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

It’s not a ‘no’ outright from Fitzjames - not that Crozier was expecting one - but it’s still a relief to hear the soft agreement to their proposals. He needn’t attempt any heroics in muddling through by himself or suffering loneliness in some great showing of keeping a Stiff Upper Lip. Fitzjames is a capable man, but they’re beyond pretense or needing to act now.

At least, he hopes as much. For better or for worse they’d all changed out there in the ice and the dusty rock, but they’re among strangers now, people who weren’t there with them. The temptation to return to who they once were - return to mannerisms and social constructs and rank - is high for even those who forsook it all in the end.

Thank goodness there’s the introduction of a silly mug to distract him. He’d nearly forgotten about it, so ingrained in their habits he and Ram had both become.

Lord. They need to find some more crockery.

He returns Rama’s not-laugh with a wry stare of his own. Are they not going to say anything about the absurdity of their kitchenware? Perhaps better not to draw attention to it, even if Rama’s amusement is obvious. Just let him keep laughing through those crinkles around his eyes and expressive, raised brow and try focus on the conversation.

“We should raid the community hall,” he grumbles to himself. “That feast of Methuselah’s only happens a few times a year, otherwise all the dishes just sit there.”

His attention turns back to the mention of their food supply: “Botany was a habit of mine in my early days when I was with Parry. Admittedly less on the edible properties and more along the lines of collecting specimens, but it’s difficult not to pick up on the habits of the Netsilik. We always have a healthy supply of roots and stalks here, and I believe there’s a greenhouse back in town.”

James doesn't really know where he should be standing or what he should be doing at this point, so he's just kind of hovering awkwardly, and the appearance of the various cups--and one bowl--is a good distraction. It's especially so when he realizes the mug has print on it, and then what exactly it says.

He considers, for a moment, making a comment, and his amusement surely shows in his eyes. But James can read a room, especially when he's being very attentive to do so, and so he follows Francis' lead in focusing on the conversation. He glances first at Raju, then Francis, addressing them both.

"If you're certain you have enough supplies, I may take your offer." He'd prefer not to have to, but he's too practical to refuse, particularly when the only things he really knows how to do to contribute to the food supply are fishing and hunting. Although both are certainly possible, he'll have to heal a bit more first, and to hunt he'll need a gun or something, so it's a problem for the future. Until then, he needs all the help he can get.

But even if he didn't, he's also not about to complain about something as simple as tableware. Although James is indeed very careful to appear unquestionably English--he is definitely completely, totally English--he does have enough varied experience to allow him some flexibility when it comes to things that would normally go entirely against proper English behavior. So despite knowing all the rules about fancy dinners and proper manners and what silverware to use when, he hardly cares about something so trivial; this is especially so in this situation and after the sort of challenges they'd faced in the Expedition, but would've been the case anyway from previous experience as well.

So he speaks more to Raju this time, on that subject. "I've spent several years in various countries where the custom was to share plates, so that is of very little concern to me."

Raju nods. It's odd, probably, to feel reassured about a detail so small. But it is important, isn't it? Fitzjames is the closest Raju's going to come to meeting Francis' family. It's important what he thinks. "That's good, because we might have to," he says, turning to the pot of tea, checking it, and setting the strainer on top to pour some into their cups, then the bowl he's set in front of himself.

"You brought something up from the cellar, didn't you?" he asks Francis while he pours. "If it's any of our experiments with that vinegar it might be best to keep it separate." Not that Raju knows how Fitzjames is getting on after... well, after everything Raju's been told and pieced together, going from a place with no food to this place which has so much, once you know where to look for it. Not that Raju knows the man well enough to ask how well he's able to eat, and how bland he might need the food to be.

"We've tried pickling what vegetables we're able to find, but they're a little strong," he says to Fitzjames, with an apologetic smile. Better to ask how much he can handle of this meal in this roundabout way, with the excuse of being concerned about something else. Their attempts at pickling are amateur ones, so that at least is true enough.

Even if they didn’t have enough supplies, though he knows they’re far better off than most, Crozier would give half of his share to Fitzjames without hesitation. He does with most of the people here in Milton, but there’s certainly been some doubt in his mind now and again about caring for people who called him a hypocrite.

He leaves the skillet on low and beckons for them all to join him at the table; it’s best to drink the tea while it’s still hot, and he knows Fitzjames has gone without anything warm for a long while. Their stoves could only do so much along that overland trip; lukewarm tea and musty, canned mystery meats had been as torturous as the walk some nights.

“I thought we could sample this batch, if our stomachs were up to the task,” he teases quietly. “I wanted to preserve the greenery we did find before the winter months, but it may be a bit of a lost cause. You’re welcome to have as much of this as you’d like, James.”

He chuckles under his breath.

