lookout for the next Aurora will find the radio works, albeit poorly. They will be able to pick up the same broken morse code message.

2. There are no signs of blood/injury that befell Sam in the lookout. It appears he made good on what he wrote on in his journal and attempted to leave to get to Silverpoint.

A PEEK INSIDE

1. While only a small number was involved in the kidnapping itself, anyone can discover the fact there's a Forest Talker being held in Milton.

2. In terms of appearance, the Forest Talker is very much your typical average white guy. Bearded, weathered by the cold, someone who's lived several years without much in the way of comforts or luxuries.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Rather than admit to running out of room in his pockets — which is true, and the obvious answer — he's quick to joke, "The mugs deserve a good change of scenery! My pockets need a bit of renovation work."

Now that avoidance of grabbing the coat is at least something he takes notice of — "You're forgetting something. It'll get colder the further up we go." That slight chill to his hand, though — "Coats are optional for you now?"

Granted, the sun has brought more warmth, but did that storm do something to Jopson, too?

Thomas frowns a little in thought. "Did you - have any odd dreams?" he wonders. "Recently?"

He doesn't want to go into any of the details, because he doesn't know if he actually wants to relive that odd dream. Being so cold, dying in his dream, in a way, the same as he died in life.

He was renewed, given a gift, and he isn't going to squander it.

There's a shift in the Doctor's eyes, something thoughtful and more subdued, slightly distant and lost in a memory. Like Jopson, he's not eager to rehash the details and he won't pry in the reverse. Not with something like this.

But he can confirm, and he does so quietly while he fidgets a little with his tattered bowtie. It's unnecessary, it's not crooked, but it's force of habit in a moment that has him slightly unsettled and needing to do something with his hands.

"Yes." In his arms lay the body of someone he loved very much, dying horribly, painfully, while he could at first do nothing, until suddenly their pain was his and he could take it from them. "It changed me — and you — you won't get cold, you won't feel it?"

And no need for a coat, which is...reassuring, in fact. At least for Jopson's sake.

"That's right," he confirms. "The cold doesn't touch me now. It doesn't, do anything to me."

He looks to the Doctor, to him fiddling with his tie, and he automatically reaches up, adjusting it for him back to center. He's been a steward for over half his life, and caring for the people he's working for and working alongside is second nature to him.

"What happened to you?"

It's the first time anyone else has adjusted his own tie, though for the moment, he's preoccupied with both Jopson's answer, and the ensuing question. In all his travels, the Doctor's never seen or experienced a place like this — trapped here, yes, but it's beyond that. This place can change them, as it has already by altering other aspects of his physiology, the sonic screwdriver he'd built, and now granting him an ability that he's actually quite glad to have, all things considered.

As Jopson adjusts his tie (for which he's grateful, even if he opts not to remark on it), the Doctor looks down at his own hands for a moment, spreading them out, turning his palms up and then down, with a small smile.

"Quite literally living up to my name now. I have the ability to heal others," he offers. Saying it out loud reinforces it, and now the smile comes a bit easier, banishing the rather awful memory.

He stays where he is a moment and places his hands atop the Doctor's. Lightly, but enough for him to feel the cold.

"At what price?"

Surely a gift like that wouldn't go without drawbacks. Beating the cold means he's chilly to the touch. Not that Jopson has had cause to touch anyone else, but it's always there in his mind.

That touch is enough to feel the cold more thoroughly now, the price of Jopson's own gift readily apparent. To feel it from him, it's the sensation of plunging one's bare hands into the snow, something more instantly startling. Once — before this place — the Doctor's own hands would have been similar. Well, not to this degree, not this cold, but colder than most. His body — once before — could have withstood the extremes of both heat and cold. That was the most jarring adjustment to start with when he'd first arrived here.

He doesn't pull his hands away, though, at least not yet. He's more fascinated by what's happened.

And he'll...attempt to avoid mentioning the price of this as it pertains to him. Not that he would assume anything, but it could perhaps be worrying and he doesn't want to be worried over.

"It would only tire me a bit more, that's all." A lie, but a lie he feels better withholding. He remembers the sensation of intense pain, but he can hold it in. No one needs to know.

He nods, accepting that answer, letting his hands fall on the Doctor's. "Is it too cold?" he asks in nothing short of a whisper. He hasn't done anything but cuddle with Wynonna the wolf, and there's no reason for him to do anything else. The sun is out and he belongs to the cold.

He just doesn't want to forget what he is. The call of people in his head, the way he walks in the snow - he feels like Something Else. Something other, and it's a little frightening.

