it must be that old evil spirit

[singmod]

SEPTEMBER 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — PAINFUL REMINDERS: An Aurora briefly connects the Interlopers to their homeworlds, and with it are able to receive items from home — but these ones will bring no comfort to them.

PROMPT TWO — THE ENEMY WITHIN: Strange and familiar occurrences begin in Milton and Lakeside, growing in frequency and danger for the Interlopers. Who can truly be trusted among their numbers?

PROMPT THREE — BAD BLOOD: The Forest Fighters finally come to Milton, and with it: they bring the yawning grave.

PAINFUL REMINDERS

WHEN: 5th - 9th of September.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potentially upsetting themes; themes of loneliness/isolation.

For many, the sight of the Aurora is now one they have become used to. There have been plenty of them over the year that has passed since the Interlopers first came to the Northern Territories. Often, they have been a sign of great danger, with plenty of unsettling and unnatural things happening when the skies light up. Other times they have been the herald of aid — a link between Interlopers and Enola, gifting them with abilities to help them survive in this world. There is no real knowing what kind of force the Aurora is, truly. And there is a tension that holds amongst the Interlopers as the day turns to night and there is the soft sound that grows louder.

The ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds, is difficult to place. Perhaps it sounds like voices, or discordant strings. And with it, the low-drone of electrical buzz — punctuated with the echoing pops and sharp cracks. The sky is alive with sound, and with it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night, growing brighter and brighter as time goes on — greens, blues, pinks and purples shifting and dancing across the night. And much like every Aurora before this one, the electricals of the world come to life too. Homes, streetlamps, cars long-stranded in the snow. Man’s world comes alive, buzzing and flickering precariously.

But there are no ghosts like there once was a year ago. No terrible weather, no poisonous fog. If one could call it a ‘normal’ Aurora, that’s what it appears to be. But there is something else in amongst all the light and noise. Snatches of things: whispers of conversations, names called, laughter and tears.

You realise you recognise these voices. They are the voices of home. Perhaps you hear your mother, your siblings or friends. Whoever they are, you can hear them. And although they might not be able to hear you — for one brief night, the Aurora has connected you, bridged the gap between your world and this one. You may sit for a while, simply listening to the voices, relishing in hearing those from back home. If others join you, you will find yourself compelled to speak of them: to share in stories about those from back home — the connections you share with them.

It’s strange, though. These voices do not fill you with comfort or joy. Instead you are left with feelings of sadness, anger, and isolation. The Aurora has connected Interlopers, but now you feel so cut off from home, cut off from friends and loved ones — reminded of everything left behind. Everything you long for. Everything you have lost.

Something strange skips through the sky, a warping of the sound. It’s unsettling. Something feels... wrong, somehow.

It’s not just the voices that will remind you of this. Something else comes through the Aurora after that night. A small token will be brought through. Whatever the item may be, when you go to sleep and next wake, you will find said item. It may be placed on your bedside, on your desk or dining room table.

The item, you will find, will bring you a reminder of pain. Of sadness. Of horror. Perhaps it’s something you haven’t thought of in some time. Maybe it is something that has lingered in the back of your mind. Perhaps it is a part of you, waiting to be uncovered. A sign of something to come. A painful reminder of your past, or an ominous omen of your future.

THE ENEMY WITHIN

WHEN: The month of September.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: kidnapping/attempted kidnapping; attempted murder; murder; vandalism; arson; assault; animal mutilation; corpse mutilation/manipulation/desecration; themes of peril/terror; possible character/npc injuries; possible character/npc death.

It starts with strange happenings at night, things left to be found by the next morning. Those within Lakeside many find themselves unsurprised by it, given their location, but the scenes found in Milton are a foreboding sight.

Mutilated bodies of animals: rabbits, ptarmigans, even deer — mangled and strewn about the streets, blood upon the snow. Some may awaken in the middle of the night to the sounds of their windows breaking, with houses on the Outskirts being targeted more than those in the middle of town. There is… a kind of unrest in the world.

It escalates.

Some may leave their home for the day and return in the evening to find the place trashed: items broken, precious foodstuffs thrown about the place and destroyed. Those within the Outskirts are once again particularly vulnerable, as are those within Lakeside. Fires are started in some of the abandoned buildings of Milton. Something, someone is targeting the Interlopers.

