singillatim | it must be that old evil spirit

it must be that old evil spirit

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There's a blurry, spinning moment where Charles hears the accent and his shallow breath catches. For a moment, he's back on the winding stairs, bathed in torchlight, a thin, precious collarbone under his thumbs.

Then, the world crashes back into him, and he chokes on his own gritty throat.

"Fuck." It's more rasp than word. He tries to raise up on his elbow, but the movement jostles the back of his skull. Nauseating pain radiates through him. "What happened?"

The basics are coming together. A battle, like in films, filled with shouting and clashing and bleeding. He'd been trying to help, he thinks. Flitting between unmoving shapes, dragging away anything still breathing. What he certainly doesn't remember is his skull getting smashed in.

"Did we win?"

Arthur would strongly debate whether two groups of survivors fighting each other instead of collaborating to try and fight against the fucking Darkwalker was in any way a victory, but that's not what the boy is asking.

"We did. Sheer numbers, I think," he adds, crouching down next to the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to help you up, just- slowly, alright? Take it easy, that's a nasty head wound."

He slides a hand carefully under his arm, catching his weight with enough ease that he only groans a little (the boy is lighter than he looks, under all the coats), but it's not too hard to get him at least upright again. "What's your name?"

The assumption would be right; were Charles thoughts clearer, he may have phrased it something like this: How many people died? Did I fail anyone by getting knocked out? He'd been quick to jump into the fight, and just as quick to realize that in his current state, vulnerable and armed only with an ordinary bat, he was poorly matched for number of opponents.

"Charles." He leans into Arthur, letting himself be jostled into a sitting position, before he starts trying to getting his own feet under him. "Charles Rowland."

Blood from his head has trailed and dried over one eye, and he clumsily reaches up to try to wipe it away. A dizzy, half-buried panic is churning in his chest, trying to tug his mind back to something distant. Nasty head wound, he hears, and he thinks of football cleats, and muddy stones, and echoing laughter.

"Thanks," he manages. "I'm good from here, I think."

He definitely is not good.

He keeps an arm under the boy, Charles, as he tries to stand, and it very quickly becomes apparent that Arthur is taking the majority of his weight here, trying to counterbalance him. Making sure one of his arms stays hooked over his shoulders, a steely grip on his wrist to keep him there.

"You absolutely are not," he counters flatly, making sure he's got his arm wrapped around Charles's chest properly. "Come on. Let's get you to the hall, get someone to look at you."

Charles wobbles, body trying its best to make immediate reacquaintance with the ground, but he fortunately manages to stay upright. Figuring out how to get moving is another hurdle. His loafers catch on the uneven ground, and he has to stop to stare down at them, as if solving as puzzle as to why they won't work. Through it all, his head throbs, and the rest of his body doesn't feel so hot either.

"I think-" Always a dangerous activity. Let's see what it leads to. "-I think I hit my head."

Stunning insight.

He's hit it badly before, he knows. Something on a sport field, all boys and bats and grass stains. Again under ceiling tiles and wood-paneled walls, his dad's voice roaring and his mum's hands wringing. Hadn't bled those times, though. Is the bleeding better, or worse? He thinks to ask Edwin, then remembers he's not here.

"Not used to bleeding," he finally says, words slurring a bit. "Don't think I like it very much."

This isn't Arthur's first time hauling an insensate, bleeding body. At least this one's upright and walking.

"I think you did, yes," he agrees, keeping his voice light despite his deep concern, and starts walking - he's braced to go slowly, to keep supporting Charles. "I can't say I enjoy it either."

Keep him talking, keep him conscious-- "Are you- w-what do you do, back home?"

It takes Charles a moment to process the question, to determine what answer is required of him. He looks down at the knife in his bloodied hand, tracing its shape like he's trying to identify it, before wrestling it into his coat pocket. After thirty years in the same set of clothes, the heavy garment feels awkward and cumbersome, and he fumbles for the opening.

"I'm a detective." Despite his blurry state, he sounds proud of his answer, enunciating it as clearly as he can. The only reason for doubt is in his obvious age. He's tall, but there's a soft youthfulness to his face, and he's far lighter than he looks - too light, actually, if Arthur were to have the presence of mind to consider it.

On the ground beneath them, he's hardly left any footprints.

