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

[afterdrop]

He catches the joke, but reacts only with a faint huff, too busy thinking of Arthur's first words - a spare bed. It's a deeply tempting offer, one he can practically feel in his bones, but it's accompanied by a much less logical feeling: trepidation.

The last time he laid in a bed, the year was 1989, and he had less than twenty-four hours left in his life. He hasn't even had a bed since then, unless you count the moldy mattress he hasn't yet touched in his borrowed cabin. He's been crashing on the couch, pretending in half-asleep hazes that he's back in the office, with Edwin puttering away at the desk. Anything more still seems wrong, like... like he's someone he's not, anymore. Like he's severing himself from his existence back home.

"You got somewhere I can clean up?" He'd ask about bloodless clothes, too, but he knows Arthur's wouldn't fit him.

[lestercraft]

Hah. Victory.

"Well, the shower's broken, but I've got a working fireplace and a decently sized tub," he comments wryly. "I suppose we'll just have to bemoan the lack of running hot water together."

[afterdrop]

Charles certainly isn't going to bring up that he hasn't yet thought to heat up water over a flame. His cabin has a fireplace, but it's covered with broken junk and cobwebs, just like everything else in the place.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes still flicking anywhere but at Arthur.

"All these people and no one's figured out how to rig some up yet," he notes. It's the barest hint of a joke, just light enough to ease a smidge of tension. At the very least it's obvious that he's not mad at Arthur, now.

[lestercraft]

"If you can find a way to keep a damn boiler running in this weather, I think you'll have earned a medal," he returns. And it's nice, just having an easy back and forth with someone.

And he'll nod his head towards the door, before he leads the way. No time like the present, after all. "I've got plenty of spare blankets too, I, er. Might have started hoarding them, somewhat, after I got here." It's too cold for this shit to not be under three of them at any given time. "So don't worry yourself about making a mess of any of them, whatever gets ruined we just turn into bandages, or something."

[afterdrop]

That doesn't quite sound sanitary, but Charles doesn't know enough about medical care to dispute it. God knows he did worse taking care of injuries when he was actually alive.

"How long's that been?" Since Arthur got here, he means. He can't remember if he asked yet. The whole last hour is mostly a blank spot, with only snippets of grey sky and lantern light, and an arm tightened around his shoulders.

[lestercraft]

"Oh, uh-" His voice cuts off with his abruptly violent shiver, as they step out of the hall and back outside. "Fuck. I, um- no, I-I only arrived at the start of this month, as a matter of fact."

He glances back at Charles, more curious now that he'll get actually coherent answers. "And yourself?"

[afterdrop]

There's something both comforting and disappointing about the answer. On one hand, most of the people Charles has spoken to in depth have been here much longer than him. On the other hand, though, Arthur seems to have adapted in ways Charles hasn't even begun to approach. He's still squatting in a glorified junk pile and crying himself to sleep, for fuck's sake.

The cold hits him just as hard, and he pinches up his face, pulling his jacket as tight around his shoulders as it will go.

"'B-bout the same time, yeah." And by the way - shit, how has it been that long? "Really hoped I'd've made it home by now."

[lestercraft]

"Me too," he says, quiet and grim.

But then he takes a deep breath, painfully sharp and cold, and huffs it out again in a short puff. "But I've found that if it's not within your power to change a situation, then- you've got to adapt. I don't know where my partner is, but I know it won't do either of us any good if I'm careless and get killed before he can find me again."

He tucks his hands under his arms, trying to preserve what little heat he has beneath his layers. "Just have to eat the elephant. Like always."

[afterdrop]

The idiom is unfamiliar, and sounds vaguely like something Edwin might say. Whether or not Arthur is from a similarly historic period isn't a thought that crosses his mind quite yet. Sure, he's used to interacting with ghosts from all times, but Arthur isn't a ghost. He looks and feels real in a way Charles doesn't.

"You think he can find you here? Your partner?"

Edwin could, he thinks. The problem is that he shouldn't have to.

[lestercraft]

"I know he'll tear apart Heaven, Earth and everything in-between to try and find me," he says, with the simple, obvious sincerity of unavoidable fact. A force like gravity, inevitable and true no matter how you look at it.

"Unfortunately I don't know how long that might take," he adds, and that has an edge of exhaustion to it despite himself. "So, for the interim--"

He gestures down the street - next to a dilapidated pile of rubble, there's a house with boarded windows. "We survive. So that we're here when they do finally make it."

[afterdrop]

"Sounds like you're a lucky bloke, then."

It's almost disconcerting, how closely Charles can relate to it. There isn't a thing he wouldn't rip apart to find his partner, no matter what he had to go through to do it. He'd certainly rip apart this place, he sometimes thinks, when the moon is high and he can't keep his eyes closed, and all he wants to hear is Edwin's voice telling him that he's being overly dramatic.