It is hard to pin-point who exactly, and it only puts the Interlopers on high alert. Nothing like this has never happened before. This is new, especially in Milton.

As the month progresses, the acts become more serious. Fires may be started in the middle of the night in Interlopers’ homes while they sleep. Some are attacked in the night, others are taken from their beds. Some killed within their very homes. Of the Interlopers that go missing, their mutilated remains may be found days later out in the wilds.

In Milton, soon enough, someone is bold enough to come out from the darkness, out from the gloom of the night. Interlopers may be attacked in broad daylight — by those they may recognise as newer Interlopers of the community, who appeared from the wilds: lost and shivering, with nowhere else to go. Some of them have been within Milton for a few months now.

Those in Lakeside will face something similar: Forest Talkers are making a move, rogue and isolated incidents — done with sabotaging attempts at hunting and taking a more direct approach.

They have no qualms about being captured or killed, only determined to get rid of as many of the Interlopers as they can. They whisper, they scream: “You don’t belong here. You should never have come here. It wants you gone, it wants us all gone. The end is here, it’s too late for any of us. Nature must run its course. The yawning grave has been opened.”

The attack is on two fronts: the first of Forest Talkers in Lakeside amplifying their actions. The second in Milton, enemies within the ranks of the Interlopers, Forest Talkers hiding as Interlopers.

Within Milton, newer Interlopers will likely be met with suspicion as being some of the Forest Fighters as a result of these individual acts of violence. As the numbers of Milton have been infiltrated, and it’s easy to have mistrust amongst those newer to the community. In-fighting is likely, and the entire town is stuck in some terrible, tense state — unsure of who to trust within their own numbers. In the days and weeks that follow, it remains like this. Acts of violence and vandalism — chaos and disorder.

BAD BLOOD

WHEN: The night of 27th - 28th September.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: attempted murder; murder; vandalism; arson; assault; mentions of blood; themes of peril/terror; possible character/npc injuries; possible character death/npc death; actual NPC death.

Towards the end of the month, the moon is full. They call it the Harvest Moon, but colour seeps into it — oranges and reds: a blood moon, partially eclipsed. The night is calm and cloudless, but there’s an uneasy feeling in the night.

The earth groans, the rumble of another quake that’s plagued the Northern Territories since the beginning of August. It is the only warning Interlopers will get — if they may realise it as a warning. To some, when they look back, it’s a omen, a starting pistol.

They do not come through the Mines. Thanks to the efforts of Interlopers to guard the entrances of the Milton Mines, they know better. They come to town from the south, not the north.
The quakes of August and September have opened a new way from Lakeside to Milton. They are led by their Leader: a man dressed in white, a large deer skull upon his head. And while their numbers are small in comparison, they come armed and with the determination to get rid of the Interlopers once and for all. As they come into town, they launch their attack.

More fires will be set, Interlopers will be attacked with abandon. Shot at, stabbed, beaten. It is a mass execution. They will not stop until the Interlopers, or them, are dead.

Well, the majority of them. There are just under a dozen teenagers and younger people amongst their ranks who have shown hesitance toward violence in the past. Perhaps they can be reasoned with. Perhaps there may be a way to convince them to abandon their cause. There is fear in their eyes. Some of them do not want to die. They fear the yawning grave.

What will do you then, Interloper? Are you willing to fight for your life? Are you willing to take another’s to save your own, or a friends? Will you hide, or run? What choice will you make? The Forest Talkers have long since made their own choice. Now you must make yours.

It is another night of chaos on a town already scarred by the events of June. Interlopers will note two familiar faces in the fray: at some point during the night both Methuselah and Young Bill will arrive. While Methuselah will concentrate on aiding the wounded and trying to shelter Interlopers the best he can, Young Bill will help protect Interlopers from the Forest Talkers with his rifle in hand. But fortunately, it is just for one single night. Ammunition runs out, sides are switched, and people are killed. As dawn approaches, Forest Talker numbers dwindle. Either killed, incapacitated or defected. In the early morning light, bodies lie in the snow both Interloper and Forest Talker alike.

