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

Thomas keeps the blanket wrapped around him out of self consciousness, but not for the bareness itself. He's painfully thin, a far cry from the strong and capable man who had started on the expedition. Illness and starvation have permanently robbed him of what he had been, and without the clothes to hide behind, he feels more than inadequate. So he watches the door, waiting for the Doctor to return with clothes that he can actually wear and not ruin the furniture.

The cabins in this lakeside resort area have proven useful more than once beyond their obvious use as shelter, with their abundance of supplies. He gathers up a small pile of clothes and another blanket. He tosses the blanket in an empty recliner in the living room for now, approaching Thomas with the clothes. Everything will be a bit oversized for him, but warm and dry.

"I know, I know, you're perfectly capable, but — let me." He wouldn't push, of course, if he's not comfortable being helped along into the clean garments, but there's something — steadying, about being able to put physical touch to this moment. Something tangible when so much is out of control, so much might have been lost under the ice, in that dark, cold water. A last double-check for any injury as well, he tells himself.

Thomas wants to say no, but he is weak. He feels - weak. Slow. Needy. He wants the Doctor to help because, for the first time in a while, he trusts him to do so. Crozier had done the same thing when Thomas was so, so ill, and it was nice, even then.

So he nods, reaching out a hand to place on his shoulder to steady himself. He keeps the blanket close, but he knows he'll be able to see how painfully thin Thomas is, every bone counted. The scars and bruises are there along his ribs and abdomen from the hard labor of living in this place. But there are no open wounds, nothing of note or anything that seems like it's bothering him too much.

"Yes, alright," he mutters.

It's a futile thought, of course, to wish that his newly granted abilities would allow him to simply wave a hand and mend everything, but he wishes it all the same. There's so little that the act of helping him into fresh clothing actually does, but it is...something.

He helps ease him into the trousers first, noting how loose that waist is on his thin frame. These, at least, have a drawstring, and he works on tying it hopefully tight enough. His eyes briefly linger on his scars, the prominent bones of his frame, and he aches a bit at the sight, but he doesn't stare like Thomas is a specimen to be studied, he doesn't show pity or sorrow in his eyes. There's only softness, tenderness. For now, he'd grabbed a sweater and he nods to the blanket, reaching out with the intention of starting to ease it off his shoulders so he can slip the sweater on.

"Quick as you like," he offers. They can do a swift trade if he prefers: the blanket for the dry and warm sweater. Whatever he's comfortable with.

Thomas isn't cold; he's covered. But the Doctor's already seen everything and there's no reason to hide it from him now. He drops the blanket and reaches for the sweater so he can push his arms through the sleeves.

"Did you hear the voices, too? Receive an object?"

As Thomas pushes his arms through the sleeves, the Doctor finds himself — smoothing the sweater down a bit, starting with his shoulders, moving to his chest where his hand remains, the memory of his thin, bruised frame still in his mind.

For a moment, he'd thought of kissing those bruises and scars. For what little such a touch would have actually done; it's not practical, there's no healing in such a touch, there's no actual need, it's purely sentimental, which is...a newer thing for him. But the compulsion was there nonetheless, and maybe that's why his hand lingers on Thomas' chest a moment longer before falling away.

"Yes," he sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "To both." He considers leaving it there a moment. Sharing about this at all, it's difficult. But he'd held that shoe in his hand, something painful for Thomas, and he feels he owes it to him to share as much of the same. It's the fact that he knows Thomas wouldn't force him to share it that actually makes him comfortable enough to speak of it. "Uh — a pair of reading glasses. That belonged to one of my best friends." He doesn't want to find them just yet, though. And the voices — he needs a minute.

Thomas sucks in a quick breath at the featherlight touch to the sweater, to his chest, and looks up to the Doctor as if - well, he doesn't know as if. He doesn't think he wants to know.

He just takes his hand again with cold fingers and links them together before sitting back on the couch so he can pull the Doctor close to him.

