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

When Thomas takes his hand and tugs him down, it seems to settle the Doctor, as though he were a kite on a breeze in need of being anchored before a rogue gust takes him away. This is where he's supposed to be, it suits him, and as he sits, he squeezes Thomas' hand, leveling a warm smile at him for a moment, sweeping his thumb briefly across his knuckles. But then he's quick to glance back at their guests, pleased as he could ever be. They could share anything at all and he'll be interested to hear it, thinking nothing of Raju turning first to a book he hates; rather, it piques his curiosity.

He toasts them all in return, but he skips right past sharing his favorite...anythings, more intrigued by these two books.

"Dear old Alice in Wonderland — we're all mad here, indeed. Quick sidenote, though — I might have a book or two you could take back with you. I've read them back to front, front to back, sideways and inside out, and they've been lively company, but we've wearied of each other. For later, though. Now, please, do tell more," he nods, quite intrigued. "And you, Captain Crozier, a fan of that book yourself, or the furthest from?"

He feels like he shouldn’t be a witness to the affection. It’s a private thing, isn’t it? He isn’t certain whether his discomfort is because it’s two men, or the act in general, or that it’s his former steward, Thomas Jopson, doing the handholding. He lowers his eyes to the table in front of him, the plate and the food and all else terribly interesting in that particular moment.

He does enjoy Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but only because Rama absolutely could not stand it and would make the most vexed and exasperated expressions when attempting to read the thing.

“I’m a scientific journal sort,” he replies, finally lifting his head again. “Or a traveler’s account. But truthfully, I’ve always enjoyed poetry.” Possibly because he’s the furthest thing from a poet.

The sweep of the Doctor's thumb over Jopson's knuckles is the first thing that tells Raju that the two of them are like he and Francis, and as his eyes follow it, he wonders if it should be the first; the gesture says they aren't hiding it and Raju doesn't know what the rules are for something like this. Maybe there was something he was supposed to pick up on, and he missed it. He wonders if he's supposed to be touching Francis like that, too. He doesn't touch Francis the same in front of others as he does in private, but—

The conversation moves on quickly, and under the attention his own toast has brought him Raju pushes any questions stirred up by the gesture aside, smiling as his fingers move back and forth over the cup of the mysterious juice. His gaze lingers on Francis, interested, as Francis speaks, but Raju looks back at Jopson and answers his questions first:

"The other book is Pride and Prejudice. Francis didn't recognize it, so maybe it was published..." After your time is an odd, uncomfortable phrase, so he picks a different one. "Later. Alice I read when I was a boy, though, probably because it was supposed to be a children's book and I was learning English at the time. I kept waiting for it to start making sense, and it never did."

He wrinkles his nose, smiling at his remembered disgust. But now, having explained, he gets to go on by asking after the rest: "You and Francis were on more than one voyage together, weren't you? Did you bring much to read?" His gaze cuts, interested, to Francis, and then back to Jopson. "Poetry?"

He does it all unconsciously now. He's been surrounded by the Doctor, by Wynonna, by everyone else in Lakeside who aren't part of the crew. They don't treat him like his feelings and thoughts are something to be afraid of or ashamed of. He's openly affectionate with the Doctor because, here, in this place, that is the expected behavior. He's still young, he's still learning, and he wants nothing more than to enjoy himself without abandon.

He doesn't let go of his hand for a long moment, then stands up and distributes the stew, bowl by bowl.

"Travel volumes and poetry," Thomas confirms, thinking of the little library on board. "And yes, we went to Antarctica together. Has he told you of that journey?"

The Doctor, though often one to keep selective parts of himself tucked away, is nonetheless generous with affection. He always has been; well, these days, this life. So he thinks nothing of it. He wouldn’t have hesitated to embrace Crozier and Raju in greeting, but he'll respect those boundaries until or unless it's ever welcomed. To the Doctor, this time together is an auspicious start to what he considers to be the beginning of two lovely new friendships, a thought further solidified when Captain Crozier speaks of enjoying scientific journals, travel logs, and poetry. Already, tendrils of thoughts and questions are branching off in rapid succession and anticipatory delight in his mind; cataloged and filed away in little boxes with cheery bows on top are all the things to remember about both him and Raju, to ask more of later. Either later tonight, or later later, when their paths may cross again. (When, not if, he thinks, never if, if is too finite for his liking.) He's already off and running with stray thoughts; what topics was the Captain drawn to most, any and all? He's thinking of all the scientific journals around that time, the discoveries he now wants to ask his opinions about. And then Raju, of course, what books does he favor? Any that were a comfort, that he'd wish most to have here?