Those trying to hunt down the leader will see him slipping inside an empty cabin, heavily wounded. Following after him, they will find him settling himself down to kneel on the floor. The white of his tactical gear stained red with blood as it blooms from his wounds. Slowly, he removes the deer skull from his head to reveal a clean-shaven man in his late twenties with a shock of white-blond hair. His eyes are blue, calm.

He sets the skull down, panting and sweating. He is dying. He is not afraid.

“My name is Mallory, not that it matters now. We are dead, you and I.” he says softly. “We exist in a dying world.”

He is in much pain from his wounds. He moves again to sit cross-legged on the floor. A hand touches the bloodied fabric of his front and he laughs humourlessly.

“You don’t understand, do you? The end must come. That is the order of things. The end must come so the world can be reborn. That is how it’s always worked. When the world is swallowed, it will grow again from the earth.”

It is a story. The story of the Darkwalker. Some believe it to be the end of the world, but Young Bill had once said there is another telling of the tale. A creation myth. The Darkwalker swallows the world and returns to its slumber within the earth. Within it, everything its swallowed grows again and the world returns.

“We fought against man’s actions to ruin this place, not knowing our true purpose. The Devourer has shown me the truth, and I sought to put that into action.” His head tilts to one side. “The yawning grave is opened. Does new life not grow from the decay? It is a cycle. The grave and the cradle.”

He finds it difficult to breathe, but he presses on.

“You fight to live. You come here and you do not see what you are. You are only delaying the inevitable, perverting the true course. Prolonging the suffering. You are the Interlopers, you are not part of nature’s design. The Darkwalker does not want you here. And where it fails, we have tried to succeed.”

There’s another laugh, something catching in his throat. He coughs, blood bubbling from his lips.

“And failed. For now. The First Cursed cannot hold it forever. She, too, delays the inevitable." Even as he is dying, he still have the energy to sneer. He speaks of Enola. "A woman who plays at being a god. What right does she have? All must go into the Long Dark. ... As will I. Return me to the grave.”

Mallory’s head dips, his body sagging. He inhales once more and then stops.

FAQs

PAINFUL REMINDERS


1. Players must sign up for items. See the toplevel on the plotting post.

2. Items will face the same warps/nerfs as everything else that is brought into the game.

3. Items can be no bigger than something your character can reasonably carry.

4. While items do not have to belong to your character, there has to be a good reason why they’d receive such an item — ie. something related to your character.


THE ENEMY WITHIN

1. The Forest Talkers within Milton are a number of NPCs that have been pre-selected from NPCs who arrived in April and August. Not all of them will show their true intentions as the month goes on but will continue to stay hidden.

2. Two NPCs killed in the June Event were also Forest Talkers. … Good… job?

3. The following NPC Interlopers will out themselves as Forest Talkers at this stage: Devon Busswood; Rita Yee; Realm Lovejoy.


BAD BLOOD

1. Following the events of this prompt, Interlopers now have an additional way into Lakeside. It’s still rather dangerous: it’s through a partially collapsed cave system that ends into abandoned bunker on the Lakeside side. The game map will be marked accordingly in due course.

2. Some Interlopers may recognise a familiar face in the Forest Talker ranks: the man who was kidnapped by Interlopers previously in July has returned. Looks like he made good on his promise. He's come back to cause problems.

3. The following NPC Interlopers will out themselves as Forest Talkers during the attack: Jackie Blackmore; Ross Huguet; Jennifer Kitchen; Daniel Kresco.

4. As a reminder of numbers: around fifty Forest Talkers will show up for the attack.

5. There is an OOC vote on the fate of the remaining Forest Talkers, the link is here.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

— Francis Crozier.

[fidior]

It feels a lifetime since he last spoke with Crozier. Memory of that day is hazy and strange, blurred a little at the edges. There was an anger that belonged to him — oh yes, it belonged to him — but it found voice in the wrong shape. Warped by the effects of this place, catching hold of every hurt feeling and making it feel like a weapon he needed to use against the one man he vowed to always stay loyal to.