Light is good, if it means Arthur can carry him more easily through the empty streets, lit by rays of the awkward north pole joke of a sunrise.

(He can examine anything else light implies later.)

But the answer gets a surprised scoff out of him that turns into a surprisingly melodic chuckle.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe the fucking odds, Charles," he hums warmly, "but- so'm I. I'm a private investigator in Arkham, er- Massachusetts, America. What, uh- what sort of cases do you take, back home?"

Through his foggy half-consciousness, Charles makes a small noise, more a mimic of Arthur's laugh than anything. Is Massachusetts one of the little ones, where the President lives? Or is it the big empty one up by Canada? He can't remember the States on a good day, and this is certainly not a good day.

"Supernatural ones." Any hesitance about discussing that shit here went out the window the moment he met a girl who can turn into flower petals. If someone doesn't believe him, that's their own problem. "Stuff the, uh- the normal police can't solve."

Right, well. This one's his now. He doesn't make the rules. A detective playing with supernatural forces? He's basically looking at his younger self.

"And-" Oh thank God he can see the community hall. "What was your most recent case about?"

It takes a few moments to come up with an answer; the last couple of weeks have been a blur, from Crystal’s exorcism to the cramped halls of the Devlin house, to the bloody stench of Hell. Technically the last was Monty’s traitorous bullshit, but before that?

He winds up just picking one, fairly fresh in his mind.

“Haunted lighthouse. People kept jumping off of it.” His trainer catches on cracked pavement, and he leans more heavily into Arthur. “Wound up being a sea monster, drawing them in.”

He's not exactly carrying a lot of muscle himself right now, but he can take Charles's extra weight easily enough.

"A sea monster? Jesus." That's- actually pretty impressive. "Something like- a-a siren, then? Luring people to their death? Or something else?"

“Yeah, like a siren, or something.” He thinks so, at least. That’s the evil mermaid thing, right? From Greek mythology? “We made it go to sleep.”

Something that sounds very nice, right now. Charles’ eyes feel heavier by the minute, and he closes them briefly, letting Arthur guide him.

Shocking no one, Arthur can in fact tell the difference between a conscious body and a not, and he jostles Charles with some concern when he feels the weight grow worse.

"Fuck- stay with me, Charles, we're almost there. You had a partner, right? No good detective worth their salt works alone. Who is he?"

Almost… where? Shit, right, they were going somewhere. Town, maybe. Somewhere he can lay down and rest after the fight. He wants to tell the man that the ground will do just fine, only now he’s being asked another question.

“Yeah. Yeah, his- his name’s Edwin.” Despite everything - all of the pain, all of the confusion - he says it like it always has, like it’s the best word ever invented. He wraps it in care, delivers it on a breath of relief. “Been together ages, me and him.”

And right now, he’s trapped in Hell, probably being tortured to death, again and again.

“I was saving him.” Back home, before he was snatched by this place. “I was- it was like Orpheus.” A pause, a hard blink against gritty eyes. “He’s Eurydice.”

He's heard that tone of voice before, of course, but rarely from the mouth of one boy to another, and he gives Charles a surprised look.

Not that he'd dare do anything about it, it's not his business, but. Certainly a specific picture.

"Saving him from the jaws of Hell," he comments instead, and decides not to mention that the story is a tragedy. "I'd do the same for my partner."

It certainly is great how non-toxic his masculinity is, right? The way he can speak so freely and fondly of his love for his best mate, eyes filled with soft warmth over their deep, platonic friendship. Something to be admired and envied, for sure.

"Wasn't even a question, yeah?" The portal had barely closed behind the creature before Charles knew exactly where he was going, and that he'd stop at nothing to get there. "We almost made it out, too. Got all the way up the stairs."

And on the other side of the doorway, instead of Crystal's flat, was a sudden nothing, a void of memory that resolved into cold, and left no way back, no way to tell if Edwin made the last few steps.

"Then I woke up here," he concludes, voice drowsy and dejected.

Speaking of doorways, at least, they're finally coming up on the community hall, the light from inside warm against the grey edges of outside. His shoulders are aching like hell but he's got more than enough stamina left to start gently coaxing Charles up the steps, trying to be mindful of how slippery the packed ice is on them.

"Don't worry, Charles," he says, soft and determined. "We'll work out how to get out of here, and get back to our partners. I promise."