"Well, I can't say surviving's my strong point," he half-jokes as they get closer to the house, "but I'm aces at sticking around, aren't I? Bloody hard to get rid of." A chill goes through his chest, and he presses his hands further into his pockets. "Just ask my landlady."

[lestercraft]

That gets a soft chuckle, despite himself. Christ, but he's familiar in a lot of painful, positive ways. Parker would have adored him. Or wrestled him, but that was only higher praise.

"Tell you what, we can compare how bloody annoying we are to the rest of the world while I get a fire started," he returns lightly, opening the door by jamming his shoulder full-speed into it.

It's no warmer inside, but at least there's no fucking wind in there. The fireplace is front and centre of the small open lounge, backed up against the stairs leading to an upstairs section, and a hallway to the left leading further into the house; what was once a couch is now apparently a blanket nest, close enough to the fire to catch the heat without risk of lighting up.

Arthur goes straight for the fireplace, shoving the protective grating aside with his foot so he can crouch down with a soft grunt to get it started. "I've- there's a kitchen, down the hallway. Electricity doesn't work, of course," he adds dryly, "But there's still a few cans there if you want something to tide you over while we wait for this to get started."

[afterdrop]

As soon as they enter the house, Charles' eyes are darting furtively around the space, taking in all the ways that it's different from where he's been squatting. It's clean, for one thing, the limited furniture arranged in a semblance of normalcy, none of it busted and piled across the floor. Part of his reticence is grounded in that same faint guilt, like blending in will mean letting go of something important.

He doesn't want to build a new home; he wants his home. But despite that, he can't ignore the comfort that the tidy little house exudes.

"Nice place." Watching Arthur fiddle with the grate, he drifts over and takes a seat on the floor, back against the couch. Notably, he ignores the offer of food. "Haven't quite fixed mine up yet. It's a bit rubbish."

[lestercraft]

Arthur can't say he's surprised the offer of food gets quietly rebuffed, for any number of reasons. Charles was determined not to stay, for one, but he also seemed the type not to take from anyone that couldn't afford it, and God knew that was a limited number around here.

"If we're going to be stuck here I'm not going to spend it all sleeping somewhere that makes me miserable," he returns easily, turning to give Charles a briefly raised eyebrow with his amusement. "Trust me, I've done more than my fair share of roughing it."

When he's got a little teepee of kindling set up, he pulls out a lighter - it's obviously a good quality one, a silver Dunhill with an engraving Charles can't quite see from his angle, and it works perfectly well.

And soon the smell of smoke is soon sharp in the air, as Arthur grabs a cut log. Those were already here, at least, but he's piled some scraps of lumber next to the pile. "It's hardly much, but it's... well. Somewhere warm to sleep and safe to stay. That's all I wanted."

[afterdrop]

Roughing it is certainly something Charles wasn't quite familiar with in life, between a working-class terrace home and a stuffy dormitory, but he couldn't say he's used to sleeping somewhere that feels safe either. Certainly not peaceful, at least. Whatever Arthur has gone though, however, Charles is acutely aware that his own experiences likely don't compare.

As for the food, the assumption is only half-correct. While Charles is definitely hesitant to take food from such a limited supply, he is even less willing to eat in front of someone else after what happened on his first day: choking on his first bite of food in decades, his throat unused to swallowing, panicking at the sudden sensation. Since then, he's had all of his meager meals in his cabin.

"'Hardly much'? It's got a whole upstairs, mate." He gestures with his hand, then immediately sticks it back in the refuge of his coat. "And beds! Only mattress in mine looks like someone died on it. Probably did."

Absently, he watches the light glint off of Arthur's lighter. Engraving aside, it reminds him distinctly of dark alleys and thrumming music, bummed smokes after concerts and pretty girls looking the other way. A world he's tried to skirt the edges of since his death, but knows he can never truly reenter.

"Had one like that," he comments, tipping his head back against the sofa. "The lighter. Back in the 80's."

[lestercraft]

"I, uh. I can only assume there were previous tenants here somewhat recently keeping it up," he comments idly. "Upstairs is just a loft, anyway."

And another blanket nest, made from one of the downstairs mattresses. It's still stained, sure, but it's not covered with the entirety of a murdered old man's bodily fluids, so he'll take it.

He glances at his lighter, though, before he puts it away. "This one's from the twenties, maybe. Might be older, i-it’s second hand, technically."

[afterdrop]

“Found mine in a nightclub loo. Fancy heirloom, yeah?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, long enough that Arthur may think he’s fallen asleep. The blood still stains the edges of his face, dried into his dark curls, there’s nearly a boyish piece to his slowing breaths. Still, though, as he seems to register the man’s previous statement, his brow wrinkles slightly in thought.

“You think they just disappeared? The last tenants?” Into thin air, or maybe just into the woods. “Someone told me that happens.”