“Poetry and science and travel — beautiful words, curiosities, possibilities. It all broadens the mind,” he murmurs, more to himself as he briefly shifts to focus on the stew in front of him, leveling a grateful smile at Thomas. People around him keep him enough in check that he has the good sense not to derail entirely, but he can't help noting briefly to the Captain, "I'll be wanting to hear more of your favorites of all of the above later."

His focus turns now to offering up the acorn bread to accompany the stew. It’s not a quick thing to make by any measure, and as Thomas noted, it's a bit unstable, but absolutely perfect for sharing with important people and on special occasions.

A fluffy white roll it is not, but to Crozier the bread made of crushed acorn looks like the most delicious thing he's seen in a long while. He takes a piece, grateful for the crumble and the way it reminds him of soda bread from home, and sets it beside his bowl of food.

"Thank you, Thomas. Doctor." Is it the Doctor? Doctor? What the hell does Jopson call him?

He answers his own question almost immediately. He knows exactly what Jopson calls him, and he inclines his head slightly across the table towards his old friend. He'd be willing to put money on Thomas Jopson calling that man 'sir' in private, with that sort of cheek that he only could coax out of him on the odd occasion.

Crozier's eager to try the bread, so he allows for the natural lull in the conversation to take a bite of the stew and sample the acorn bread. It's heavenly, of course. "Didn't make sense," he mumbles to himself, smirking quietly towards Raju. "It's a children's book."

Raju's been to lots of dinners before. Ones that were different degrees of formal, different degrees of informal. This, he's sure, is the latter — although the longer he knows the man the more dearly he'd love to see the Doctor at one of the more British ones that Raju's been to — so he allows himself to meet Francis' smirk with a look, half exasperation, half badly repressed smile, and to lean over and elbow him.

Then he straightens and looks to Jopson, expression attentive and innocent. Who was it rudely elbowing one of the dinner guests just now? Not Raju. "A little. He told me how brave you were. But I'd love to know more, even just the books." He looks toward the Doctor, who'd asked to hear about Francis' favourites. Raju's never asked about or looked for any of the poetry that Francis likes, and it feels like an oversight. "You mentioned having some, Doctor. That you were willing to give them away. Which ones?"

His fingertips move idly around the bowl of stew. It smells delicious, and he knows he's going to be distracted wondering about how to make the juice and the bread if he focuses on any of it while he's still talking. One thing at a time.

How brave you were.

Thomas ducks his head at the compliment, looking off to the side. He didn't feel brave. He was a child then. He was terrified, but Crozier was the one who kept him steady.

He knows there's a pattern there.

Thomas sits down again once everyone is served. "Yes, Doctor," he says for the sake of the table. "What books do you have that you have hidden away from my eyes?" And there's the cheek that Crozier knows, buried behind a very innocent face and gentle smile.

As a quick aside when Raju speaks, the Doctor mumbles, "I'd love to know more, too, all of it." Everything. Always. Whatever he can learn. As they chatter, though, he focuses on the acorn bread, observes it for a few seconds and decides he wants to sprinkle a bit of his portion on top of his stew. Fish stew with an acorn crumble. Perfect!

As the conversation swings back around to him, though, he smiles contentedly after he's enjoyed a spoonful of his little concoction. "No, no, I've reconsidered. The lovingly curated recipes in the fifth edition of, Life is What You Bake It will remain known only to myself and Mrs. Higginbottom. Promise, though, I'll make an approximation of her salmonberry tart and bring it 'round to you!" If such a thing actually existed. These were resort cabins meant for people on holiday with little use for baking and all the time for leisure. There is a bright, cheeky smile on his face, though, to accompany the tease.

"One of the books I am very happy to share include a riveting tale of intrigue, danger, the tragedies and triumphs of life. The heart of it, though, is friendship. True, sincere, beautiful friendship between the loveliest of souls, Wilbur and Charlotte. Charlotte's Web, it's called." It's also possible he skipped the ending, whoops! He can't bear to read that last bit alone, if at all. "The other's a mystery book, a real page-turner, The Hound of the Baskervilles."