Charles’ head tips over onto Arthur’s shoulder, likely dusting drying blood onto the man’s collar. He regards the door ahead of them with dazed, fluttering eyes, mouth hanging agape.

“Fuckin’ cold,” he mutters. His gaze flicks down to his feet, like he’s trying to puzzle out how to move them up the steps. “Last time I was this cold-“

Shadowed beams, creaking and settling in the night. Face numb, knees shaking. The dry musk of the scratchy blanket; the last thing he ever smelled.

“Last time I died.”

The dried blood is almost nothing compared to the other, more copious amounts of blood on his person, and Arthur doesn't even give it a second thought. Appearances are entirely irrelevant to the current goal of surviving.

"You're not going to die," he snarls, and it's more a challenge to the universe, to dare it to kill someone so young - again, apparently - someone he's putting so much effort into making sure stays alive.

(His challenges have so often failed. But he wouldn't be who he is if he let it stop him.)

He doesn't care that he's quite literally dragging Charles up the stairs, even if his lungs do, but he manages to get him in far enough to deposit him carefully at one of the tables near the entrance.

"S-stay here, alright?" He's winded, sure, but again - secondary. "I'll- I-I'll find a doctor, someone who can help. Just- don't move."

On the bright side, Charles does at least listen to the instructions, taking them in with an absent sort of interest. He feels himself being lowered into a rickety chair, registers the warmth of the nearby fire, and watches Arthur walk away. Something about a doctor, and help.

Unfortunately, having a head injury doesn't quite lend itself towards retention of information or logical thought, and it takes Charles approximately sixty seconds to look down at the blood still coating his hands, and frown in distaste. It's been a long time since he's been injured, and he has to sift through three decades of memories to latch onto the right tidbit - the school fieldhouse, a wet cloth stinging against a bloodied knee. That's the first step, right? Washing the wound.

There's a loo in the back of the building, he recalls, and with a half-moment's thought he's standing on wobbly legs, pushing himself out of the chair. No one in the room seems to notice, too distracted by the frantic triage, and Charles manages the journey without being stopped. Still dizzy and dazed, he props himself against the sink and gets to work.

When Charles emerges some fifteen minutes later, something has changed. Diluted blood still coats parts of his face, trailing down from mats in his hair, but his gait is stronger, his back straighter. His eyes are wider, more alert, and when he catches sight of Arthur, he seems to actually see him for the first time.

"Oi!" He waves, trying to flag him down, utterly heedless of any concern he's managed to cause.

It's certainly long enough for Arthur to manage two sweeps of the place and even duck back outside to search for his wayward teenager, panic sharp in his stomach, and when he hears the newly familiar voice his head whips around from his conversation with another Interloper, eyes landing on him immediately.

"Charles!" There's- a lot, actually, in his voice, all at once - anger wars with relief, panic giving way to exasperation, but he's already rushing towards him, grabbing his shoulders like he still needs to hold him upright. "Fucking Christ, where were you?" Even as one hand rises, darting up to Charles's hairline to check for the source of the newly-wet blood. "I thought I fucking told you to stay put!"

The shitty thing is, Charles knows it's not intentional. He knows this guy is worried, that wandering off like that probably made him scared, and that the sudden burst of intensity is from relief. But nonetheless, he can't stop the way his whole body flinches, or how he locks up in place against Arthur's doting hands, innately expecting another action to accompany those familiar words.

"I'm fine, sorry, just-" He pulls his head away, instead reaching up with his own hands to pat at where the gash used to be. Cold guilt swims in his stomach for making Arthur worry, and he feels a burning need to leave. "Got it worked out, yeah? Someone else had a look at it, back in the loo."

God, if Arthur doesn't know exactly what that flinch must mean, even if he's too in on his own momentum to just leave him be. But he does pull his hands back quicker than not, giving him space. The lack of contact that clearly makes him feel safer than his attempt at concern.

"A-and they just-" he waves a hand vaguely at Charles's whole-ass self, careful to keep the motion more showy and gentle than he otherwise would. "Fixed you up, concussion and all?" He runs his gloved hand through his hair, brushing strands back with a thin lick of half-dried blood, barely aware of it. "I-I believe you, just... jesus."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw brief child abuse

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2

2/2

Re: 2/2

cw vague child abuse

no subject