[lestercraft]

That gets a light snort. "Hardly. It's '34 for me, it's just a bit old-fashioned. But it's... important to me."

He does watch Charles, as the fire starts to truly catch, as the flickering tongues of light catch the dull brown stains on Charles's face. Probably he should get the water now, get some of Charles's layers off to start cleaning them, or at least get a rag for his face...

The question snaps him out of his quiet worry, and he frowns as he glances away.

"I hope so. It seems like... the kindest way to go, here."

There's nothing here to give him a lead even if he wants to find out. But from what he's heard of the Darkwalker... vanishing at least meant maybe not dead. Just not here.

[afterdrop]

Charles watches the flames sputter to life, his face still and his eyes fixed. The still forms around him in the frozen grass are still burned in his mind, as he knows they will be for years to come. As closely as he deals in death - from peaceful to gruesome - something feels different here. Harsher, more final.

"Death didn't come for any of them." He speaks like he's just now realizing it, the last few hours dawning on him in glimpses. "Out there, after the fight. She should have come."

No heralding light, no flap of wings or cracking of ground.

"'S like... their souls died too. They aren't even ghosts, now."

[lestercraft]

An interesting observation, actually. Not one Arthur's sure he agrees with, but probably because he just had a man's head get exploded by a petty asshole of a god recently and has long since fallen out of the true belief there was anything after.

If there truly was a Death in Charles's world, then... he's glad at least one of them out there has mercy.

"I suppose that just means we have to keep each other safe," he says quietly. "As best we can."

And then - his tone lightens a little, an obvious rally as he stands to finally strips off his bloodied outer coat. "Look- before you get too comfortable, take your jacket off. I can at least get started cleaning them."

[afterdrop]

Mercy might not be the word Charles used, nor would justice. If anything, he'd say that there are rules, and that the rules get followed, whether they're fair or not.

At Arthur's suggestion, Charles at least begins the endeavor of wriggling out of his coat. It's the nice one Konstantin gifted him, thick and plush despite its wear, with a lined hood that hangs out below his neck. Most of the blood has collected around the collar and dripped between the buttons, but there are handprint swipes down the length of its front.

Once it's removed, he drowsily takes in the damage of the layers beneath. Though it's hard to see on the black wool, the tinted sheen of sticky blood is visible on the collar of his trench coat as well. Shit. He started to shove that off as well, reluctance pinched up on his face. Beneath the relinquished outer shells, there's nothing brawny about him; he's skinny enough to be practically concave.

"Careful with the pins," he warns, tapping on one of them: a yellow smiley face, picked up at a rave he certainly shouldn't have been attending in '88. The others are likely equally alien to Arthur - an Atari game system, a Jamaican flag. On the left sleeve, the words "Rude Boys" are embroidered on an iron-on patch. A curated collection of everything he was in his last life.

[lestercraft]

He does regard the mods curiously as he takes the jackets, and gives Charles a soft smile.

"You'll have to tell me what they all mean later," he says warmly, as he piles the coats next to him. His second jacket, a smaller tight fit with a few obvious knife holes around extremely disparate bloodstains, clearly not from said holes, comes off next when he has his hands free, to reveal-

Well, more layers, for one. But the top one is a fucking breastplate, dented in places but perfectly intact, that he has to reach beneath to find the straps for to slip it over his head.

[afterdrop]

Well, that's proper impressive, right there. Charles raises his brows faintly in appreciation.

"You find that in the general store, too?" The final word comes out against a stifled yawn, caught by his jaw. At last the fire's warmth is starting to spread, and he can faintly feel its lulling effect. Something about him feels heavier, but not in a bad way - more of a settled way that he hasn't felt in decades. "Did it come with a sword?"

[lestercraft]

He gives a soft huff as he sets it aside, away from the fire. "Not quite," he answers readily. "It just- appeared one night, during the aurora. I-I'm not sure why, but it-" besides being a blatant lie "- it's paid for itself already, shall we say."

He looks back at Charles again, and gets to his feet for a moment, moving to the couch to drag one of the blankets off it and drape it around Charles. "This isn't quite a bed, like I promised, but. Still." He smiles, easy and warm. "Get some sleep, Charles."

[afterdrop]

For a moment, the weight of the blanket on his shoulders triggers something in Charles' chest, and he tenses against it. The bulk of the sofa behind him becomes a rough wall of bare wood, and the sounds of Arthur's movement become the patter of the other boys a floor beneath him, preparing for bed.

Then, the feeling passes, and he clicks back into himself.

"Thanks." He gives a polite smile and eases sideways, down onto the floor, one arm crooked up under his head as a pillow. Then, after a minute of watching the fireplace's orange light dance, he closes his eyes and drifts off.

It's the first peaceful sleep he's had in thirty-four years.