Since then, Little has killed someone. No punishment is enough for it. No amount of self-inflicted hunger, no discomfort, no driving physical labor, though he does all of those things, for weeks. The only punishment that comes close is the beast-form this place cursed him with, the one that tugs at his spirit most when the moon is full. He falls into that horrible form, lets it take over him, keeps himself that way more often than he'd ever want to — a beast. But the empty place inside of him grows bigger, and it's exacerbated by so many other guilts, and he cannot forget one man he'd surely hurt deeply.

One morning in early September when he wakes, there is a single pocket watch chain curled at the bedside.

What he initially feels is confusion, and some faint ache. He recognises the fob — most of the men had pocket watches, an item carried even when time lost most of its meaning. Hours, days, weeks, months; all bled together, in the end. An item like this was a reminder of everything lost, everything separating them from their homes, and yet simultaneously a precious familiarity to hold onto. To cling onto. Edward, of all people, knew the value of such importance. He was one of the last to remain holding onto such concepts.

He keeps it with him now, constantly. Tucked into his pocket or sometimes held in his hand. He can't decide if it's a comfort or another emptiness, but he accepts whichever it may be.

One day he seeks out Crozier in the direction he knows he lives now, but has never visited personally. His heart is tight and strained; he keeps the watch chain curled around his fingers, brushing against it almost in some attempt to self-soothe. He comes across him outside first — perhaps the other man is up to some chore in the woods, or heading to or from his home. It isn't difficult to spot one another, two solitary moving things in the stillness. Little hesitates only a moment before he begins to approach him.

"Good day," he calls, more softly than he meant to. Even now, he feels smaller, like a child.

[goingtobeunwell]

No one had walked away from that period of confusion and misdirected fury with clean hands. Some lashed out at each other, others came to blows, and then in the aftermath as a community they’d still been fractured and contentious and unsure of their neighbors. It had been too much for Crozier, who had been barely able to breathe for weeks after it was all said and done. He couldn’t handle the injures and the knowledge that history seemed to be repeating itself; it was far too painful.

Letting down his men once had destroyed him, but a second time? A second time would erase completely what remained of him, that compassion he’d come to find, that hope and optimism he has even now. He fears it’s already coming to pass though, especially after the events of the town hall, and he’s too cowardly now to make another attempt to unite them.

Maybe it’s for the best. His confrontation with Edward had been harsh, but in the weeks after, stewing about in his brain and replayed over and over, not entirely unenlightening. Some of those accusations leveled at him had been entirely true. He’d asked too much of a man he’d all but ignored the first few years of the expedition - and he’d come to ruin because of it.

It’s quiet in the area around his cabin, save for some of the bird calls in the trees and the sounds of branches snapping under the weight of ice. The sun is still out, and he takes advantage of it by sitting on a bare rock with his journal resting on his lap. Chores are all well and good, but so’s a rest now and again. Taking in the life around him, the sunlight, the trees, the crunch of snow underfoot.

He raises his head quickly at said sound, expression softening when he sees him.

“Edward. What are you doing out here?”

[fidior]

He'd left that conversation with so much anger left in him, and words that perhaps on some level he'd known — 'You died with the rest'; he's known, for some time now, that he must have, but hearing it said by Crozier himself.... The other man knows he died, and perhaps knows how that happened.

'Whatever penance you think you owe to the men you paid, Edward. You more than paid.'

But that part, he can't believe. Can't begin to believe it. Dying isn't enough, not when it's what they all did — he needs to suffer here and now, in this place, as this ghost...

If he's a ghost, he's cursed to feel the weight of things as a living man still would, for his heart pumps blood fast and hot, anxious as he stares across some feet to the other man sitting there. For a moment, Crozier looks... peaceful, more peaceful than Little can remember seeing him in ages. Then he sees him, and his eyes soften like that, and for some reason this affects Little so much more than if they were to sharpen instead. He has to take a moment, take a breath, and then he nods again.

"I wanted to reach you." There's still some lingering, persistent, (maybe desperate) need to speak formally, to choose his words carefully around this man specifically, but.... it falters. For the first time, really, it falters. Even to his own ears, he just sounds... like a man. Not reporting anything, not overtly deferential, only saddened. This man has known enough hurt.

"I should have come sooner. To tell you how deeply sorry I am for— for everything. For hurting you."