It’s the little things that make the evening for him - Ram’s playful nudge, Jopson’s bashful duck of his head, the Doctor’s easy, eccentric patter, all over a warm meal and a cheery fire in the hearth. It’s obvious to him now that he’s missed good company and the ability to smile without feeling guilty.

Though the guilt’s still there. It will always be there.

“I’ve never heard of those books,” he remarks quietly, just as unwilling to lead the conversation as always. But Jopson…

Well, Jopson seems like he’s in his element. He’s not a steward here, he’s the host, the man of the hour, the head of the table.

“Tell us a story from your time aboard the Racer, Thomas.”

"I've heard of one," Raju adds with an intrigued look at the Doctor, but there's plenty to be interested in here and he'll find out more about the Hound of the Baskervilles — a tale he's heard of about mystery and adventure much more interesting to him, though he wouldn't say so outright here, than an unfamiliar one about friendship — later if the Doctor gives it to him, but a story about Francis' home and the people he cares for is more immediate and rare. Between the distracting rhythm of living and the painful points in it Raju wants to tiptoe around Raju doesn't ask for stories of Francis' life or anything surrounding it nearly as often as he wants to, and Francis' suggestion has Raju looking to Jopson expectantly.

He does dart a couple looks down at the food too, though. He picks a corner off the bread to try, has some of the juice, and makes a surprised, approving noise that comes out louder than he'd have wanted it to, if he'd done it on purpose. "I'd love to hear something," he adds hurriedly to Francis' request, to make it clear he is paying attention. "Whatever you're willing to tell."

Thomas almost tells him no, tells him that he can't speak about it because he's far, far too quiet for what might sound like a brag, but he shoots the Doctor a quick look, letting that ground him. He can do this. The Doctor would tell him that he could.

"Ah, well, yes. We were patrolling the Gulf of Guinea, looking for slavers. Word had come down from our last port that a large Spanish vessel had been spotted, loaded with captives from the coast, bound for the Americas. Not an ordinary schooner, either. A brigantine, armed by cannon and man." He stops to take a drink of the sweetened juice.

"We spotted her at dawn, a ghostly figure on the horizon, and we made chase. The Racer wasn’t built for broadside battles, but none of us hesitated when the call to ready the guns came down. We knew if we didn’t stop her, hundreds of lives would be lost—children, women, men, all shackled in her hold. What came next was nothing short of madness."

It's odd for Jopson to be here, talking about his own time at sea. This is not what Thomas Jopson, Captain's steward would do. This might be what Lieutenant Jopson would do, however. He leans forward, feeling very much like Captain Fitzjames. Is this what the appeal was, he wonders. He's still visibly uncomfortable, but the urge to share takes over.

"Our marines, men I knew by name, grabbed their sabers and pistols and leapt across the gap as soon as we were alongside. It was chaos. I saw one of our men, no older than twenty, strike down a slaver twice his size, the sheer force of will carrying him through. The Spanish fought like cornered beasts, but we didn’t give an inch. I remember the sounds of clashing steel, the shouts, the smell of powder, but more than that, I remember the resolve on every face. No one was turning back.

"I found myself in the thick of it, boarding alongside our men, more out of instinct than anything. We fought deck to deck, and I found myself grappling with one of their crew — big fellow, scarred face. He had me pinned against the rail, blade at my throat, and for a moment I thought I was done for. But then, out of nowhere, one of the boys —Cook’s mate of all people — came barreling in, tackling him to the deck and saving my neck. He didn’t have a weapon, but he had the heart to jump in without thinking twice."

Edited 2024-10-05 00:26 (UTC)

He's quick to give a nod in the span of that brief shared look. All thought of books and stories written by others quickly falls to the wayside. Anything Thomas has to say, is willing to say, is far more interesting. He remembers Thomas telling him that was his first ship, he remembers his cheeky story about the game of checkers, but this is new, riveting, harrowing, leading him along from moment to moment with all the tension of an expertly crafted page-turner, but it's real, it's memory. It happened to Thomas, to that crew, to all those lives that might have been lost if they hadn't intervened.

Every life is important to the Doctor, but certainly by simple fact and reason of knowing some better, they're treasured more deeply, differently. And for Thomas — who's somehow managed to find a spot so very near the Doctor's hearts — he thinks the fact of this loveliest of men's existence is of utmost importance, his life the grandest occasion to celebrate. So as he speaks his name now, the tone of his voice carries the weight of that emotion and all those thoughts behind it. "Thomas Jopson."

