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

[gildedlife]

Great, of course he'd want an actual number for that too, and James quickly tries to weigh whether it would be better to take a guess--it's been a week, perhaps? two?--or admit he isn't certain and try to explain that away with poor health. He's been doing his best to come across as more well than he actually is, for a whole number of reasons, but perhaps it's working against him in this situation. Should he take a different tactic and project that he's not only not intending to be a threat, he truly isn't one, even if that's perhaps not entirely true?

Maybe, but he dismisses the idea, partially because he's losing patience. Distantly, he realizes that isn't normal for him--he typically has a great deal of patience, and a good grasp of his temper--but he's already tired of this conversation, of the cold, of keeping his bad arm held out to show his hands, of the ever present pain and exhaustion. He's over this.

"Is this an interrogation, now? Either shoot me or point that elsewhere, but whatever your decision, make it."

It's a risky bluff to call, and he isn't entirely convinced he's going to come out of it; all he can do is watch Raju carefully, looking for any sign--change in expression, in tension, in posture--to indicate he's about to fire. James is certainly not confident enough to delude himself into believing he could dodge an arrow, but dodging before the arrow is actually shot is a somewhat more possible achievement.

I think it's crozier to the rescue directly after this one

[load_aim_shoot]

For a moment Raju holds his body and his expression perfectly still. Impatience and pushing past an answer means he doesn't have it. It's the easiest way, isn't it? Pretend to be angry to make the other person rush, act on instinct. And it's... difficult, to hurt someone. To really hurt them, knowing there's no way to disable, no way to be safe, that anything you might do could kill. If Raju were anyone else, if he'd lived a different life, he'd look this man in the eyes and instinct might tell him to listen, that if this man thinks he's being ridiculous maybe he is and when it comes down to it he doesn't really want to hurt him. He doesn't want to shoot a man like an animal and watch him bleed into the snow.

But Raju is what he is. Some of the attacks come at night, while people are sleeping, and Raju can't be on watch every night. And it isn't only on his head if he can't. If this attacker doesn't die, he might have information.

Raju's jaw clenches. His gaze moves down, away from the attacker's eyes, curiosity and indecision and expression draining out of his face, anything that's left on it tightening. The muscles of his arms and chest tighten, and he's pulling the string of his bow back.

Crozier to save the day!

[goingtobeunwell]

Since Rama's been insisting on patrolling the property almost daily like a wild man with his bow and arrow, Crozier has been inside taking care of the various fiddly chores and tasks. He doesn't begrudge the added precautions or Ram's attention to detail when it comes to securing the cottage - the Forest Talkers are finally making good on all the threats of the past few months, and he knows Ram isn't going to stand for someone trying to hurt either of them.

There hasn't been much worth raising an alarm, not that Crozier's overheard at any rate, but he does occasionally poke his head out from the door or peers out through the boarded windows to check on Rama. If he doesn't see him he assumes he's likely hidden somewhere or patrolling 'round the back of the cottage, being as thorough as Crozier would expect from him. So back to it he goes, stoking the fire or cooking something in the pot, mending or melting snow for water or washing or any of the various little things that need to get done now that he can't wander out in the forest to forage and hunt.

He's working on building up the fire and doesn't hear the commotion outside, he can't over the crackling and popping of the fire. Thankfully he chooses that moment to pause in his work and come to the door to check on Rama, and what he sees nearly makes him fall over in horror.

Crozier's out the door in seconds, running to the edge of the porch with his arm waving wildly. "RAM, lower the bow! Lower the bow! That's Fitzjames, goddammit!"

poor crozier truly does not need this stress

[gildedlife]

James watches as Raju's expression changes, as he avoids eye contact, as he tenses to draw the bow; everything else fades out entirely, and the calm James feels when faced with a simple, direct threat settles in place instead. He shifts just slightly on his feet, prepared to move as soon as he sees Raju's movement stop, to try to time his own reaction for the brief moment Raju might need to aim--

And then there's a familiar voice shouting, and although it registers more distantly than it might've otherwise, it's still more than enough for James' attention to shift to its owner. Ah. So Francis does live here.