To be able to touch another, whether for a brief moment of passing comfort or longer, is so vital to connection between others. Not only for humans, but for so many species from one world to the next. Touch can convey so much where language might stumble or fail. What would the true cost be, then, for someone whose touch could bring a chill to anyone in a winter that's already hard and ceaseless?

This ability protects Jopson from the cold, but there's a niggling worry in the Doctor's mind at all of these powers, at every way they've changed. Are these measures of protection, once...understood and adapted to, or do they all run the risk of belonging more and more to this world and its darkness? His thoughts tumble and turn quickly in his mind, such that only a few seconds pass before he responds, shaking his head.

"No, it's...different. Takes getting used to, that's all! Like the first step outside on a cold morning, catch your breath, carry on." Is it too cold? If it was, if he couldn't tolerate it, if no one here could, what could that mean for Jopson? He'd rather do anything he can to assure his friend that it's not too much. Besides, he can stuff his hands into some old, worn gloves later to warm up.

He wraps his fingers around the Doctor's, briefly, and then pulls away as he tucks his forelock behind his ear.

"Right," he smiles, glad for it, even if he's faking, and picks up the pack.

"Ready?"

"Always, yes, I'm the king of Ready! For this, that, and the other thing. Whatever we find," and there's a quick and delighted smile to follow with that. For anything, everything, the unknown and all points in between.

But he does reach out a hand towards the pack. "Why don't we trade off carrying it? I can start." Jokingly, with his left arm, he makes a show of flexing — of course, with his arm obscured beneath his coat, there's nothing obvious in the way of any "muscle" at all. "You don't want me going soft, do you?"

He wants to refuse, but he's honestly afraid he's going to harm his stitches if he carries anything more, and that would be a quick end to their little field trip. He makes a show of thinking, then hands it over to him.

"If you insist."

He rolls his shoulders back, jaw clenching briefly in a sharp pain but it fades and he is more than happy to continue out. "Tell me one of your stories." There's nothing that passes the time more than that, and they are in for a long walk.

That allays his worries a bit, though he does want to ask after Jopson making the trek, wondering if it might be better for him to stay behind. But he'll trust him to say if they need to go back, if it's taxed him too much. What had he said — too beautiful a day for his fussing? Fine, fine, he'll keep it to himself and just watch him closely.

He slips the pack on gladly, bounding up ahead now, out of the cabin, his characteristic delight shining through.

For just a moment as he walks slightly up ahead of Jopson, he walks backwards so he can face his friend. "Oh, you've let me loose with that now — a story, a story...a story for Thomas Jopson...okay! Good one. Not quite as fantastical as other worlds, but Earth has its wonders in abundance, doesn't it." He does think better of it, though, and turns the right way around now as he walks, talking rapidly. "I had occasion to meet with Emily Dickinson once, brilliant American poet. Her works were being stolen mysteriously by an offworld collector. Mind you, I can't blame the bloke, it was for a good cause. Sort of. He wanted to share her art with the whole of the universe, all the way into the 42nd century. Noble — misguided, yes, but I love anyone with an appreciation for creative arts. So! Naturally, I had to get them back — bit of a mad dash across the stars, he gave good chase, but once I'd tracked him down we compromised on making copies for him to distribute, returning the original works back to Emily."

He looks over his shoulder at Jopson. "You wouldn't have known of her, would you. Do you like poetry? Paintings?"

He shakes his head at the first question. Dickinson was past his time, born when Thomas was already working and helping out his family. But the poetry and the paintings - well, how else would he pass the time? He liked taking peeks at those things, reading what he could, but it was all an indulgence that he could only have when he wasn't working.

"Yes, both. Paintings most of all." But he likes the stories behind them, the way that they sound and feel. And in paintings, the story is what you make of it. There's something beautiful in that.

"How was he sharing it if he only had the one copy?"

"He eventually set up his own libraries. Spread out from one planet's moon to the next. Ten in total. Compendium of her works, for all who might wish to see. Well, her works and many others."

He files it away for later, that Jopson likes paintings. It's not something he does very often himself, but the Doctor has painted on occasion before, portraits of faces in his memory. Not that much can be done here beyond simple sketches, but it's noted.

"One of my favorites from Emily...written in her later years — hope is the thing with feathers, she called it." He pauses and thinks to ask if his friend might like to hear it, but since he doesn't seem to mind his rambling, he just launches into it instead: "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all." His memory, at least, hasn't failed him here. His voice raises a bit, levity in his tone: "And sweetest in the gale is heard; and sore must be the storm that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea; yet, never, in extremity, it asked a crumb of me."

It's- beautiful. Oddly wistful. He can hear the emotion in it, and that hits his soul in a way that he can't really explain.

They walk over thawing snow and he takes the rock from his pocket again, jogging to keep up with him. He holds it out to him.

