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

He likes the thought of that. Of it staying around as long as it could, helping so many people until the very end. They reach a flat part, where the walking is mostly straight, and he takes the Doctor's hand in his.

"I - admire that you see that, too. The value and merit in every life." He hasn't met anyone else like that. Yes, Thomas can be petty and quiet and angry, but there is only one person he has ever wished immediate harm upon. It isn't something that he takes lightly. Even his mother, who had hurt him so deeply, is worthwhile.

He misses her. And William.

It feels so strangely natural when Thomas takes his hand that he hardly thinks of it when his fingers slip around his in return. That chill against his skin is already familiar, but not unwanted.

"I wouldn't know how to be any other way." While he's certainly himself been disappointed by people, angry with the choices they might make at times, for him it also doesn't devalue their life.

"People are like that, too. The star whale, I mean. It's not sentimentality, it's a fact of the universe and how all life exists in tandem, from the beginning to the end of time. Like the elements in our bodies, for instance, many formed in the stars. They are there, like the star whale, out there beyond, everyone any of us has ever known or loved." He looks again to the sky for a moment.

"Of course, not the best point to make while we're under an abundance of sunshine and no starlight. Just remember when it gets dark again."

"The stars are and always have been a guide," he says gently, looking up along with him. "If I don't leave here, and you do, then I'll be in the stars."

He's never been a religious man, not really in the way he should be, but he's always hoped, at least a little, that he might be able to have something else after he dies. He had crawled away through those rocks for something. Why not this?

More than only the stars he thinks, but doesn't say. His eyes linger on the sky a moment longer before he glances down at Thomas' hand briefly. He's not the only one here living a life after death and it shouldn't be possible, but it is. And the Doctor's own words briefly come back to him, that sometimes very rare, impossible things happen in the universe and people call them miracles. What else would explain how they could be here of all places holding hands together? There's obviously more to it — the strangeness of this world itself, the power it holds, but for as much as the Doctor wants to know things, he can admit when there are things he simply...doesn't know. When it surpasses even his overactive mind.

He doesn't care to think of leaving Thomas behind. He'll find another way around it somehow, he always does.

"Well," he starts, his tone soft, yet slightly flippant, trying to mask the melancholy that conjures, "I'll just keep holding your hand, that'll be us sorted."

As if it were that easy.

To live and breathe and pray in hope. He doesn't quite know what to think of it all, but he wants to. He wants to know it. He squeezes his hand and then stops, pulling him back against a tree so he can wrap his arms around him, enveloping him in his chill. As if holding hands wasn't enough to keep him grounded here.

"You will fly away like that beautiful creature in your story, Doctor. And you should."

He should, he should, of course he should, he repeats in his head. It's what he does, it's what he's best at — leaving and moving and running. He has to, he needs to, he can't ever really stop. And knowing that he can't stop, shouldn't stop, must not ever stop...is what usually keeps him from getting too close.

But he doesn't want to lose — no, he can't think it. If he doesn't think it, it won't hurt as much. But he feels it already, the tendrils of it, the thing that hurts the most.

Should it be enough to have whatever time exists here? He's never been good at that, either. It's knowing the end that waits, that makes it hard for him to appreciate what exists before it. He's trying, though. Thomas wraps him up and he tries to think of only this for a moment.

I'm not good at letting anyone go, is another thing he thinks and doesn't say. Slowly, he holds onto him in return.

And because he's the Doctor and because he is very not good at dealing with even the whisper of loss — "What if I get attached to the scenery here?"

"Ah yes. This is a very good tree. I can see why you would want to stay for it. But you see, sir, this tree belongs here. And there is no reason to stay for it when there are other, more exciting trees," he explains, smiling though he doesn't takes his arms from around him.

"You see, the universe, I've heard, is full of trees."

"Don't be pragmatic about this," he huffs an uneasy laugh. That's the trouble, isn't it? The way he flutters around between logic, rationality, and pesky things like attachments. Like the fondness he feels for this man who seems to have the strange power to disarm him. This fondness that seems to grow from moment to moment somehow.

There is no more constant war within himself than when he feels attached the way he does now.

He has a duty of care to everyone here (he feels, anyway), but also to the universe. He wants to run from the hold Thomas has on him, again, and he wants to stay right here for as long as he can. He wants to make this world better and safer so Thomas can live out his days here, and then, and then...the time will still come. He wants that to be many, many long years from now, but would he have the strength to stay and watch him leave?

He should flee before then, he must, but — then it comes back to him, the remembrance of what Thomas had shared. The way he was left behind.

Would he fly away, should he fly away, and leave him here? Whatever happens in the days and months and years ahead — would he leave him?

He's selfish and he wants to stay, whatever that could mean. He worries for everyone everywhere, and he'll have to go. Perhaps the answers can't come now, don't need to come now. Perhaps it's alright, for a moment, to just stay selfish and be held by him.

"There are a million trees and a million reasons to leave, but there's —"

The words are challenging for him, unfamiliar, unused.