There's going to be a bit to unpack about this situation, but that will have to wait to see if he gets shot first.

he doesn't DX

[load_aim_shoot]

Once a decision's been made there's no point in hesitating. As a matter of habit Raju doesn't hesitate, and he's prepared to move quickly. But everything else happens quickly, too: he looks away from the man's face, everything in him going hard and flat and quiet, and Francis is running out, he hears footsteps on wood behind him, focused and registering it only vaguely. He's pulling the string back with the end of the arrow against his fingers exactly where it's supposed to be, every part of him where it's supposed to be — in the moments before there's the satisfaction of doing what he's made for, the knowledge of the outcome before the act, and Francis, panicked, is shouting a name he knows and everything is rushing back into Raju at once and his mind wrenches with hard fear against his body, he fumbles a shot for the first time since his arms were strong enough to hold a weapon and the arrow sails in a limp, flat arc too far to the left and too short to reach anything but the snow and too close to Fitzjames — Fitzjames — for comfort.

Then the moment, brief and unending as it was, is over and Raju is a man again, panting in the snow, wide-eyed.

It occurs to him that he should probably lower his bow. He lowers his bow. He finds himself glancing to Francis, helplessly, before his gaze is drawn back to the man Francis had been so excited to—

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, then turns his stunned expression again to Francis, taking a couple steps back out of the way of a straight line between them.

[goingtobeunwell]

In those few split seconds before the arrow is released Crozier can see the dreadful outcome: Fitzjames, arrowing piercing the center of his chest, falling backwards onto the snow to bleed out from yet another hole that won’t heal. He sees it with such clarity that when Raju misses, stumbles over the shot due to his presence or the shouting or whatever had snapped him back to reality, he almost doesn’t believe it. Fitzjames is dead once more, and by the hand of someone he loves, and it’s dreadful and horrifying and Crozier is absolutely certain he’s living a waking nightmare.

The arrow skids to a weak little stop on the ground, and it’s apparent Fitzjames was spared. He slumps slightly in relief and steps down from off the porch, glancing between the two of them with mild annoyance.

“I think it best if we go inside, all of us.”

[gildedlife]

James somewhat assumes--though not enough to be completely sure--that Raju will also stop upon hearing Francis' voice. And, to be fair, he sort of does, but the arrow still flies.

If it were a gun, James could've taken a good guess just by posture and angle on whether or not a shot would be at risk of hitting him. He's much less certain when it comes to a bow and arrow, and so for just the brief moment after the arrow is fired he expects to feel the impact, and then whatever would follow. But that never comes, and instead the arrow lands harmlessly in the snow.

For a few long moments he doesn't move, other than to let his gaze flicker from Francis to Raju and then back. Then the spell breaks for him too, the adrenaline that had rushed through him and narrowed the world down to only the immediate situation beginning to fade rapidly, letting everything else start to return. The moment is over, everyone is unhurt, and he realizes suddenly just how different the outcome could've been.

It's only Francis' expression and James' awareness of his own part in escalating the situation that keeps him from making a scathing comment about Raju's aim, despite also being fully aware that Raju had likely missed on purpose. He bites the inside of his cheek and manages to hold his tongue, nodding once at Francis to show he'd heard him, though he doesn't immediately move toward the house.

Instead he crosses the short distance to where the arrow lies on the ground and picks it up, schools his expression into one of indifference, and holds the arrow out toward Raju; the disdain he'd controlled enough not to make a comment instead shows through in the flippancy of the gesture.

[load_aim_shoot]

He doesn't want to touch the arrow again.

It isn't why the man — Fitzjames, damn it, it was Fitzjames the whole bloody time — is holding it out to him, though. He can't know what Raju's thinking about it, just now. Raju doesn't know what Raju's thinking about it just now. The gesture must be meant for a show of strength, and it's the first real thing Fitzjames has actually told Raju about himself; recently arrived and ignorant of what's got everyone else in this place on-edge don't mean anything compared to the indifferent, pointed ease of I'm not afraid of you. It's a kind of challenge and the opposite, Raju thinks, of what Francis would have done in his place.

Less forgiving than Francis, then. Or at the very least, he won't forget. Raju tries to decide whether that's a bad thing or a good one and can't, he doesn't know how he feels about anything. Nauseous, mostly. Cold. Awful, in some way there's no sense in looking at too closely.