"Tell me?"

It should be the opposite, but there is something about the cold shock of Thomas' hand that's steadying regardless. Maybe because it's so much like this place now, so familiar, or maybe it's something else entirely. He doesn't know, but his body adjusts more easily every time. He'd rather the cold until it burns than not touching him at all.

"The friend whose glasses I have now, her name was Amy. Amy Pond. Amelia," he smiles a little, he can't help it, even if that old tug on his hearts is a painful one. "She used to call me — Raggedy Man." He huffs a quiet laugh, a choked sound. "So I, I heard it again. But not only her, no, there was...Fitz and Donna and Ace." He pauses on her name, smiling again, "She insisted on calling me Professor." There would be comfort in hearing their voices again, and there were so many others, but with them in particular, there were harsh words, things he deserved to hear. "They weren't happy. Rightfully so, I — I failed them."

Thomas pulls the blanket close, a barrier but also a comfort, leaning against his side as he stares at the fireplace. "What happened?" he wonders, committing those names to memory. It's odd to get this sort of story from him, so Thomas is trying to draw it out without frightening him off. It's a delicate balance.

It's nothing Thomas has done wrong, of course, that makes the Doctor go a bit quiet, but he feels so much like he's run as fast and as hard as he can for hours and hours and hours, and just saying what he has takes everything out of him. There's so many — River, Rose, Sarah Jane, Tegan, Jamie, Victoria, Adric, Jo, Susan. It's endless.

"Nothing they deserved," he says simply. "This is enough for now." He squeezes his hand. "I'd rather &mdash are you okay?"

Thomas frowns at that, noting the way that he trails off, that he can't talk about it and doesn't answer for a moment. He simply wraps his arms around him there on the couch, holding him as much as he is embracing him.

"Yes," he answers in a whisper. "I am now."

"I am, too, but why?" It hurts, yes, but he's said enough for now, enough that the pain is dulled, enough that it sits easier.

"As simple as not being alone? I was alone earlier when I first heard." He stops short of saying Amy's name again. He just needs her safe in his memory now for a while. "Now I'm not, I'm with you. Is that why it feels better?" He doesn't know why he's framing it like a question Thomas can answer, except that he feels better too, and he takes him at his word.

Maybe the better question to ask is, "Why are you okay now?"

"Because I am with you," he answers, watching the fire. "Because I - feel safe with you. Comfortable. You make me feel safe." And cared for. And adored. And every other positive feeling he can conceive of.

He doesn't know how to frame it any other way. When he's with the Doctor, he feels right again. Like the world can keep turning.

These are such unique feelings for the Doctor; that is, the very act of sitting near Thomas like this after a night that's rattled them both in different ways. It's not that he's never been comforted before. God knows in his younger days, he'd spilled over all manner of melancholy without much filter. It was too much, far too much self-pity. So then he'd turned in another direction entirely — favoring whimsy and silliness and locking all manner of pain away in a box he shoved aside. Put on a happy smile, all is well. It's a fine line he's walked, from one extreme to the next — share everything that hurts or nothing at all. With Thomas, even when it's not perfect and he still shuts down, he's trying to find a balance because he does trust him and he feels safe with him, too.

It's always been easier for him to offer comfort, it's a tricky thing to allow himself to receive it. But as they sit here together, he doesn't feel the need to turn away from it or make a joke to pretend he's fine. They can talk about pain and they can say they're okay now and it really can be okay.

"Then I'll keep being with you," he's quick to say. "And I will keep you safe, Thomas." He would do anything to ensure that. Give anything. Everything.

"And you — I trust you. You're a comfort. You don't press me. You let me be. You could poke and prod with sharp daggers, but you ask the right questions, you lead me to you, and you listen — you're here." He just needed to say it out loud because it's meaningful to him. Thomas lets him come to him in his own time, and that makes it easier to share the things he never really shares with anyone.

