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

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.

Crozier does not know where Rama is going with this, and stares at him with eyebrows attempting to creep up his forehead and disappear into right into hairline. He gives an almost imperceptible nod and waits for him to indulge them all in wherever this story might be headed.

One wouldn't necessarily think about something as joyful as dancing when first encountering Rama Raju, but therein lies what he finds so compelling about him. It's always a delight to learn something new.

Francis' minute nod and raised eyebrows without an actual answer gets a knowing smile from Raju, and raised eyebrows of his own. Raju should try to come here more, do this more, if he can; even aside from the good company, he wants to know how long it would take for Francis to open up a little. But Raju's sharing this now so that Francis doesn't have to, so after the one look he's focusing on the Doctor again.

"Maybe later you and I can show those two how it's done," Raju smiles, conspiratorial and amused, and steals just a second to drink some of the juice again. It's tart in the way only maybe their attempts at pickling have been, and sweet in the way almost nothing in this place has been, and it's nearly a shame the company's so good that he hasn't gotten much of a chance to focus on it.

As he swallows and he leans on a forearm against the table, setting the cup down and rubbing a thumb back and forth over its edge to keep his hand busy. Sitting next to people who are eating isn't the right time for wide gestures.

"At the last..." Raju pauses, looking for a word that might cover both now and then. "...party I was at, before this place, everyone danced. But the guests weren't half so welcoming. In the city I lived before this place, a pretty girl had caught a friend of mine's eye, and he hers — but she was English, had only ever spoken English to us, and he didn't speak a word of it. Any guest at the kind of party she invited him to would be the same, so when he asked I came along. I'm sure you've been to the kind of thing I mean, Francis, being a captain in the navy; fine clothes everywhere, trays of this and that passing back and forth, the only guests who think they're all there to have a good time the ones who've never been to one before. What about you, Doctor? Jopson? Have you had the, ah... pleasure?"

He makes sure to put just a little distaste into his tone and face on that last word, less because he'd disliked that kind of place any more than anywhere else — navigating them had been a challenge, that's all, and he's never really minded those, whether or not he actually respected anyone he spoke to there — and more to make it clear he isn't bragging, in case the kind of occasion he's thinking of isn't a place the two of them were considered important enough to get into.

Thomas leans forward slightly, enraptured entirely by the story in a way that he never would have been with any of Fitzjames'. At least back then. Thomas would give anything to simply sit and listen to him talk now, a reminder that he is still alive and his breath comes easier.

"I have been," he answers. "Passing the trays." Not at a fine party like that, but at dinners where the guests are all the same. Where they wear the uniforms and the fineries. It was the only reason he could keep up on Terror.

"I'm holding you to that," he gives Raju a little nod at the suggestion, equally amused, more than ready.

At the question — generally speaking, most places and parties the Doctor ends up are events he's simply barged his way into, which of course has received varying degrees of welcomes, from warm and friendly to you're not making any sense, man, get the hell out. Invited himself along. Or, if the situation is dire and warrants it, he's insisted on his presence simply being accepted because he's there to help, obviously.

He never really tends to worry or consider if he's important enough to be invited, he's just...there. Where he needs to be.

"Oh," he draws that one syllable out a second longer than necessary, a slight lilt to his voice, the promise of stories one day, later. But there are other stories he far prefers to hear right now, and he's quick to lean in himself, everything else forgotten. "Yes. Many! You know, you do know how to keep your company in suspense." He means it in a good way, he loves it, a bright grin still on his face.

He can’t help but chuckle at Ram’s rather astute description of the kind of gala where one might simply go ‘to be seen’ - the upper-crust mingle or the society ball, or god help him, the naval fete. He hated all of them, especially as he was supposed to be seen and stand out, and ultimately never did or never wanted to.

He can imagine how unwelcome Rama and his friend might have felt going to one of those kinds of galas. Sure, they’d been invited, but were they really expected to attend?

“Did they make you do a waltz?” he presses, grinning slightly.

Raju smiles wryly at Jopson's answer — an Englishman working as a servant still feels a little bit strange to him, unusual as if he were still at home, even now he always forgets — and looks amused at the Doctor's. "I wasn't dancing at first," he answers Francis. "My friend was pulled in to dance with his lady as soon as she saw him but they needed time alone, and it's harder to watch for trouble from the middle of a crowd. But it didn't take long. The first I knew of it was a great clatter as one of the serving trays hit the floor, and through the crowd I saw my friend on the ground with it. I heard his lady apologising, but another man was already making his move."