[goingtobeunwell]

Habit tells him to be gentle. Edward could be thriving in his current day-to-day but would always seem fragile in so many ways to Crozier. “We were all more than a little busy,” he tells him, the first of what he assumes will be many dismissals of Little’s guilt.

He closes his book and slips it into his inner jacket, not the big winter parka but something meant for these more mild temperatures. It’s freezing still for others, but his body’s adapted to the chill now, and quite probably intolerant of warm weather. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be given the opportunity to find out though.

“Come,” he tells him, nodding his head towards the path in front of them. “Let’s sit by a fire, and we can talk a spell.”

He knows enough to keep a frown off of his face. He accepts his apology - of course he does, but some things needed to have been said.

[fidior]

He isn't skilled with this, experienced with this. For how sorry Edward has been over the years, and to this man in very specific times... this is different. This isn't some slip-up, some poor choice made, some wrong decision. This was an argument, and that's what he's unused to contending with, for Edward had never allowed himself to argue with anyone, before. No matter what overarching influence might have been coaxing him to that point, the consequences are his to bear.

And he, simply put, has no idea what he's doing. The apology comes too quickly — no less authentic, he means it whole-heartedly — but it's without preamble, presented like a thing he wants to quickly share, like he's some child lacking the skill to ease into his apology and instead rambling it out. He's immediately aware of his own awkwardness, flushed and uncomfortable by it and wishing he were anyone else at all.

But Crozier is calm and patient with him, and welcoming even after all of it. Little lowers his eyes to nod, deferential but all-too willing to accept the offer. This is what he wanted, what he meant — he needs to talk to him. He's needed to for such a very long time. And so he adds, wanting Crozier to know that he's here by choice, that it isn't a chore but a desire, that this man is important to him—

"Yes, please. I would like that very much."

He moves towards the path, slipping the chain into his pocket unseen for now. It isn't just small talk to fill the space when he asks, brows knit, eyes concerned.

"How... have you been? Safe, out here? Are you safe?"

[goingtobeunwell]

Crozier, who is an expert in contrition, slips easily into the guiding role for this conversation. He doesn't find it difficult, although the nature of the conversation will always and forever be harrowing. Reliving any part of their last days isn't something he enjoys, not with strangers and especially not with the people who were there experiencing it alongside of him.

But perspective is something he needs, and he realizes that with each and every talk he has with the men. There are things he failed to realize and fully understand, motives and feelings and mindsets unknown to him that become clearer and clearer with each difficult retelling.

"I'm safe," he reassures him. "Very safe."

He brings Little up to the front steps of the cabin he shares with Rama: patches in the roof and on the stairs themselves telltale signs of the care that's been put into the place. He opens the door, a low, unattended fire still crackling in the well-kept fireplace, light coming through reinforced windows. It's a cozy little home filled with books and trinkets and dried herbs hanging from the rafters in a fairly well-kept kitchen.

"Yourself, Edward?" he asks, pausing by the door to guide him inside towards the fireplace. "Are you safe?"

[fidior]

It's a relief to hear it from him — to find Crozier overall unharmed by the recent events that have stricken this community. Though it has been... a few months since June and what happened then, it might as well have happened yesterday, for Edward. He can't stop reliving it.

He follows suit, peering into the open door for a few seconds before stepping carefully inside. The cabin is comfortable — in a way that Little's own never was, when he was living on his own. This seems lived in, not like a space in which a man might simply behave like a visitor, but... like a home.

"I am safe," he assures him with a quick nod. "John Irving is with me. We stay together now, to watch over one another."

When he draws near to the fireplace he hesitates, as though waiting to be given permission to sit, and then he slowly sinks down to do so, cap held in his lap. His fingers tighten against it.

"I suppose that June truly was... the nightmare that you and I knew it would become." The hunger, the tensions rising, the... outcome. So much bloodshed. A repeat of everything, in a sense.

[goingtobeunwell]

It's not a life Crozier's used to; he's a man who's been criticized for not using enough available drawers, after all, but it's been surprising how comfortably he's settled. It's not just comfortable, despite all the hardships he's contented. It's a strange feeling for him, not one he's used to yet or even able to recognize.

