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

Painful Memories

[wishiwasatree]

Trixie had only just moved into this little house, needing to have space of her own away from the hall with all those younger folks. And it has only taken her a day to realize she doesn't know what the fuck she's doing, keeping a house like this, keeping herself warm and the lamps lit and the rugs swept. She doesn't know what's worse about it, having to take care of these things herself now, or realizing that she's so, so, so alone here.

But she can work, that much she can do, and there are people here who might need her services - whatever those might look like. So after a long day of walking around Milton trying to help out here and there in exchange for firewood or food, she comes back to her little house only to find someone sitting in her fucking den.

She gapes at him slightly. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

[sukeltaja]

Zane sniffs, bringing the heel of his hand to brush some tears off of his face, completely and utterly fine with the entire situation. Trixie is having a perfectly normal reaction, Tom's at least aware of that, but there's a brief moment where his blue eyes scan Trixie and he realizes that she is, in fact, quite beautiful.

There are worst places he could have decided to do this, he reasons.

"Spiraling," he answers honestly, perfectly calm, and his face pulls into a very soft smile. "Hello. I'm Tom Zane."

[wishiwasatree]

‘Spiraling’ isn’t a term she’d heard, but she can guess what he means by the…everything about him right now.

“Trixie,” she says cautiously, and only after a thorough search of his person - or at least from what was visible to her.

“Breaking into a person’s home your usual fucking habit, Mister Zane?” she asks, walking a few steps more into the room. She doesn’t get too close, rightfully wary still, but it is her house and she’s fairly sure she’s held her own with loopier cocksuckers.

[sukeltaja]

He's shirtless and in his leather pants from home, barefoot with some jewelery and a ring around his neck on a necklace. Nary a weapon or anything suspicious in sight.

"Oh, no," he shakes his head, unbothered by Trixie's language or suspicion. "It's hard to remember you have to knock, sometimes." His smile widens. "It's been a while since I've been with so many people, you know? This place seemed warm. Right. Yeah. It feels right to be here."

Trixie's uneasy. That's probably fair. Tom chuckles.

"I'm not the one you have to worry about," he assures softly, "that's Mr. Scratch."

[wishiwasatree]

He’s clearly nuts, she can tell that much by the bare feet and chest, but in a harmless, maybe-fucked-his-brain-up-with-too-much-dope kind of way.

“Real happy you’re able to take advantage of my efforts to keep a fire going,” she replies lightly. She’s eyeing her own den and the furniture in it, and decides ultimately to take a seat on an armchair on the opposite side of the stranger.

“Scratch? We got the devil here too?”

[sukeltaja]

"Hey, thanks!" Tom's sincere, either choosing to ignore or not registering the sarcasm whatsoever. She's still standing, relatively calm despite the fact that he'd been actively crying.

"'Course he is. I'm not entirely sure he'll try anything--not with two pairs of eyes keeping him in check. But there will be a time." A brief, small smile as he decides to sit, too, far enough where she won't get antsy. "It's inevitable. This isn't him, though--" he holds up the picture, lowers it, twirls his wrist in a half-wave.

"I'm Tom, by the way. Tom Zane. Wonderful to meet you." He winks. "Did you get anything?"

[wishiwasatree]

If Trixie freaked out every time a man started crying around her she would have needed a long term rest at a sanitarium. And though this is fairly odd in the grand scheme of things, she’s already seen what this place has to offer its residents in terms of heartbreak and suffering. Grown men reduced to standing outside each and every night to hear the voices from home, folks walking right into people’s homes without so much as a ‘how do you do’.

It also doesn’t surprise her that there’s the devil here, and she rises quickly and looks through her kitchen cabinets frustratedly. She doesn’t have alcohol to sprinkle in the doorways to keep away the evil, but she finds a bottle of something clear called ‘rubbing alcohol’, and with a sniff and a cough she decides it’s potent enough.

“Big nugget of gold,” she tells him, walking to her windows and her doorways and sprinkling the alcohol.

[sukeltaja]

Tom watches with curiousity, eyes tracking her every movement from the sway of her hips to the way she sprinkles a mysterious bottle--holy water? he hadn't seen--around the place. Clever.

He wonders if it'll actually work. He'd make a point to ask Scratch to stop by but decides that he likes this blond woman entirely too much to subject her to that.

"Big nugget of gold," he repeats. Whistles low, takes into account the western flare she's got. Is she friends with the man in the cowboy hat? "Money is sentimental to you. Precious. An ability to survive?" He straightens, smiling softly.

"Or is it a reminder?"

[wishiwasatree]

“Now that’s a stupid question,” she tells him plainly, though with half a smile. “Ain’t money essential to everyone? What man in this world wouldn’t choose money over every other fucking thing?”

She sets the bottle back down and casually goes from window to window to check the locks. She makes a decision, looking at the vulnerable-looking man in her parlor. “You tell me about that picture in your hand, I’ll tell you about my gold.”

[sukeltaja]

Trixie's first comment gets a half chuckle. Tom doesn't know what to do with money. Never really did, especially not now--but he knows other people value it. Other people need it. He'd pity them, he thinks, if he didn't understand.

The blonde's ritual seems to be done and Toms gets comfortable himself. Lounging in a place that isn't his, wishing he had a cigarette or better yet, a negroni, he smiles.

"I'll show you yours and you can show me mine," he teases, gaze lingering on her for a few moments before he sighs and that smile fades. He looks over at the photo again.