No sense, and no time. Raju manages to level the wide-eyed shock on his face into something neutral and businesslike without keeping Fitzjames waiting, takes the arrow with a little nod, as if of thanks, and doesn't allow himself to hesitate before sliding it into the quiver with the others. He thinks he can feel its near-purpose contaminating the others there.

There's nothing he can do from here that wouldn't feel pointed too, a response to the quiet challenge Fitzjames is levelling at him. Or if there is, he doesn't know it; he hasn't spent very much time meeting pointed gestures like that by rolling over for them.

"Were you cooking in there?" he calls to Francis, voice businesslike and crisp, held level. He gestures toward the porch, nodding Fitzjames ahead of him. "I think we owe Captain Fitzjames some tea."

[goingtobeunwell]

Of course Fitzjames picks up the arrow and bloody hands it to Raju, of course he does. If he didn’t love him so damn much he would have been reminded of exactly why they hadn’t gotten along at the beginning of things, why he’d loathed this golden boy of the Royal Navy. This exact type of bravado in the face of very clear and rather tangible danger is just who James Fitzjames is as a man.

And Rama - well, Rama looks like he’s seen a ghost. He’d nearly fired an arrow into Crozier’s second, the man he’d heard countless stories about and whose death haunted Crozier on a continual basis. It would have been horrific!

The coolness between the two men - both very dear to him - doesn’t completely dishearten him. He does have food and tea to offer, and they’ll sit and be civilized and all will be well, or else. He can be commanding still when he wants to be.

“Mn. And doesn’t taste of an old pile of mulch at that,” he says over his shoulder, heading back into the comfort and warmth of their cabin. They’ll follow inside, and in the meantime he’ll busy himself by playing host, which doesn’t at all come naturally to him but he does know how to care for people.

[gildedlife]

Returning the arrow is exactly what both Raju and Francis have read it as: a show of bravado, a declaration that he's not afraid, that the whole incident has not fazed him and he's entirely unimpressed with it all. But it's also just as much a reassurance to himself, not only that everything is fine--which, ultimately, it is--but that he's regained some control of the situation. That his brief lapse in judgement, the sudden loss of patience, and the foolish escalation of an already tense moment are nothing to feel a slowly creeping sense of shame over.

James takes a deep breath, ignores the familiar jolt of pain it sends through his side, and both draws himself up to his full height and relaxes his posture all at once. Calm, self-assured, but no longer challenging; he'll accept the attempt at a peace offering, at least for now, and moves to follow Francis as indicated.

"Is that possible?" He aims the quip at Francis' remark about mulch, tone light and perhaps a little clearly forced, but it'll take a moment before he can do better than that. "I've almost forgotten what tea tastes like, if not half-decayed grass clippings."

[load_aim_shoot]

"This won't remind you," Raju tries, not quite able to leave that neutral, businesslike tone behind him even distantly aware that something obviously friendly would be better. He takes one last look around at the snow, then closes the door. "But it's been a while since I've had English tea."

He doesn't look around as he says it. Francis will have moved either to the right, past the little bookshelf of cookbooks and field guides and notebooks and terrible romance novels, past the two armchairs and to the fireplace there or he'll have gone straight from the door to the open kitchen at the far wall. Raju keeps his eyes on the coatrack instead, past it to one of the many oddly shaped uncleanable burn marks on the wooden floor. His hand hesitates on the strap of his bow, holding it in place on him, and then he pulls it off him quickly to hang it over the coat rack. The quiver follows. He starts, more slowly than he needs to, untying the strips of cloth holding the blanket over him. "How close are we today, Francis? Pine needles again?"

[goingtobeunwell]

The cottage looks more ramshackle on the outside than it does on the inside. In fact it could be called downright cosy, which is not a word that has ever or would ever be used to describe Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier. There's more than two drawers being used here, more than a ship's berth lacking in decor or personality or a lopsided ice hut with only snow and scraps of tattered wool to keep a man company. It's a home, with all the various tell-tale trappings of comfortable living and a relative feeling of security.

"Dandelion root," he says, choosing to head for the kitchen and its table covered in papers and books and empty dishes. Someone's in need of a house keeper or a steward. Crozier at least has the sense to clear the cups and plates before motioning for Fitzjames to have a seat, but it's not at all graceful.

"It's not the worst thing you'll put into your body," he continues, talking as he prods at a pot on a woodfire stove. "Did you come all this way to see me, or was this an unexpected visit?"