He sits down on the second chair, sinking into it with a lot more practice and ease. He's fallen asleep in this exact chair, in fact.

"And it was only June," he replies quietly, looking at the way he still holds his cap. "June of the first year."

Crozier seems to deflate with a little with a quiet exhale. It's good that Edward and John have each other's backs; that sort of camaraderie and loyalty will save them in the end. But the others, most of which who have never had to work a part of a crew or listen to command, might not fair so well.

"We're not solely to blame for it. We were manipulated into it with soured emotions and that constant barrage from the Darkwalker."

[fidior]

Only June... It's truly a damning thought, one Edward meets with a solemn sigh of his own, dipping his head again for a moment. They haven't even been in this place a full year, and already so much... has happened. So much horror, and loss.

But he's looking back up at the older man as he continues speaking, studying him as he listens. So Crozier is aware that it wasn't... fully them. He knows it was some sort of manipulation, some outside presence — it's a relief, one Little is nodding again to.

"The Darkwalker... I had not realised before just how deeply it could influence this place. ....And us," he adds; no matter what relief he might feel, shame lingers there, leaking from him. He swallows, heart tightening.

"What was said.... You must know, I do not blame you. For what went wrong, for— any of it. We were doomed men. I do not think I was capable of... truly seeing it for what it was back then, but... somewhere in me, perhaps I knew."

At the very least, he knew he was in a situation that was... beyond his capacity to control or truly deal with, and crumbling fast, even if Edward had held onto hope far longer than most would dare. It was foolish of him to; he can see that now, too.

[goingtobeunwell]

If Little had held out hope for far too long, what would that say about him? It wasn’t until he saw that final camp that he understood - his optimism had been horribly misplaced.

“Perhaps you should hold me accountable,” he says quietly, hand and not-hand gesturing towards himself. “I should carry some guilt for what occurred to us. To you.”

Not all of it, he isn’t to blame for the decisions of others or the things that had been completely out of his control, but he isn’t without guilt. That’s the nature of his role as captain, it was his job to protect the ships and the men, to bring all and sundry home, perhaps a bit worse for the wear but alive and whole. He’d failed in that regard, when he knew the steps needed to succeed. Hell, he’d done it before in Antarctica; hadn’t lost a single man in that expedition and things had been just as harrowing in the beginning.

“I’m sorry for what I said as well, Edward. My tone was harsh, I didn’t have any patience for the argument. There’s…there’s so much needed to be said though, isn’t there?”

Crozier laughs softly in spite of himself. “Being around these men and women from a few hundred years in our future - they’re free with their sentiments, aren’t they?”

[fidior]

The words strike some place deep inside of him, because he knows what they're like. What it is to feel them. And not for the first time, he's reminded of how he and Crozier (first lieutenant and captain) were so closely aligned, more than perhaps any of the other men could be. That weight of responsibility, some inevitable thing that has to exist, no matter where blame can be assigned beneath, in all the little ways.

In the end, Edward feels responsible by virtue of being what and who he is. It has to be that way. And for Crozier... He's the only other man aboard Terror who carried more of that responsibility than Edward. The highest rung on the ladder.

He dips his head again, not wholly submissive in the moment so much as... heavy. Everything feels so very heavy.

"They are. It's been.... a bit jarring to witness just how freely they're capable of sharing their sentiments," he agrees softly. "I think I might even envy them, at times." He isn't sure he can ever feel such... freedom.

But there are so many things that need to be said, and he's heard them in his head over and over again, apologies and clarifications and regrets.

"I haven't been fair to you." He starts there, after taking a slow breath. "Ever since my arrival to this place, I've wanted.... things to be how they were. I thought... if I could hold onto that, to how I was, then perhaps I truly could become that man again. Good, and decent. I wanted to find him again so badly, and I needed you to be... my captain."

It sounds child-like, and he actually chuckles, very quietly. A little embarrassed, self-deprecating, but honest.

"....But that is not your burden to bear, amongst all that you already carry. The man I was... He is gone. I realise that now." Beat, as he looks back up to Crozier, the smile drifting from his face, eyes soft and wounded and miserable.

"You were at the trial. You know... what I've done. I killed someone. A boy." Saying it aloud makes it real, takes away more of him.