Raju pauses, gaze distant, smiling a little. "I remember the look of him, even now. His suit didn't fit him at all, like he'd bought it expecting to fill up a larger space than he could. He'd used too much product in his hair, and couldn't grow a moustache half as well as he thought. Like he'd forgotten to shave only in that one place, and hadn't noticed. Like a boy dressing up in his father's things. He was saying something about, ah... dancing, English dancing, I think. Something about none of us having the finesse for real art, he was listing all these dances, and forgive me—"

He looks at Jopson and the Doctor in faux-apology, still smiling. One is certainly English and the other, though a mystery, certainly sounds it. "—If you English have ever come up with a single good dance on your own, this man didn't know it."

As he says it the possibility he's read them wrong flashes through his mind, that this isn't the kind of story he should tell here after all, far from home or not. But he's spent his entire life not reading people wrong, and doesn't think he's started now. So when he pauses it's only a little to check their reaction, and more than a little to give them a chance to defend the honour of English dancing, if they'd like to.

Thomas just laughs, the most delighted he's felt in a while. He's comfortable here, more than he thought he would be, and he waves away the apology. He's looking to Crozier, though, hoping to see the amusement, wanting to see it on his face.

"Your opinions are safe here," he assures him. "Most of us share them." He's not entirely sure about the Doctor, but since he isn't actually from Earth, Thomas can safely assume it doesn't matter.

As it pertains to situations like what Raju's describing, the Doctor couldn't possibly care less about decorum, conforming to rules, or etiquette, and certainly not whatever constitutes "good dancing," because he takes no offense to such things, particularly as he has no personal stake in it. He has loads of respect for traditions, rituals, things that are meaningful to all species. But a fancy party amongst the elite, where it's more likely most of those attending are taking themselves entirely too seriously? Oh, that's another matter.

He's more than a little amused to hear Raju assert that the English haven't ever come up with a single good dance, and his face certainly conveys that openly.

"Please, I insist, as long as you know me — and I hope that's terribly long indeed — don't you hold back a single honest opinion." He downs a few sips of his juice, thumping the table with the lightest of touches, just out of pure eagerness. "To have been a fly on the wall for this."

Crozier continues to be a silent observer rather than an active participant for much of Rama’s story, but there’s sheer delight in his eyes as he listens. Not just to Ram’s description of his poor, out-of-place friend (although that sounds so familiar it could be a story about him) or about English dancing in general, but Jopson and the Doctor’s answers to the natural pauses in his story.

The delight slightly shifts to adoration at the open badmouthing of the English way of things, the preening at these things and the insistence on ‘proper’, when they all know the English have never insisted on that propriety when conquering people. Of course that line of thinking would usually lend itself to his own participation, but tonight’s for mirth and merriment, not guilt and self-reflection. The adoration in his expression remains.

Edited 2024-10-12 12:31 (UTC)

Raju smiles, pleased at the encouragement and pleased to have read the two correctly. He glances over at Francis to check his reaction, too, and what he sees there makes the pleasure grow into something that has Raju ducking his head over it. But it isn't a second before he looks up and again takes up the story, eager now to keep going.

"Well, I could hear him going on as I moved behind the crowd, all the things he was saying. Flamenco, for goodness' sake, it's not even an English word. I remember he mentioned Swing dancing, too, because I saw the drummer shaking his head when he said it. He was a dark man, and his accent was odd when I asked to use his drums... I remember thinking it must have been American. At any rate, I could tell he'd want to help if I asked."

For a moment Raju only grins, letting the mental picture he isn't painting about just why he'd asked to use those drums settle in. "Once I had everyone's attention, the crowd easily let me through. I gave my friend a hand up, and our English Dancer must not have been very clever, either, because when I asked if he'd heard of Naatu he didn't know any better than to ask me what it was. And I knew I had him. My friend was an agile man, and there were certain steps we'd done together before; I knew he'd be able to go along as if we weren't inventing the thing right then and there in the moment we were dancing it. And from there, of course, the Englishman had to prove that he could do it too — he tried to have us thrown out first but we'd won the crowd by then, and no one was listening. He could try to dance as well as us, or he could give up and lose a great deal of face with the men who'd stood behind him.