[gildedlife]

Oh, not normal tea, alright. That's fine too; James wasn't entirely attached to the idea anyway, more just playing along than anything else, though he is a little curious about the comment about pine needles. But he's much more interested in the cabin and what it says about its inhabitants, as well as that it seems to be clearly a shared dwelling.

He glances toward Raju when he notices the motion of the bow, but he's just taking it off and so James looks back toward Francis again. He makes no move to remove his own coat, not intending to do so, and instead follows Francis toward the kitchen. The identification of the tea as dandelion root is intriguing--he's heard of making tea from dandelion root, but never tried it--though his attention is soon caught instead by the remark that follows.

Not the worst thing he'll put into his body. James doesn't doubt it, not with a musketball, lead-laden tinned food, and poison all contending for that honor.

But he very much doubts Francis was intending to make a morbid joke, and so he doesn't call any attention to the choice of wording. Instead James focuses on sinking into the offered chair as elegantly as possible, which he wouldn't have bothered with were it just Francis, but he's still putting on a bit of a show. He has no desire to let on how quickly the exhaustion and cold and pain are settling back in now that the adrenaline is fully wearing off.

"I was looking for you." He answers, pausing only a moment before continuing. "With the... Heightened tensions, as of late, I wanted to see how you were faring."

Finally, he lets his gaze flicker back to Raju once again, then back to Francis, but he's speaking to both of them now. "It seems I needn't have worried about your defenses." It's... Not quite a compliment, but he isn't being sarcastic either. But he's also not done, and lilts his voice in a clearly--and intentionally--falsely casual tone. "Is it necessary to warn the lieutenants not to venture too close, should they have the same concerns?"

This question has a correct answer, and he'd like to hear it.

[load_aim_shoot]

It was hot when he'd come inside, hotter than he's used to, and the extra time he's given himself taking the blanket off him hasn't changed that much. He straightens the drape of the shapeless thing over the hook it's hanging from and carefully doesn't sigh. It'll be him, then. He won't swipe an arm across his skin to check, not with eyes on him, but he'll be sweating. He realises he can feel his heart beating hard.

From the corner of his vision he can see Fitzjames settling, elegant and composed, into the chair at the table. With the way the movement of the bow had caught the man's eye the ease in the motion must be at least a little bit deliberate, another pointed gesture to him. Someone Francis holds that dear talking to him with that distance and challenge in his voice that Raju recognizes from the years in Delhi, from different men with different reasons to feel the same way about him, that Raju was a threat—

But of course Fitzjames would, now. Raju can compose himself the same can't he, and ignore all this other feeling? He'd always been good at it before, when he'd been more in practice.

"I know their faces," he answers, voice flat. He isn't more in practice; he would have sounded perfectly friendly before. It had been different before. It had been fun, making himself friendly and polite in a pointed way that left the other men looking for an insult. That feeling is the furthest thing from him now, fending off that kind of accusation.

He doesn't just shoot anyone who comes close enough. It doesn't matter whether Fitzjames has a reason to know it or not, he doesn't. That this is the first time since the attacks started that he's seen anyone nearby, the first time he's had the chance, that doesn't mean he's not...

He turns toward the kitchen, starting to unbutton the outermost layer of the shirts he wears, always at least two at a time over an undershirt to keep himself something like warm. Fitzjames won't know shedding one of them inside isn't usual, and if Raju does nothing but wait to calm down he'll be sweating through both layers long before anything else inside him eases. "And their names. You're all welcome to come as you like.

"I'll wash those dishes, Francis," Raju goes on. "Maybe you can stoke the fire; if Captain Fitzjames is staying long enough for a meal he should be warm enough to take off his coat."

[goingtobeunwell]

Crozier’s never been the one to serve as a mediator instead of participating as one side of two antagonistic parties, and he looks between them - Fitzjames’ fake air of indifference and Ram’s uncomfortable body language telling him all he needs to know. It won’t do.

He dips his chin in acknowledgment at Ram’s offer; it may help him to keep busy and have Crozier bear the brunt of the conversation, which he doesn’t mind doing this time. It’s James. How many conversations has he had with his ghost over the years, never once expecting a reply?