"Say it again?"

His steps slow once Jopson comes near, and he looks down at the offered rock, smiling softly.

"Ah, my old friend," he takes the offered rock, though for a moment he just tips the palm of his hand back and forth slowly, letting the sunlight do what it will again. He stands there, tipping it around in his hand and smiling at it, while he recites the poem again. When he finishes, his hand moves to close around the rock and he says, "Plenty more like that, of course! Beyond just Dickinson. I have a very good memory." He taps the side of his head briefly with his free hand.

Jopson remembers one poem, but he stumbles over the words as the Doctor does not.

"Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face; Terror the human form divine, And Secrecy the human dress. The human dress is forged iron, The human form a fiery forge, The human face a furnace sealed, The human heart its hungry gorge."

He laughs to himself. "That is the only one I know."

He's recited perfectly, in the Doctor's mind. He waits until he's finished before he starts to walk again, though he's smiling brightly at Jopson as they go.

"William Blake! Talented chap. Not the happiest poem, but a good one to know."

He keeps his steps lighter and easier now, purposefully not wanting to tax his friend too much in their hike. He's trying to be mindful of how he steps, or he could easily end up a distance ahead without meaning to. For now, he pockets the rock again, though if Jopson wants it back, he'll hand it over. Not without teasing.

"Tell me more of your stories, though. I want to hear."

He flushes, looking away. There's nothing interesting about his stories and his life. He's a steward. A man who doesn't do anything else but serve people. The creature that hunted them in life, in the Arctic, is hardly worth mentioning, as he knows it will kill the mood.

He doesn't want to talk about the trek to Antarctica, though. That's too much of a sore spot for him now.

The only choice is to go back a little farther.

"Ah, my first ship was the Racer. We - patrolled the Caribbean, chasing and searching out slavers with their captives." He looks up. "It was warmer in those seas, but sometimes the wind would fail us and we'd be stranded out in the ocean for days or even weeks at a time. Someone had a set of checkers and they would play and, one day, they asked me to join them." He smiles. "I told them I didn't know how, but they showed me, taught me the rules. They encouraged me to bet on my win, and I did. But - " He hums as he thinks. "But they did not realize I had actually been playing that game since I was a boy. I was very good at it."

The Doctor, of course, is absolutely delighted to hear any stories he might have to tell. None would be uninteresting to him. He enjoys people, hearing where they've been, what they've done, though he's especially drawn to his friend and he'll listen as long as Jopson cares to speak.

As he finishes, though, there's a short, hearty bark of a laugh from the Doctor, and he shakes his head a little. "Absolutely cheeky, Thomas Jopson. And sneaky. And other words that end in 'y' that escape me just now. I'll come up with more later," he laughs again. "I'd ask if you play chess as well, but now I don't know if I can trust your answer!"

Truthfully, he wouldn't care. It'd be fun to play either game with him, if they had the means.

"Ah, no," he laughs. "I know how to play, but I have never been good at it. I promise." He holds his hands up, wincing as one drops a little lower, then they both go to his pockets.

"I am better with cards and dice, truthfully."

He likes any of those games with rules. Luck isn't always on his side, and it requires no skill.

He would prefer to ignore luck and rely solely on his own merits.

"Good, it's settled, we'll wrangle together cards and dice and play sometime."

But he doesn't miss that wince this time, and he frowns in concern.

"Stop a moment. You're hurting, Jopson, let me help."

"It - " He shakes his head. "It isn't worth wasting your energy. Goodsir already stitched it."

But he's been caught out, and so he raises the side of his shirt, to reveal the stitched wound in his side. It's no longer angry red, but certainly still painful, and even the motion of moving it makes him flinch, though he's very good about not letting it show on his face.

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you. And that's actually quite simple — if you're hurting, it is absolutely worth all my energy."

His frown deepens at the sight, though, and he steps closer. Relieved that it's improved, yes, but it's little comfort to know it happened at all. It hurts to think of Jopson being injured like this.

"This shouldn't take long, to feel the relief of it." He hopes, in any case. This is the first time he'll have done this for someone in the physical realm and not just in a dream, or...a vision, whatever it was that felt real but wasn't. He rests both hands carefully on either side of the wound, his touch light, trying to avoid aggravating it more until this apparent ability works its magic. Magic. Imagine. He'd once thought of such things as nonsense and rubbish, now look at him. He feels the chill of Jopson's skin as his fingers rest there, and it's not long before he begins to feel his pain now, too, a sure sign it's working. He closes his eyes and ducks his head; not sure how it will feel as he takes on that pain fully, he'd rather not take the chance of it showing in his own face either.

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