The smile on his face is tender, proud, adoring. To hear how they fought, how close a blade had been to ending his life then, it coils a brief knot in him, but he was saved then, by another brave soul.

"Absolutely brave," he reaffirms. He didn't miss the way he ducked his head before when it was said; it can't be said enough about him. "Running straight towards the chaos." To help — he remembers that, too. He was ready to help. "What happened next?" He encourages him, hanging on every word.

None of this surprises Cozier now, of course. It might have in Antarctica, when Jopson was still just a boy and terrified by the sight of those tall glaciers and the pink, crackling sky, but not now, not knowing Thomas Jopson as he does. One doesn't run down a monster or care for a man with an abusive temper in the throes of withdrawal without having some courage.

The surprise comes from the look that the Doctor gives him, utterly and completely and unabashedly besotted. Not so much that someone would give Jopson that look - that's perfectly understandable - but that they would do so openly, without hesitation, without worry or anxiety. It shouldn't keep surprising him, but it does.

Perhaps maybe the shock would wear off over the course of the evening.

He merely nods in Jopson's direction, his own silent urging for him to continue. What happened next? All eyes on Thomas Jopson, no longer living in the shadows.

Raju's leaned forward over the table, listening intently. It's the first time he's heard anything like this — there'd only been time for so many books, growing up, and only so many of them seemed like they might be useful — and he's taking in every word. The Doctor has encouraged Jopson to keep going and Francis has nodded, seconding him, so Raju waits, wanting to hear the end.

He has to take a moment and adjust, tucking his hair behind his ear, looking again to the Doctor for a bit of support that he knows will always be there.

"I was properly rallied, then, and managed to fend off the man before he cut that boy's throat. Knocked him overboard, even, and joined the others again. We took the ship that day and opened the hold to release the prisoners. They were - so afraid at first, but as we led them back out into the sun and the fresh air, they realized what we were there for.

"We took them to Sierra Leone, where the ship had left from, and returned them to their land. I - don't think I would be here, telling this story, without that boy who saved me."

The boy who saved him. The boy, without a weapon, who simply rushed forward to save a life with no thought for his own, just like Thomas in turn. That instinct for goodness, for helping, a rallying and resistance to the violence they'd all found themselves embroiled in — it's one of the many things that he's always loved and admired about humanity, about so many other species the universe over. They're all — all of them — so brave. Sometimes he doesn't want so many to be as brave as they really are. Instead, he wants that to be where he comes in and they can go on living their lives as long as they last (never long enough). But that isn't reality, that isn't life, and he's lost enough to know that well enough.

They'll probably never know how much he learns from all of them, all the time. Every moment. Even here, even now. Not just Thomas, but Captain Crozier — the way he'd encouraged Thomas to speak. And Raju — the way he listens. The way they all make room for this, the care that's shown simply by being present. Many things have not been good or happy in this place, objectively speaking, and the darkness is there and it will do what it does, but for now, it feels to him like they're all collectively holding on to this good thing and that will make it last.

His spoon has long been set down by now, his hands folded together, leaning forward a bit on the table. "He saved you, a ripple of a moment in time. Your life — protected — so you could go on to help someone else. Many someone elses."

He doesn't mean to fully disrupt Thomas, but he can't help suggesting, "That, I do fully and heartily believe, calls for another toast. There can be many toasts, of course, we make our own rules. So! To you, Thomas Jopson, being here, to the lives you helped save, who saw the sun again." He grabs that delightful juice again and holds it out towards the center of the table, standing once more. "To that boy, who made sure you could be here."

Jopson naturally kept information about himself close to his chest, which Crozier always assumed was an extension of his role as steward. Hearing him now he understands that perhaps it's a mix of the role and just personal choice; Jopson never was one to brag or gloat. It was why Crozier always felt he understood his vexation with Fitzjames all-too-well.

"Hear, hear," he replies, though lets the Doctor do the standing. He raises his glass and then takes a sip of the juice, tart and sweet and just a little too much for his tastes, but still greatly appreciated. "To facing down a lushington in the throes of his illness, mn? A mite more terrifying than slavers."

He smiles briefly across the table and takes a moment to look very interested in the meal in front of him. He doesn't quite raise his eyes towards Rama, but under the table his boot knocks against his in quiet solidarity. Jopson's seen him at his worst, something he's only alluded to with Ram, but acknowledging it now seems only fitting. He wouldn't be here if not for Jopson.

