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

[chuju]

[ Melancholic is the right word for the feeling in the air tonight. It's not much different from what she usually feels in the quiet moments when there isn't work to distract her, but the melancholy hangs heavier around her, like a thick summer humidity weighing everything down. She can practically taste the sadness on her tongue, bittersweet and cloying, and all she can do is wallow in it. ]

Yeah, I hear them.

[ Her own whispers have been growing steadily louder as the aurora took shape, the voices and words sharpening into a clarity that makes her want to cry. In the distance, she swears she can hear others. They might be murmurs from the next room over, and she wonders if those are his voices, the combined madness of this place seeping into them all the longer they're here. Can he hear hers? Will he if they sit here in the cold long enough? ]

You know, I've been here for almost seven months. I was starting to worry I'd forget what they sound like.

[dogmeats]

( The whispers that come to him are mostly harsh, bitter, cold — like the fucking weather tonight, nipping at him in places where his skin's the thickest. These are the only voices he's known. There are no soft ones, no comforting tones for Sandor Clegane. Familiar, yes, but none that inspire love. They're all fucking cunts.

All but one, the loudest, who speaks softly in a way that carries.

What is it, sweet lady? Does the Hound frighten you? Away with you, dog. You're scaring my lady.
And that's what you're doing? Watching over her?
You gonna die?
Come, dog.
If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him. )

Might be luckier if you did.

( Forget them, he means. Harder to be haunted by voices you don't remember, by words that don't bring forth memories.

Beside him sits a bottle of spirits stolen from the hall, something that tastes like piss and smoke, but he brings it to his lips all the same. Seven months — moons, he's learned, mainly by listening in to other people's conversations. That's a long time to stay in a place like this. Maybe if he gave a little bit more of a shit about her, he'd offer the bottle over.

But he doesn't, so he doesn't. )

Who's whispering to you now, snow fox? Whose voice is up there in all those colors, refusing to shut the fuck up all night?

[chuju]

[ Luckier? No. It might be easier to not have the pain those memories brought, but she spent her entire life never having those memories at all. Being alone and never knowing what love felt like was far worse than the agony of losing it.

With every second they sit there, his voices become the tiniest bit clearer, as if the speakers were inching closer, preparing to open a door and step out into the open. She's not sure she would want to meet them, though, given the way they sound. And the things being said...

The Hound. Dog. If his voices are like hers, pulled from memories that mean something to him, then are they referring to him? No wonder he isn't the trusting sort if he's always been treated this way. Anger simmers within her, warming her more than anything else can these days, and it's only when he speaks again that she lets it fall away into the snow.

Snow fox. Glancing his way, she turns it over in his mind for a moment, and a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. The expression turns sad again as she looks back at those colors in the sky, a familiar ache sinking its claws into her as her voices drift around them.

"Skye doesn't know when her birthday is."
"I do! July 2nd. It was a gorgeous summer night..." ]

Earlier, it was my team — the family I found.

[ Emotion seeps into her words as a wave of loneliness crashes over her. She misses them so much. Coulson. May. Jemma and Mack.

"Here's to twenty-six." With a deep breath, she looks down at her hands, tugging the ends of her sweater's sleeves down over her hands as she plays with a loose thread. ]

Now, it's my parents — the family who found me. I searched for them my whole life, and when we finally found each other, I... They weren't...

[ Her hands drop into her lap and she lets her head fall back to look at that strange sky, old wounds open and raw again after never fully healing.

"Our people know too well what a woman will do for her daughter." ]

[dogmeats]

( He lets her talk — a little unprecedented, really, when he's generally inclined to interrupt anyone and tell them to stuff their fucking holes, to insist he's not interested in their stories. Her, he allows to go on. Maybe it's because of the mood of the night, maybe it's because he owes her a debt, or maybe — probably more likely — he's just started to go soft. This last year, carting the girl around... being away from the Lannisters, not walling hiimself off so he can mindlessly obey orders to spill blood regardless of his feelings on the blood he's spilling...

He's a different man than he was, whether he's willing to admit it or not. He refuses to consider it too deeply, not yet, although there's little else to do here some days but think.

And besides, hearing about her shite takes his mind off his own shite for a little while. )

Weren't what? ( He prompts, raspy and flat. ) Weren't up to your standards? Didn't live up to the fantasy?

( He snorts quietly, and brings the bottle back to his lips. Before he swallows, he mutters into the lip of it: )

People rarely ever do.

[chuju]

[ Talking about her parents hurts. It's been five years now and the pain still hasn't gone away, just become something she better knows how to carry. Being able to give her dad a new start in life helped, but Jiaying's betrayal took on a whole new life after their last mission. And now there's Kora...

Is her sister alright? Has it been seven months back home too? Is she still— Wincing at the thought, she shoves it away and focuses on the past. The pain she knows is better than the unknown waiting for her at home. ]

They were in some ways. My dad was, in the end.