There's one very important reason to stay.

He starts to shift in Thomas' arms, like he might pull away, like he might want to or need to, but he doesn't really. Not at all. He wants to stay right here.

"I'll decide where I should go," is all that he manages to say. That's not all of it, though, not nearly.

He loosens his grip, letting him go if he wants, letting him have his space. Thomas is quite used to letting people go, and he wouldn't want anyone to stay around because of him. Not anymore. That's the fastest way to put unrealistic expectations on someone and then get upset when they can't follow through.

That isn't anyone's fault. That's fate. That's life. That's - Thomas' life.

But he senses something left unsaid after reading and watching a silent man brood in his thoughts for too long. Crozier often said nothing when words should have been uttered. Thomas hadn't pressed him then, but he presses now. The Doctor is not Crozier, not by any stretch of the imagination.

"Speak plainly," he tells him instead, a half whisper against cold wind.

When he takes a step or two back, he fidgets with his hands a little, turning in a slow half-circle, trying to make sense of his own thoughts.

"You're important, Thomas. Very important. To me, I mean. Very important to me."

Maybe it's not enough of an answer and maybe it's too vague, but he hasn't truthfully figured it all out himself yet, either. And maybe all of this is terribly unfair to him. He just knows he wants to be close to him as long as he can be, and he's not very fond of the idea of leaving him behind.

No he isn't.

Thomas' first reaction is to argue against that statement. He's not important. He's nobody. He's a face in a crowd in 19th century London. He's a name in a book on a ship lost to the ice and the world. He's a body on rocks in a sea of dead men in uniforms.

But he's not important. Not to the Doctor, especially.

He wants to argue, but what comes out is a question.

"Why?"

Why. How does he even start —

"You're — well...the thing is, you —" He runs a hand through his hair, he paces, he is very clearly terrible at this. He will, inevitably, mess it up, he's sure.

"See, I don't — everything whirls and twirls and wibbles and wobbles around me and in me. And everything moves fast and I don't slow down, ever. I don't stop, I'm always going. Even here, even trapped, there's everything everywhere and all the noise, and...but then you're...you're there. You're right there." He closes his eyes, scrunching up his face, knowing he's sounding worse by the second.

"Here, I mean. You're here. And I want you to be here. You...steady me."

He's afraid to stand in one place, to stop, to hold his hand, hold onto him. And yet...he's not. It's one of the few things that makes some kind of strange sense, at least for him.

"I don't want to go far from you. I'm not explaining this well, am I, it's not...you're so much more. I'll get it right, I will, I'll think of better words."

Thomas has always known what people need before they do. He's always known what's necessary. He's always known what he needs to do.

Not now.

Standing in the sunshine with a bag on his back and the snow underfoot and the kindest person he's ever met standing in front of him, rambling and nervous...

He's lost.

Thomas takes off the pack as the Doctor explains, then, because he's only known one thing to quiet the other, he crosses the distance between them, grabs hold of his shirt, and kisses him again.

He doesn't know what he's trying to say, but he knows that in these moments, everything seems to make sense. Thomas is the selfish one for wanting this. But he's come to peace with it.

He doesn't really need to think of better words, he realizes, the moment Thomas is kissing him again. Well — it might be helpful if he could at least make a bit more sense because he knows he doesn't right now. But it's truthfully that the words are already there, waiting. Maybe this is how he learns to actually say them — this touch, this kissing, this patient and tender way that Thomas has.

Even if perhaps not everything is entirely understood between them right now, there is this. He briefly moves his hand, threading his fingers through Thomas' hair and cradling his cheek with his other hand. For a little while, he hopes perhaps he can hold him equally steady.

He leans against him, closing his eyes, enjoying this moment for what it is. He presses against him, steeping into his space, still grasping onto his shirt with a tight fist.

When he pulls back and breathes out, he can feel his muscles go weak.

"I want you to stay," he mutters. "Is that too selfish?"

It's hard for the Doctor to let himself be selfish even if he often is, if only because he's seen what happens, far too often. The way he's taken friends from their happy lives and showed them the stars, and they can't possibly resist and they don't want to stop and then life goes by and they're missing out on the lives they should have had before his promises of wonders to behold. If he wasn't selfish, he'd know better than to bring anyone along in what is an unstable and often dangerous existence. He should be alone.

If he's selfish about Thomas, what does that mean in the end, though, for a dead man? It would mean...more life, more joy, more...everything. It wouldn't mean taking him away from anything at all, it would mean an abundance of better things, he hopes, he desperately hopes. It's altogether so very different from his normal course of events. The wildcard in all of this is the world they find themselves trapped in now. A world unlike any he's ever known. He may well live out the end of his own days here, not even by choice. Even if he'd never known Thomas and never had a reason to want to stay, this world might have other plans.

But not all selfishness is bad, and not all selfishness is undeserved. Though it's easier to say it for others.