The comment about Fitzjames’ coat doesn’t fuel any ire or goad him into more annoyance; he’s worried for his second and the chill that’s certainly still in his frail bones. “Fire’s plenty warm,” he reassures Rama. “I’m sure he’s acclimating still. It’s been a while since he’s been indoors.”

He sits down as well, never as elegant or polished as Fitzjames, onto one of the two bench seats at the table. He leans forward, arms resting on the flat surface, his sleeve tugging and his unwrapped stump fully on display. He doesn’t think twice about it.

“The hostilities extend to more than just the maniacs in the forest,” he explains quietly. As much as he adores James Fitzjames, he can’t abide the continued hurt feelings over a misunderstanding. “Hickey’s been a particular nuance, as I’d mentioned previously. He’s promised to kill me, twice to my face by my reckoning, though clearly he can’t even manage that since I’m still bloody here.”

He huffs under his breath, though there’s a slight wheeze to it. “Rama found me that day when Hickey’d beaten me to a pulp. I was near death.” Crozier pauses, looking down at his hand as it taps the table. “Mn. I was. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. But with the round of newcomers and the people in the forest, it’s difficult to say who’s friend or foe.”

Crozier raises his eyes and meets Fitzjames’, smiling oh-so-softly in spite of himself. It’s just so good to see him once more. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

[gildedlife]

Good. That is the answer he'd wanted regarding the lieutenants, both for their sake--of course he doesn't want any of them at risk of being shot with an arrow--and because it means he doesn't have to muster up any righteous anger about the potential danger to them. The flare of his temper has fully faded by now, though he doesn't need to be actually angry to be holding a bit of a grudge.

He isn't completely sure if Raju's suggestion to stoke the fire is a genuine attempt to make him more comfortable or it's something of a jab, but either way, he appreciates Francis smoothing that over. Not only is James just always cold now, the shirt he's wearing under his coat is covered in mostly-old blood stains, and he has no intention of letting a near-stranger--anyone, not just Raju specifically--see that proof of weakness.

James is quiet while Francis speaks, mostly watching his first's face but paying attention to his posture and body language at the same time, and as Francis continues James lets the last of his irritation slowly fade out. Of course Raju had been... Overprotective, perhaps, if he and Francis are close enough to be living together and he'd seen the aftermath of a near-fatal confrontation with Hickey. Everyone is simply on edge, and with very good reason.

It's also more than clear enough that Francis is making a valiant attempt at mediating in the hopes that this can be smoothed over, and that would've been enough in itself. If this is that important to him, then James will trust his judgement.

"I might've earlier, had you provided better directions." The quip is delivered with hint of dry humor, voice quieter as James allows the fake tone to drop out of it, and he mirrors the small, soft smile Francis gives him.

He lets the expression remain as he glances toward Raju, and although a little of his forced-casual tone returns, it isn't pointed this time; he's simply trying to make light of the situation, attempting to extend an olive branch. "And I expect something of a warmer welcome next time."

[load_aim_shoot]

It's a relief when Francis talks; it means Raju's free to do something useful. Usually he would run, find some way to exhaust himself, but leaving would certainly be taken the wrong way. Maybe he'll do it later. It'll be colder later, with the dark, but that sounds almost refreshing just now. Instead Raju moves toward the sink, glad of the excuse to roll up too-warm sleeves, gathers up the soap and a rag and one of the pots and buckets of meltwater scattered around the place, and starts on the dishes.

Francis and his dear friend sit at the table behind him and talk. Fitzjames doesn't bleed out into the snow. Francis mentions very casually a time that's featured in a few of Raju's nightmares and Raju looks back at him, expression still flat.

It takes him a moment to realise Fitzjames is being friendly. It doesn't feel right, as if it doesn't match. But they're sitting warm and safe inside. Nothing terrible is happening at all. Raju tries to smile at him.

"You'll find one," he murmurs, the smile a small thing twitching onto his face, and then has to turn toward the dishes again.

"It's not only dangerous here, it's damned strange," he says, voice stronger and nearly casual now that all he has to do is watch his hands move. He even says it with some feeling: it's clear by the way Raju says them which descriptor is the worse one. "There are things I would have liked to be told to watch out for when I first came. But I don't think I'd have believed it. How much have you warned him about so far, Francis? Hickey, the attacks..."

