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

"Well, that's boring, isn't it, when there's so much to see, so much to do."

It's not, not really. Sure, he does get restless easily, he likes to move to and fro, but a little while ago when he'd sat there beside Thomas, the world didn't tilt over on its axis, nothing went dreadfully wrong. It was a moment of peacefulness there beside him.

Some things are very hard for him to admit to others, let alone to himself. He doesn't mean to be this way — difficult sometimes, to get to the depths of him. It's fear, yes, years of being afraid and alone. No one deserves how challenging he can make it to get close to him, but it means so much to him that Thomas is trying. There's a deeper truth he wants to say, the real answer to the question, but it's sitting there in his chest, trying to work itself out as moves the extra warm compress to Thomas' left knee now.

He is infinitely patient, infinitely there, and he nods once at the answer, but he doesn't accept it. "You won't leave me here alone," he tells him, quite certain of that. Even if Jopson ordered him to, even if he told him to leave, he doubts the Doctor would go anywhere.

"Come and sit with me again, sir," he tells him. "I promise you will not miss anything going by if you do."

He wants time to sit and enjoy the warmth on his legs, and he has a feeling that the Doctor will be up and down, trying to keep the rags warm, which means constantly keeping water boiling. Which means not sitting down at all.

He wasn't sure what he expected precisely, but not this, this...understanding on some level. Even if not completely understood, his friend gives him space to just be, to work himself out, while trusting him. That, again, means so much.

"I wouldn't leave you, no," he's quick to promise. "I wouldn't ever." It wouldn't be the first time he's made a dangerous promise, one that could so easily be broken by forces beyond his control, but it slips out nonetheless. And he does believe the earnestness in his friend's words, that nothing will be missed by sitting a while.

"You're a taskmaster, Thomas Jopson," he jokes, making a show of sighing heavily, but he does shuffle his weight to sit beside him again, shoulder to shoulder.

"I am not. But I have served under several."

He closes his eyes again briefly, only opening them so he can pull the wraps off when they cool. His trousers are slowly lowered back over his legs and he sits back again.

"What is your mind telling you?" he asks, deliberately slow.

He's trying, very hard, to sink into the spirit of this, of truly relaxing for a little while. And so he mirrors Thomas, eventually letting his eyes close, taking deep breaths. He tries to pay more attention to the things he might not usually notice, the softer things beneath the frenzy of his own mind. He crosses his legs beneath him as they sit there, and though his hands fidget a bit in his lap, he's otherwise nearly still.

"It's turning around and around, like a tilt-a-whirl. Did I do this, that, remember this, remember that, don't forget, and this other thing." It's interesting to attempt speaking it out loud, and he realizes what chaos it really is. He takes a few deliberate deep breaths, forcing his hands to stop fidgeting slowly, keeping his eyes closed. "Just beneath there's...a bit of peace. A quiet that I don't usually get close to."

Thomas reaches over again and puts cool hands on the Doctor's, as if the weight might help calm his racing mind. He knows that well of peace is there somewhere, if only he can get to it.

He tucks his hair behind his ears.

"I try to - imagine a waterfall. The noise is loud, overwhelming, and I can't hear anything over it. I can only see the water as it falls. It's lovely, really, and I am mesmerized by the way the light plays and reflects off of the water as it crashes down."

A cool touch, but one he's grown used to, or at least, doesn't pull away from. There is a comfort in the weight of his hands, as though they were their own sort of anchor holding things steady.

The image he paints of the waterfall is easy to see in his mind's eye and he holds onto it. He takes a moment, deep breaths, and his breathing gradually slows.

"I can see it, your waterfall. It's lovely," he remarks softly. "And all you have to do is stand there. Nothing else."

Just the peace of that. It's okay to sit here, to stay in this, his body itself beginning to relax along with his breaths.

Thomas let's him sit there for a while, leaning ever so slightly in his shoulder, letting his head rest and his eyes stay closed. He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but it happens against his will, the exhaustion and exertion of the trek taking everything from him.

He doesn't sleep soundly or deeply, so any movement would threaten to rouse him, but he takes what he can, what little rest he has.

The Doctor drifts a bit himself, though doesn't entirely sleep, and when he's aware of Thomas sleeping, he stays more alert. It's the most relaxed he's been, though, in a very long time. When was the last time he stayed sitting like this? In spurts, he has, more infrequently. But he can't recall anyone falling asleep against his shoulder like this and it's a new feeling that swells in him. Something dormant in him, pulling loose, peeking at the surface. He feels exceedingly protective of him — attached to him.