"It's not mine." He flips it over, showing him and a woman, the woman's face scratched out. "There was a woman I knew a long time ago who very much enjoyed my company. She didn't like my Barbara, though. Jealousy does very strange things to people, don't you think?"

[wishiwasatree]

Trixie happens to have one of those things Tom’s craving, and she’s seriously considering dipping into her limited supply to ease the nerves from finding out that a man’s broken into her house.

Fuck it. She flops back down on her chair across from him, taming a pouch of tobacco and some paper out of her sachet and rolling a cigarette as she listens to him explain. “Jealousy and insecurity, fucking killers. Barbara’s what to you?” she asks, closing the cigarette with a quick lick.

[sukeltaja]

Tom's eyes move from those delicate fingers to the tabacco itself, eyes narrowing before the other's question catches him boring holes into the pouch.

"An old love," he says softly, hints of his lips pinching upwards into a smile. The wedding ring in the photo is on his neck, corded as a necklace in all its' hippie glory. Tom sighs, wistful but happy.

"A long, long time ago. I'd be very appreciative if you shared not just your story, but one of those cigarettes you're rolling, beautiful. Owe you a favour, even."

Hint hint. Hint. Please?

[wishiwasatree]

Love. Of course. Torments the best of them, even an old whore like herself isn't immune.

Trixie strikes the match on the wall and lights the cigarette, taking a puff and feeing some of that pent-up nervous energy leaving her on the exhale. "Promise to knock next time, and I'll give you this one."

He can wait for the story about the gold; it's clear his attention's elsewhere anyway.

[sukeltaja]

Zane holds out his pinkie in response, nodding, deciding at once and immediately once those deft fingers slide that match along the wall that he likes this woman very very much.

"Awful sorry about that - I'm trying to remember how that works. It's difficult. Kind of makes you wonder why half of these unspoken rules are here in the first place."

[wishiwasatree]

She stares at the pinky - child-like, but decidedly not the strangest thing this man's done today - and holds out the cigarette to him in acceptance.

"How what works? Minding your manners?" she says, head tilting skeptically. The bite's gone from the questions though; she's mostly just curious. "You been living with wolves your whole life?"

[sukeltaja]

Tom's chuckle is more of a giggle. "Yeah," he says, lowering his pinkie. "Something like that. Real Romulus and Remus situation, 'cept it's just me. Remus came after I got my head above water."

That's not important--not to Tom, anyway. Not when there's the promise of a story.

"What about your gold, little lady?"

[wishiwasatree]

She finds herself laughing in spite of herself. At least he knows he’s a loon.

Trixie sits back down in her chair and pulls out another cigarette to roll. She’s only going to take a puff or two of this one and save the rest for later - she tells herself this, knowing full well she’s going to smoke the whole thing.

“Gold’s from a widow that struck it rich in the mining camp I whore from. Gave it to me for…” She strikes the match on the wall, pausing to chew over her words. “For caring for her child. Sweet as an angel, this little one.”

[sukeltaja]

Ah. Things illuminate for Tom, painting a delicate picture of a not so delicate life. Whoreing as a verb, said so casually--the dress, the gold. It's all very American in such a vibrant, distinct way that when Tom smiles it's soft not with sympathy, but with quiet wonder at the marvel of the blonde girl before him.

"She must have been very grateful. That's quite a rock."

[wishiwasatree]

Grateful, guilt, two sides of the same coin really. If this place is dead-set on fucking with them, it did a good job of picking the right thing to send.

Trixie squints her eyes and takes a long drag off her cigarette, blowing the smoke up out the side of her mouth. "Ain't thinking about stealing it, are you?" She waits a beat before smirking and bringing the cigarette back up to her mouth - that's her second puff, but she's not counting.

"Don't think it'll mean much 'round these parts. Seems tobacco's more valuable."

[sukeltaja]

"Oh, no! I don't have ever have to worry about funding--thank you, though, for thinking something so exciting about me." Tom shoots Trixie a wink, leaning back a little more, lounging even further on a couch in a house that isn't his. He hums thoughtfully at Trixie's second comment, nodding, and tilts his head all the way up to attempt to blow a few smoke rings.

"You've really got your priorities set straight, huh? Finding commodities and making that sort of thing work."

A glance back over, Tom's gaze searching.

"Survival for you back home, is it?"

[wishiwasatree]

Smoke rings, like he's fancy. She raises her shoulders in a noncommittal sort of shrug, even if she knows he's got her pegged.

"Balanced the books for a hardware store in between handjobs," she deadpans, gesturing with the cigarette clutched between her fingers. "Lot more work, numbers. Wanna survive, not bust my goddamned balls writin' in a ledger all day."

She regards him for a moment, flicking a little ash into the hearth. "Did you work at all, Mister Zane?"

Somehow she feels like their definition of 'work' might be different.

[sukeltaja]

Math. Tom's expressions during the conversation says it all--he rolls his eyes in disgust at the mere mention of balancing books, nodding a little too fervently at the comment about writing in ledgers.

He likes math when it's convenient for him. Usually, in terms of money and funding, it's not. Always gets in the way of his vision.

"Oh, of course I do. I'm a filmmaker--do you know what that is?" He's genuinely not sure.

[wishiwasatree]

She doesn't know what that is, but she has a fair idea using content clues. The absolutely wrong idea, but a fair idea considering films were only just being invented in her time.

"You make the...fuck, what are they called...plates that go into cameras," she says confidently. "Wouldn't know the first thing about how to do something like that. Make a lot of money?"