"The greater part of the dance we'd set up, its steps were simple, but punishing. The women in their clean, fine dresses, the men in their best suits, they were falling into the grass and the dirt around us, and to the Englishman's credit, he was the last of them to keep going. But there's only so long a man can keep on that way when he spends most of his time at the sort of parties where the only dance you do is waltz."

Raju's gaze is distant now, his hard, victorious grin fading into something nostalgic. "The lady my friend had been there for in the first place, once everything was done she invited him to visit at her home. They left together directly after. I'd forgotten. So much has happened since, it seems a very long time since I've thought about any of it."

Thomas watches Crozier, too, the way he did when he was tending to him or caring for him. Watching for every small sign and signal to indicate that he needed - something.

What Thomas Jopson finds makes his heart beat a little faster, just for a moment, because he's afraid the ache and the anger will be there renewed, but it doesn't happen. It doesn't come. Instead, what happens is happiness, all the way through him, down to his toes. Crozier is happy. He is happy, and there is nothing more in the world that Thomas wants.

He takes the Doctor's hand under the table, linking their fingers, and lets himself get swept up in the story. It's an impossible image, but a fantastic one.

"You are quite the storyteller," he tells him, nearly breathless with it.

It's not just that he can see everything that Raju is describing — he weaves the words together so well — it's that he genuinely feels he's there for a moment. It's vivid enough that the music can almost be heard, the rhythm and vibrations something he can nearly feel himself. And it's just the sort of thing he would have loved to have taken part in, in some way; enthusiastic observer, or wholehearted contributor. He briefly glances to Thomas, to Captain Crozier, just as delighted to see how they're taking it all in, too.

"A proper dance-off, you and your friend leading it all," he grins in utter delight. "You do have a knack for telling it." He squeezes Thomas' hand under the table when he links their fingers together. "Memory's funny and fascinating that way, isn't it? You live a moment so vibrantly, so fully, for days or weeks after. And then more time passes and it fades. Things that were so — prominent, sometimes they fall away. But then you're having dinner with lovely company in a strange land months or years later and someone asks a question and you're back there all over again, the memory is a lived thing once more. But not just for you, for everyone you share it with."

He pauses, smiles warmly, leans in a bit to nod at him. "Thank you for sharing it. I'm very glad I get to keep it with me now," he taps the side of his head briefly with his free hand. They need all they can get, of memories like that.

He agrees with Jopson’s sentiment on the storytelling, though his delight is tempered with sentiment for the man reliving the memory for their enjoyment. It’s a shame he couldn’t see the whole affair for himself; it sounds like was an absolute spectacle, and he’s certain that Rama was just magnificent.

There’s something about seeing Rama this way, unburdened and joyful and a little bit silly, that makes Crozier feel like he’s seeing him with a fresh set of eyes. Maybe he can plead for an encore performance later, when they’re behind closed doors and alone once more.

“What does naatu mean, or did I just make a fool of myself by asking?”

The breathless tone to Jopson's compliment sends a pleased, flattered smile to Raju's face, redirecting his gaze from the far away nostalgia of a place that's nearly a year gone from him and back to the room, the people he's actually talking to. And then the Doctor puts what Raju's feeling into words; he would have let that odd transportation of memory go and forgotten about it if the Doctor hadn't just described the feeling so well.

"His name was Akhtar," Raju tells him, oddly spurred by that tap to the side of the Doctor's head, his idea of keeping some of the friend who's so far from Raju now with him. "He's a good man. I hope he saw her again."

He hopes, but doesn't know. Might never know. It's best not to dwell too long on that; he focuses on Francis' question gladly. "It only makes a fool of you if you try to challenge me to a dance not knowing it," he says, follows an impulse, grinning, to wink at Francis, and then turns his attention to the actual question. "But it means, ah..."

Translating whole sentences is, in a way, easier than doing it one word at a time; in a conversation, the context narrows all the meanings down. Raju takes a second to find the right words in the context here. "Raw, is one word for it. Unfiltered. And something... local. It came out from us, from the land that nurtured us. We could dance it with that passion because it was ours. Something that Englishman wouldn't understand, even if he knew the word."

Raju had started getting heated at the end there, and smothers the anger or passion or whatever it had been with a huff that sounds amused, and a little self-consicous. He sits back in his chair, looking at the table for a moment as he sips the juice, sucks at his lips to savour the tart feeling of it, then focuses on the others. "But that's my turn taken. What about you, Doctor? I can tell you've got a flair for stories. Or, Jopson — you made all this, didn't you? I've been wanting to ask how you did it. It tastes wonderful."

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