Good, he thinks. He needs this rest, however long he can grasp it. While Thomas sleeps, he keeps thinking of that waterfall and the light, the sun setting and the stars poking out. And now he's imagining a distant planet with a waterfall that would come to life in the dark of night and sing, and if he could, he would show it to Thomas. That would be lovely. For now, he keeps watch over him, staying peaceful — amazingly.

Thomas stays sleeping for a good while. Not long enough to dream, but long enough to wake feeling slightly more rested than he had before.

He looks up at the Doctor with a soft laugh. "You are still whole and sane," he smiles, voice a little husky. "And I know you were still."

He would never take credit for it, but he's glad to see it. That sort of frantic energy is exhausting, and he has no desire to see his friend stress on it.

"That warrants a gold star, I think," he cheekily commends himself. It was the worry about jostling Thomas too much that helped to keep him in one place and anchored. It felt good, to have a purpose in keeping some sort of watch over him. Having him close — that was nice, too. "And yes, yes, you might have the inkling of a point." It's said with a gentle smile.

It won't actually drive him mad(der) if he takes a rest sometimes. Maybe this is what progress is. Growing!

He's glad he rested, though, he needed it. "Hungry? Thirsty? Any other word ending in Y that needs doing?"

He takes his hand this time, linking their fingers a moment, deliberate as he says it.

He makes a note to ask what in the world a gold star has to do with anything, but that's for later.

There's too much on his mind now, this swell of affection for someone who actually cares for him in return. Someone who - notices the small things. "I am grateful you stayed," he says, looking down. "May I tell you something? Something no one else knows?"

It occurs to him absently as Thomas speaks that it's such a human thing. I am grateful you stayed, he says, and he realizes how new it truly is for him, like so much about this has been since he'd been pulled to this world. The physical changes to his body were immediate, but perhaps some of the parts of human nature he hasn't always understood, or hasn't always allowed himself to understand — maybe that's changing in him, too. Humans — they stay for each other. Not always, no, he's well aware, but...they try. They don't run, like the Doctor's often had a habit of doing. But he stayed this time, and Thomas says it, and it's...a newer feeling.

"Yes, anything of course. I'll keep it safe," he promises, squeezing his hand.

"I know my fate because I was - pulled here at the moment of my death. My - someone said he would stay with me as I felt my body dying, but Cornelius Hickey took him away. They had promised not to leave the I'll behind, but I woke by - by myself, in a tent with food and another dying soul.

"I called for them but no one heard me. They pulled the sledge away and I crawled after them until I had no more strength."

He looks to his hands, the ones that had dragged him on his belly through rock and ice.

He's looking at those hands now, too. The Doctor is no stranger to death, nor even to getting close to people who have already died. If he were to think on it closely (which he tries to avoid), it's rather the story of his life; when you travel through time, everyone is a ghost to you, coming or going always, and he's left behind. He should feel fear of it now, that swelling dark of loss that always comes, because he knows what awaits Thomas Jopson. But something keeps him holding his hand and not running.

The way that Thomas was left behind — that's another thing altogether. To be near death, to hear someone close, to reach for them but they've already gone. He's not sure what he's looking for as he examines his friend's hands a bit closer, gently turning over the one he's holding. He dragged himself forward with this in his last moments, knuckles and fingertips scraping the ground, and that makes the Doctor tighten his hold instinctively. It pains him to the core to think of it, to be able to see it so clearly.

"With your last breaths..." His voice shakes for a moment and he clears his throat, steadying it. "You crawled across the earth, past death itself, and here you are and we're sitting together in a lookout tower in this —" Whatever this place really is. "I'm sorry you've carried that, those memories."

"We are."

And he has to face the men who left him, who took his Captain from him, and the ones who died before they even got to that point. That, he thinks, is the hardest part.

He squeezes his hand. "Don't be sorry for me. This is another chance this is - everything I could have asked for."

He lets out a breath. "I am - angry at the one who left me. He is here, amongst the others. He was a coward, but I cannot hold it against him."

Sometimes he doesn't think he's the best at words or expressing emotion the way others might be. He can talk and talk and talk and sometimes those words aren't the best words or the right words or the words that are most needed, but he wants them to be now. He just fumbles, and when he does, he leans into touch; that's easy, expressing care like this.

"It is that," he's quick to agree. A second chance. How, he doesn't know. The power here, what it's done and what it can still do — it continues to elude him. But it's brought people here from the edge of death and he's grateful for it. It defies all logic, all the laws of time as he knows it, but he's grateful. "And I'm glad for it," he adds quietly.

He'll keep hold of his hand as long as holds on in return. The chill isn't too much for him, not now. What he feels most right now is another surge of protectiveness.

"Not everyone could. To feel anger for it, what was done to you, but to understand it at the same time. Have you spoken with him much here?"