Raju's already looking curiously at Francis when the boot nudges his, and he looks at Jopson, smiling, as his own boot nudges Francis' back.

"To Thomas Jopson," he agrees, raising his glass again. From Jopson's reluctance to speak much about himself before to the way he'd looked to the Doctor while telling that story, it seems like the man might not be used to spotlight; there's a particular pleasure in giving that kind of man some spotlight anyway, when he deserves it. "We're all grateful."

Thomas, despite the coldness of his skin, blushes bright red, steaming up to his ears. He tucks his hair behind his ear and looks up to the Doctor with admiration, and then to Crozier with the same sort of look.

He hadn't saved Crozier. He hadn't done anything save for what he was supposed to do. That doesn't warrant a toast. None of it does. But Thomas is humble enough to realize that they need this more than he does. So he raises his glass in thanks and takes a drink.

"Now, who would like to relieve me and tell the next story of bravery?" he asks with a rousing sort of laugh.

He's proud of Thomas, so very proud, and briefly pats his shoulder when he sits back down. For the Doctor, there's not a single part of him that considers himself to be brave. Oh, he can boast, certainly; regale them with his expert skills perfectly piloting (in his mind) his ship across time and space. He can let it be known that he invented Yorkshire pudding and the quadricycle, and that his company is, of course, charming enough to have earned the honor of being served the finest cup of coffee in the universe, made by one Mrs. Samuel Pepys on one very perfect day.

Brave, though? Brave is everyone else.

It's the captain's remarks about the throes of illness, it's knowing how connected he and Thomas are, how very important they are to one another that draws his focus back to Crozier first. But he wants just as much to hear all that he can about Raju, too. He'll consider it a triumph — whatever he can coax out of the pair of them about their lives, their interests, their stories.

"Captain Crozier — any sort of story, or a favorite poem, if you're willing?" He does a quick glance to Raju, though, leaning in just slightly across the table. He taps his own nose once, points to Raju, points back to himself, leveling a playful smile at the man. "Don't think you've escaped, by the way, coming back to you next." Then he settles back in his chair, sips the juice, and nods back to Crozier. "Sorry! Please, do go on."

Crozier politely balks at the offer to share, shaking his head with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I’m not the best dinner guest,” he says, recalling former wardroom dinners and how quick Jopson had been to refill his glass. He doesn’t need it now; this dinner isn’t painful, but he’s not ready to be the center of attention. “I can’t hold an audience with stories of myself.”

He looks to Rama then with a slight raise of his brow. Help, I don’t want to do this just now.

“Perhaps…someone else might have a story of interest?”

Someone else, on the Doctor's warning, has in fact started thinking of one, even if he'd expected a little more time between the warning and telling it. A captain's steward and the captain himself, and the one's blushing up to his hairline at being the subject of a toast and the other waving off the chance to boast— this really is nothing like any other dinner he's been to. A great deal more bearable for it.

"I'd love a poem later on, if you can think of one," Raju says to Francis and smiles at him, trying for friendly rather than insistent, because Raju's happy to be merciful now but a little of being the centre of attention among friends is good for a man, and Francis should know he has options that aren't stories if he wants them.

"I do have one though," he goes on, raising his eyebrows at the Doctor and Jopson. "Or maybe just a question, if you like that better. Does anyone here dance?"

Thomas immediately shakes his head. "I know the steps and I would - sometimes dance with my Mother when she was feeling right, but nothing that would be suitable for fine company," he admits, enjoying the stew almost as much as he had anticipated.

The Doctor is incredibly curious about more of the things the captain enjoys, if nothing else, but he won't press, not when the conversation's turned a different way. He really, really loves it when someone asks a question he's not at all anticipating. It's not that he has any expectations or pre-conceived notions about how the evening will flow, how the various conversations might twist and turn. He's only ever pleased to be anywhere at all, always up for whatever comes. But that question pulls a laugh from him, one delighted and curious.

"Do I dance? Try and stop me once I get going." Now — does he actually dance well? Up for interpretation. Is the Doctor's method of dancing something well polished and not-at-all ridiculous to watch, and suitable for fine company? No and no. But he fully believes it is, and that's...all that matters? Maybe?

"You've asked the question, though, Raju, which means you must yourself, or at least have an interest and either way, that means I have an interest. So, as the kids say somewhere, somewhen, don't leave me hanging." He gives a little nod to encourage more.

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