[ When she'd first met Cal, she'd seen him as nothing more than an insane murderer with a fixation on showing her who she really was. She'd wanted nothing more than to see him locked up for the crimes he'd committed. But as she'd learned more about him and their family, that changed.

"You know, you're better than I imagined, and I imagined you perfect." ]

I didn't grow up with a family. I imagined all sorts of things about my parents, but really, I just wanted someone who wanted me. Nothing else mattered.

[ This isn't something she ever talks about with people outside her circle of trust. Information like this could so easily be used against her with the insight into one of her major weaknesses. Daisy Johnson wants nothing more than to be wanted and to belong, and it was that desire Hive was so easily able to prey upon while she was under his sway. But there's something tonight urging her to keep speaking, to share this wounded part of herself with this stranger who probably couldn't care less about her suitcase full of trauma.

Her right hand finds the scar on her left, fingers tracing the line of raised tissue along the side of her palm. It looks old thanks to the work of the healing chamber, but she still vividly remembers the sharp pain of the glass shard she'd hidden under her skin. ]

My mom went through something horrible when I was a baby. It's what separated me from them, and it broke our family. It broke her. She became hard and angry and so full of hate, she couldn't see what she'd become.

[ "I always believed the reason I endured all that torture and pain was for you. That you were my true gift. But you're not." ]

[dogmeats]

( It's in his nature to feel an instinctive flair of resentment whenever people whinge about their pasts — especially attractive, seemingly well-off people. So her mother and father weren't nice. Come talk to him when they let her brother burn her face off and then run around and tell everyone her bedding caught fire. Come talk to him when they let her brother kill her sister, and still leave him first in line to inherit everything — and then bloody knight him. He's seen mothers and fathers do unspeakable things to their children. House Clegane does not have a kind history, and as such, Sandor's sympathies are nigh impossible for relative strangers to rustle up.

As he gets to know her, as he has time and space to contemplate her, it will improve. He's just always slow to come around, always mean at first and kinder in hindsight.

I just wanted someone who wanted me.

Get in fucking line. You and the rest of the world. Not him, of course, surely not him, but everybody else.

At some point during all her talking, his head starts shaking. A slow, subtle back and forth. Disapproval, disdain, annoyance. Mild, but all there. When at last she goes quiet, his answer is a low, empty: )

Boo fucking hoo. Grow up. You're not a child anymore, girl. If your family's so bloody terrible, go and find a new one. Shouldn't be hard with the way you run around getting in people's fucking business.

( Rescuing them. Helping them. Being kind to strangers. That's what he means. )

[chuju]

[ Of all the things he could have said in response, this is honestly one of the better possibilities? A quiet but genuinely amused laugh tumbles out of her and she shakes her head as well. She's always hated talking about her ridiculously tragic life, using humor to deflect when she's hurting, so him giving her an out to stop talking about it is actually nice. She's grateful for his comment that's abrasive without being truly cruel. ]

I did find a new one. Parents, a sister... a brother...

[ Her voice loses all trace of humor at that last part. Fitz might not have burned her face, but he'd certainly left his mark on her body and psyche. She can still feel her own screams reverberating through her body... But she isn't going to talk about that. Her soul has been bared enough to this man and he doesn't need to hear about all the times she's been betrayed by someone she loved and trusted.

So she shifts the conversation suddenly, shoving aside her pain in favor of irritation on his behalf as she turns to look at him with a frown. ]

Who's the asshole calling you dog? It's so demeaning. You don't deserve that.

I am so sorry this took so long

[dogmeats]

( They're going to get on just fine. Most folks, sensible folks, precious folks, would've gotten up in arms about his answer. This exchange could've ended just there, she could've walked away, and he'd wipe his hands of the whole affair. That she stays, that it rolls off her like nothing, locks his respect subtly into place — not that he'll admit it. Not that it rightly occurs to him just yet.

It will later, upon reflection and with a more sober head.

I did find a new one. Good for her — and, for once, he doesn't mean that as caustically or as sarcastically as he normally would. Good for her.

None of that fancy, quaint respect does a fucking thing to keep him from rolling his eyes at her less than a second later, though. )

You don't know what I deserve. You don't know shit about me. ( He deserves it plenty, he's got no illusions that he's a victim. That he's been unjustly treated. His behavior warrants every insult and accusation levied his way, nine times out of ten — but he'll answer all the same. Compelled by either the whiskey or the aurora or the debt he owes, he cannot say, but the honesty pours forth anyway. ) The cocksucking little bastard of a king I served as Sworn Shield, if you must know. And his cunt of an uncle. And the rest of his cunt family too, probably, I don't know what you heard.

( But it's a safe bet. )

The Hound, it's a- nickname, a title. Whatever the fuck you call it. Makes no difference, I was the king's dog either way. Right up until I wasn't anymore.