"Yes, we are friendly. Sometimes - even friends. For a while, we shared a space, so lonely were we both. But I cannot and will not forget the sight of those men walking away."

He leans against him again, keeping his hand where it is, letting him hold it there a while. He doesn't want to let go; the touch is far too soothing.

"Sir..." There's a question there, right on the tip of his tongue. But he loses his nerve just as quickly as it came.

He shakes his head. "Never mind."

"No, you wouldn't, you wouldn't forget that." The image of it alone is something the Doctor won't forget, either. "But now you don't have to not forget it alone, for what it's worth."

He's not always the best at sharing the deeper parts of himself, but he can understand a shared thing being easier to carry, in theory. Or he hopes at least. It means something that he was trusted with it.

At the question not asked, though, he gently prods. "You had a question, though."

He's not asking for anything else. The Doctor already gave him everything, and there's nothing more.

There's that longing and shared affection and he is always very aware of how close they are, but that's not his life. He thinks of Crozier, living in his hut with someone else caring for him and - he doesn't want to feel that lost again.

"Is it nearly time for your soup? I'm afraid that your pockets may have marinated them a bit too long," he says smoothly, smiling, tucking his hair behind his ear. He takes his hand away, freeing the Doctor from his grasp, should he want it.

It's not what he wants, no, he realizes that quickly at the loss of Thomas' hand. That cold sensation immediately gone — it should be a relief, but it isn't. He's not sure what it is, exactly, but he only knows he enjoyed holding his hand and now they're not, and there was something left unsaid. Unsaid for him, too, is the thing. There's so much more he wants to say, words that he is — once again — not very good at, either saying them or even understanding them.

He's an idiot about these things and he doesn't clue in, not even with his own feelings. They are there, buried, pushed aside for idiotic reasons. His own desperate fear of losing someone he cares for so profoundly, of getting closer and closer and having to face that loss again. Deep down, too, his own self-loathing holds him back; anyone would deserve better than him, wouldn't they? So...yes, it's better this way, isn't it? He thinks to reach back for his hand again, to cling selfishly, but what would he say? Does he even know? His mouth opens and closes, like he wants to try, something wants to work itself out, but it's...Thomas was right to let go of him. Right. Yes. The soup.

He can pivot just as well himself, smiling easily, following Thomas' lead. "Soup, yes! Oh, you'll love this! Pocket marination adds complexity and depth of flavor, trust me."

Getting to work fiddling with the stove, getting water boiling, he begins to wash the mushrooms and prepare the few herbs herbs they could find. It won't be much, not enough, but something they foraged and made themselves.

Thomas is attuned immediately to the nonverbal communication sent his way. He has to know what people need before they need it themselves, or he wouldn't be much of a steward.

He realizes, however, that he isn't always right, and that he might have made a slight miscalculation in his assessment of this particular situation. He lets the Doctor get up and fiddle, and Thomas stays where he is for a long moment.

As the water boils, Thomas stands and joins him, his throat dry. He's a little unsteady on his feet, his knees still a little sore, but he takes the Doctor's arm to catch himself.

"Allow me to assist," he mutters.

He keeps his arm there for a moment to ensure he's steady and he's not particularly pleased that he's pushing himself to stand and move about like this. He worries easily and it's keeping his mind off of other things.

"Don't push yourself. Just take it slow." On some level, he understands, though, the need to move about. "It needs...salt and pepper and garlic and so many things we don't have, but no, no, it'll be good. Delicious, even. What else, what else..." He scratches his head and looks around the small cabin here in the tower. Most of the ingredients have been picked through, not much left at all. Perhaps this will have to be enough as it is.

He looks to Thomas then, just making sure he's steady. "We don't have any stale bread or crackers in that pack of yours, do we?"

"I haven't seen anything of that sort in ages," he laughs. He stays where he's at, breathing in the scent of the herbs. It won't be much, but it will be good.

"But I do have some - "

He doesn't finish his sentence, diving into his pack instead and returning triumphantly with a small, sealed can.

"Broth," he tells him. "It should add some flavor. I had been carrying it with me on my treks between Lakeside and Milton."

"There's always room left for wonder and hope, and I always do that," he snaps his fingers a little, let his thoughts run loose while they work. "I always hope. Even over something as simple as bread."

Lost in his thoughts, it takes a moment for his attention to be diverted back to Thomas, and now he smiles more brightly, snapping his fingers again at the sight of the can. "Or broth! Excellent. That'll do us."

A modest feast, perhaps, but a good one. "Crack it open, will you? We'll add that, let it simmer just a bit longer and we're in for a treat."

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Cw: description of character death

Cw: more description of character death

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