[goingtobeunwell]

Not harmonious yet, the feeling in the cabin between the three men, but it’s not the same feeling of tension and suspicion that made Crozier want to grind his teeth. It’s enough for civility, a strange and rather odd achievement for the middle of the wilderness. Crozier’s pleased either way, pleased to see Fitzjames here in his cabin, pleased that Rama’s found his voice again. Pleased that he has them both now, when he’s gone so long without anyone at all.

“I warned him,” he nods, “but it was the first night, and I might have chosen brevity over an exhaustive list.” He didn’t give as many details as he would have liked, but Fitzjames was only newly-risen from the grave and it seemed unfair to overburden him.

And there were other concerns too, those being the fate of the men and the expedition, and neither of them were much prepared to speak on it.

“Our experiences are mirrored in many ways, and the creature gave us some familiarity with otherworldly entities.” It’s funny how casually he speaks on that now. Otherworldly entities. Magic. Spirits. Things believed in by so many religious men but without any tangible reminder. The creature had been as tangible as they come. “All else…there’s where I need to catch him up.”

[gildedlife]

James watches the conversation between Francis and Raju, listening to the way they talk to each other, noting that Raju calls Francis 'Francis'. As the tension calms, guards might be dropped a little, and much can be potentially gleaned from both what is said and how.

There are other little things he's noticed as well, such as that Raju has referred to James as 'captain' twice, when Francis hadn't said the title once, which means there had to have been a previous conversation about him. He is, of course, curious--and perhaps nervous--about that and what might have been said, but it isn't exactly something he can ask about and expect an honest answer.

So he keeps it to himself for now, turning his attention to the actual topic of conversation. He nods in agreement at the comment about choosing brevity the first night--it was the wise choice, as although James has retained more from the day he'd arrived than he'd really expected to, many conversations and experiences have still ended up hazy and indistinct--as well as the parallels with their own experiences back home. So far there have been some surprises, but many of the things others have spoken of with the thought that they would be shocking have turned out to be somewhat familiar.

Then Francis says that last part, and James' eyes light as he realizes something. He shouldn't say it, he should take pity on Francis and just pretend he didn't notice the opportunity, but when will he ever get it again? He has to. It must be done.

And so James leans forward slightly, fixes Francis with a serious look, and asks--

"Are you going to tell me a story of your adventures, Francis?"

Well, well, well. How the dinner party tables have turned.

[load_aim_shoot]

It's strange, to catch onto a private joke you weren't personally privy to. Strange, but it helps. See? he tries, to the hard pounding of his heart. He's here, he's alive, he's joking about one of them — one or the other, probably depending on who's asked — being obnoxious at terrible old dinner parties. No harm done.

But he almost—

Enough. Raju is done with it. He shuts the door on useless worries about what almost means for anyone else who might end up on the other end of Raju's sights and shuts the door on the useless workings of his body and turns his mind to more important things. A guest, friendly conversation: these are things Raju knows what to do with.

But does he? Raju half turns, leaning a hip on the counter while his hands keep washing, opens his mouth with something like a smile hinting at the corners of his mouth— But he isn't here to be seen, and that's roughly where his experience with strangers he wants to impress ends. And after a first impression like the one he's just made, the last thing Raju should be doing is taking part in nostalgia between the two of them that he only has half a right to recognize. He closes his mouth again, looking at the plate. It's very, very clean, by now. He puts it aside, wiping absently at the sweat at the back of his neck and watching Francis instead of butting in.

[goingtobeunwell]

It would have been a lark, the little reminder of all those agonizing dinners (or the ones he can remember anyway through the haze of the drink), but Crozier immediately pales. It’s not his adventures here that he’s thinking of, but rather the ones Fitzjames missed after being buried. He always thinks of them, even when he tries so desperately not to. He stares back at him, unable to even conjure up an awkward smile, looking at the still-gaunt face that seemed so frail even now.

There’s time, he’d said. He believed it then. It was a lie.

He breaks eye contact to look away, licking his lips as he tries looking past the snow coating the windowsill. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he manages. “Every week it’s something.”

It isn’t though he means to keep it all secret, it’s the timing of the thing. Yes, timing. It’s the time that threw him, made him uncomfortable. He hadn’t been expecting to jump so soon into adventures, even if Fitzjames hadn’t meant anything by the quip. If he’d had the time to prepare then maybe he wouldn’t be sweating in his seat and unable to look at Fitzjames in the eye.