Edited 2024-09-22 03:38 (UTC)

"I won't press you for information you are not comfortable giving, but sir...I won't let you sit in your pain by yourself. You need not say it aloud, but let me bear it with you. Let me be here with you to lighten your shoulders. It is the only way I think I can cope. It is the only thing I can offer you."

He lets out a breath, looking up to him from where he's resting against his shoulder.

"The gift of you," he lets out a breath, "is no small thing. In fact, it's the biggest thing. Do you know that? Do you understand?"

The Doctor shifts a bit, trying to press closer.

"You have given me so much already. Everyday, in fact, but tonight what you've done is, you've taken a moment of pain and made it lighter and easier to bear." He reaches out, for a moment just wanting to touch him in some way, shifting just enough to rest the palm of his hand against Thomas' cheek. But he decides that's not enough and he leans in to kiss him softly.

That kiss is returned a thousand times more, Thomas turning to sit up and drape an arm around his neck, pulling the blanket over the two of them to keep the Doctor warm. "You would have jumped into that water to save me," he remarks lightly. "You are a fool, sir, but one I never want to change."

"I'll accept that," he smiles just a bit under his breath. "A fool for all the right reasons, I might add." Thomas' safety is paramount to him. He's so dear to him, so important, so essential and so very adored. With the blanket pulled around them, he doesn't hesitate to shift close again. Thomas is always doing that, taking care of him in some way. Taking care of everyone. He can only hope to give back as much as he's already given. Where words sometimes fail the Doctor, there's touch; and with the utmost tenderness, he simply reaches out and strokes some of Thomas' hair back from his brow. To feel him close is a reminder that he's here, he's safe, he's not going anywhere.

Thomas nods, smiling at that touch. "May I stay here tonight? With you?" he wonders softly. "I can sleep here, by the fire." He doesn't want to be in bed with him, make him cold, after the Doctor had to practically fish him out of the lake. It doesn't seem right or fair.

The fact of that chill from Thomas' skin is a reality that can't be entirely ignored, but he's too stubborn to worry much about it, and it's so rarely a thought or concern for him. Rare enough that he quite simply says, "Mind you, it's a comfortable sofa, but why would you sleep here when there's a perfectly comfortable bed just down the hall? You will stay, yes, I want you to, but I want you sleeping somewhere that's not going to make you ache in the morning," he insists.

Half a second later, he finally clues in that Thomas might want the bed to himself, so he adds, "You can have it all to yourself, of course, if you like! An abundance of cushions. A pillow fort of your own making."

He doesn't know how to ask to share the bed with him, either, and doesn't want to make him uncomfortable.

Edited (I had to make it more painful~) 2024-09-23 02:19 (UTC)

Thomas just stares at him for the longest moment and huffs in annoyance. "If you want to freeze tonight, then that's your own doing, but I am not kicking you from your bed. You're not doing that to me again."

"— again..." No, he should know better. He knows what he did. His fumbling before. He'd made a mess of it then. He's not faring much better now.

"Then it's my doing," he insists stubbornly. "I don't want you far." He'll accept his annoyance easily enough if it means Thomas is nearby. He has thermals. A quilt. The mittens Thomas knit for him. A fireplace in the room. He'll manage.

"Again," he responds firmly, standing up and leaning down to take the Doctor's hand. "Come along," he tells him gently. "I won't be far again."

"It's lovely when you listen to me," he can't help teasing now, solidly assured, holding tightly to his hand. He knows, he knows, it was all him. But despite all that's happened tonight, all the memories dredged up, he feels lighter. Like he might sleep easy.

"Do you want pyjamas, or will that suit you tonight?" It's just a stray thought, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible.

Thomas looks down at his clothes and he laughs a little. "Sir, I am as dressed for bed as I possibly can be. Nightclothes are not something I've ever been comfortable in." He either sleeps fully clothed or naked. No in between. He's not ready for anything less than what he has on.

it must be that old evil spirit

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