"No," he shakes his head for a moment, briefly resting a hand on Thomas' arm. "Everyone's allowed it sometimes. Besides, when have you ever been selfish?" The man who gives everything of himself to everyone else. What has he ever taken or asked for himself?

"I am not going to leave you behind." Whatever it means, whatever that looks like, whatever power he can possibly wield, he will hold onto that.

He meets his eyes, letting out his breath in bits and pieces as he shivers, and not from the cold.

I am not going to leave you behind.

The Doctor says it and Thomas wants to believe it. He wants to believe so badly that he wouldn't be cut from the rest of the world, from the one who sees him.

No, he can't.

He pulls him close again, grateful and guilty all at once. "We should get off of this hill," he says with a heavy laugh, thick with emotion.

There's an abundance of emotion tumbling around in the Doctor as well, a mix of fear and uncertainty that's always present in some way, but most prominent now. Can he keep this man safe here, this one he cares for so fiercely? He'll do anything it takes to ensure that, and to keep his promise.

His arms wrap around him tightly for a moment, though, and he pats his back a moment. "Down the hill, by the lake, home in time for tea," he nearly sing-songs in agreement, now just reaching for his hand to lead him, anchor him, keep him steady.

"Ah yes, tea. More bark tea or am I allowed something different?" he asks, pulling away, though he takes his hand and squeezes it gently as they walk. He doesn't mind walking hand in hand with him, taking strength from him and leaning on him a little as they walk. His knees aren't hurting as badly and the weather is perfect, but he's happy with the moment.

They'll make it down in no time, and Thomas feels a little - sad - that it will be time to say goodbye to him. So why not stick around and talk about tea?

"You mean you're not counting the minutes until you're reunited with it?" He teases knowingly. No amount of doctoring that tea up will make it delicious, of course. It's more functional than anything else.

"Suppose we could pivot. Something different, anything you like," he offers. He hasn't yet thought ahead to parting once they make it down that way. Of course, that will come regardless of whether it occurs to him or not. And when it does hit him, well, it will be hard to be alone again.

"Ah, anything I like?"

He sighs. "I want bread. Baked soft and a little sweet, drizzled with jam or honey." Thomas hums softly, leaning against the Doctor playfully ad they walk, grateful that they've made it to the easier stretch of the journey.

The snow is soft and crunchy under his boots, and he happily walks the trail.

"Now we're talking!" Drizzle honey or jam over anything, it's got his name on it. Of course, jam naturally makes him think of one of his favorite treats, something he very much misses now.

"I love these treats called Jammie Dodgers — bits of buttery biscuits with a healthy smear of jam sandwiched in the middle. You'd have those, too, if I had my way. Bread first, though, I suppose, if we're meant to go in the right order. Sweets after eats," he smirks cheekily. "Well, sweets are their own eats, just a different sort."

He gets a little more serious, though, as if he has any true basis in reality to say this — "Thomas Jopson, I swear: you will be the very first person here to have a lick of bread if I manage to find a way to make any at all."

Thomas smiles, nodding a little to the snow. "You make a lot of promises, Sir. Enough to put yourself in a lot of debt when it comes time to collect." Not that he doesn't believe him; he does. He believes everything the Doctor tells him. But that is also because he doesn't have anything else to cling to. Hope is so fragile here, so distant. He clings to whatever he can have.

He pauses by a tree, sitting on the rock underneath it to take a bit of a break. His knees are starting to protest, and he doesn't want to push himself.

It's very important to him to give Thomas something to believe in, to put hope and faith in, to look forward to everyday, if such a thing can be found and if it's at all possible for him to help with that. Not the easiest of tasks here of all places, but he would do anything he could to give that to him. Sometimes he spouts off promises with too much ease, letting his hearts win out over his head. It's easy to get lost in all the things he wants to give and do, losing sense of what is always possible.

Then again, he prefers to believe nothing is impossible. The wheels are already turning in his mind, thinking of all the things he could forage here to try and make some pale imitation of flour. Even if he couldn't fully manage bread, something like a cracker, or...anything close to what Thomas wants. It's important to him, to be able to do something like that for him. To make him smile.

"Important ones, yes," he says simply. He should sit with Thomas, too; the aching in his side throbs a bit now with their walk, but instead his mind shifts to thinking of ways to help him down the rest of the way with more ease.

He comes closer, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It would look a mess, but I could probably swing you over my shoulder to go down the rest of the way. That would be a sight," he laughs a bit to himself, shaking his head. "Or you could lean on me, I could bear your weight."

Or there's the obvious, that he simply needs to just rest a moment. He struggles just accepting that sometimes. There must be a fix he hasn't considered.

This trip has been enlightening for a number of reasons, but one of the most important is that he learned to read the Doctor. He learned to see him for what he's doing.

And so he reaches out and captures his hand.

"Do you think you could build a small fire? Enough to boil some snow and wrap my knees again?" It would give him something to do, low effort, where Thomas could keep an eye on him but also let him feel useful.

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