He’ll ask a question next about Milton, or the Darkwalker, or this little cottage and the fact that he’s found himself a roommate. Anything but what they both really need to address.

[gildedlife]

That is certainly not the reaction he'd been going for. He'd expected exasperation, or maybe even a moment of scandalized shock at the idea that he--Francis--would ever partake in such a terrible activity. And then it should've been a laugh, or at least a smile, before getting back on track.

But that is not Francis' reaction, and James is thrown for a moment by the color leaving the other man's face; he draws back in his chair, very confused and very concerned, and unable to keep both from showing--if just briefly, before he remembers it isn't just himself and Francis here--on his face. It wasn't what he'd said, was it? No, it shouldn't have been, at least not in itself; they were certainly to the point of joking about dinner parties and James' stories, in fact the last time they'd spoken of them, back home, it had been Francis who--

Oh. Perhaps that's why. Maybe he had accidentally brought up a bad memory, whether that one or another, perhaps even one that happened here and which James is completely unaware of. Or it could be something else entirely, some other association, something that imparts a different meaning to the comment. Whatever it is, James isn't sure, and so he isn't sure what to do to fix the mistake, or what feels like a sudden chasm between them.

If it were just them, he might've simply asked, careful but direct. But it isn't, and so he won't; instead he tries to ignore that he's accidentally upset Francis enough that he won't meet his gaze, resists the urge to glance toward Raju and see whatever his reaction might be, and indeed considers asking one of those easier, simpler questions.

But eventually, what he settles on is just slightly different.

"What is most important to know?"

It's an open question that either Raju or Francis can take, and one that is hopefully safe enough.

[load_aim_shoot]

Unlike Fitzjames Raju doesn't resist and looks to him, frowning, to see if the man who'd known Francis through a part of his life that Raju can only guess at might be able to follow Francis wherever it is he's gone. But Raju doesn't see recognition there, and though he turns his frown on Francis after that he doesn't ask. He doesn't want to embarrass him.

"If the sky lights up again, and a woman's voice offers help and tells you to sleep, be careful. The strange things that happen in this place aren't always outside, and they don't always find you while you're awake. Francis has managed to avoid most of the stranger dreams so far though, maybe there's a trick to it."

Raju keeps eyeing Francis most of the time he says it but he does say it, taking the path Fitzjames had set out away from whatever it was that had struck Francis that way. With luck, this — frustrating as the subject of this new topic has been for Raju, over the months — will be a little easier for him.

[goingtobeunwell]

He realizes a beat too late that he's dragged them both down into his discomfort, and rises so he doesn't have to make eye contact with either one of them. He'll stoke the fire in the stove - yes, that's always a fine way to distract himself from the fact that's ruined a perfectly suitable moment.

There's a pile of wood in the kitchen specifically for cooking purposes, not too far away from the table but inconvenient enough that he has to turn his back to Fitzjames to retrieve the fuel. He doesn't meet Rama's eyes either; he just needs a moment to come back to himself.

"Take advantage of the hot springs," he says suddenly. "That's what you should do. Take advantage of the hot springs."

[gildedlife]

James does finally shift his gaze to Raju when he speaks, because... What? This is something new and indeed sounds important to be aware of, and he has several questions about it. But his attention is back on Francis, at least for a moment, when he's suddenly off to get more firewood, and James does his best not to sink any lower in his chair.

Instead he just frowns down at his coat, using the pretenses of adjusting the collar and one of his sleeves as an outlet for some nervous anxiety. He also tucks his left arm closer against his side, partially a reaction to the constant pain of the reopened wounds but mostly a subconscious, protective gesture.

The suggestion of hot springs is so diametrically opposed to Raju's response in terms of both the seriousness and strangeness of the subject matter that it's almost humorous. Watch out for some mysterious woman trying to convince you to sleep so she can give you strange dreams, also go visit the local hot springs. Neither piece of advice is bad or unwanted, but the contrast is inherently amusing, at least one some level.

Hot springs do sound incredibly appealing, though. "I may do that." He says, toward Francis' back, and he does mean it. But he turns his attention back toward Raju again, addressing him directly this time; what he'd said seems too important to let pass by. "Strange dreams?"