James nods politely in thanks as Raju pours the tea, and he takes his mug and follows Francis back to the table. The dandelion roots tea smells... Hard to place, really, but warm and inviting, though he holds off on taking a drink just yet and instead focuses on warming his hands a little.

He recognizes both the warning and the possible out when it comes to the pickling attempts, and if he were being sensible, it would probably be best to take them. James has eaten very little but fish and rosehip tea over the... However long he's been here, which has been more or less sufficient since he's spent most of that time resting, but it means he certainly hasn't returned to anything approaching normal when it comes to meals. Pickling experiments might not be the best idea. In fact, they're almost certainly not the best idea.

But he's not known for his ~~sometimes slightly absurd~~ courage for nothing, and he is incredibly interested in the vegetables no matter how potentially risky they are. So for now he isn't deterred, though who knows, as soon as the jars are actually opened he may well change his mind.

"Did you make the vinegar itself?" Or is the experiment in the pickling alone?

Raju makes an enthusiastic noise, looking up from the bowl of tea he's setting carefully on the table across from Francis. "It needs a lot of foraging, but what else is there to do here? Someone here gathered up most of the town's books, there's plenty useful instruction there." He sits, gesturing at a thick, well used notebook sitting near the fireplace. "I've been taking notes, if you'd like to take a look. I can't get two batches to taste the same, but I think I'd need to buy yeast for that. All the recipes are that way; always needing something I can't get to."

He looks at Francis with a little grimace. "Jopson's doing better than us there," he complains. "I still can't figure out how he made that acorn bread with nothing." Eating bread of any kind again had been wonderful, but coming back and finding he didn't know enough about baking to figure out how to make it work himself — well. He likes Jopson well enough, but Jopson's doing better than he is at bread. Intolerable.

He reaches for the dandelion tea and has the careful sip of a man who struggles even now with anything over a certain temperature. "Don't let yourself fall into the trap of comparing yourself to Jopson," Crozier warns Rama, the hint of a laugh apparent at the corners of his eyes. "Therein lies madness."

Rama's right - what else is there to do here besides survival and survival-adjacent hobbies? At least this life is less harsh than the one he's been used to. Less lonely, less...empty. There's so much here to fill one's life, even with the constant threat of violence from mad wildfolk of the woods and a horrifying, looming monster.

"There are still things left to find, thankfully, including vinegar, but everything's an experiment in keeping the boredom away and making things slightly more palatable." He looks across the table at Fitzjames, hollow-eyed but still somehow as bright and sharp as ever, and raises his shoulders slightly. "We're adapting, all of us. I'm pickling and drying herbs and keeping bloody house now, much to the chagrin of the men. They'd rather see me trying to lead the expedition again."

He nods at Raju's explanation and follows his gesture toward the notebook, definitely interested in the idea. Foraging is something that sounds like it would be both a useful and potentially entertaining way to spend time, as it involves exploring, but again it's something that will likely have to wait until James has recovered a little further. He's entirely willing to push himself, even to extremes when necessary, but he does have enough sense not to risk overexerting himself in the distant woods somewhere alone. For now, anyway.

He makes a mental note to ask Raju about both the notes and the books he mentioned, and can't help but give a small grin at the mention that Jopson had somehow managed to make bread out of acorns. Of course he had. That certainly sounds like Jopson, and James nods at Francis' comment about not comparing oneself to the steward-turned-lieutenant. It's truly is for the best not to do such a thing, no matter who one is.

James draws his attention back toward Francis when he looks across at him, eyebrows furrowing slightly at those last comments, but he doesn't respond immediately. There's a lot in those few statements, and James isn't sure which--if any--he wants to approach at the moment, especially in front of a third party, but the subject has been one on his mind and therefore very difficult to pass up the given opportunity to address.

"The others do seem... Scattered." He phrases it carefully, neutrally, not wanting to put any sort of blame on them or on Francis, but it's something that had stood out to him. He'd thought that it was perhaps a natural dispersion, the type that happened after an expedition or commission was finished, but what Francis said makes him wonder if that isn't the case. Had they wanted some sort of organization and leadership? And if so, had Francis refused, and why?

Raju wonders for a moment if he should make copies of his notes for Fitzjames — maybe of the recipes, certainly the collected descriptions of poisonous trees and berries to avoid — but then, if he doesn't make a copy Fitzjames will have to come here to read them, and spend more time with Francis. So maybe that would be better.

Francis moves the conversation along, and Raju's attention moves with it. It's not a conversation that needs him, talking about the men who'd used to be part of Francis' crew, but he's a little glad he's here to hear it; there's something intriguing about the idea of hearing a side of Francis' position, his rank, that he'd only have a reason to talk about with someone who shared it. So Raju focuses on drinking tea out of his bowl, trying not to bring attention to himself so as not to distract anyone away from talking about it.

Scattered. It's the polite word for it, and Crozier appreciates Fitzjames' tact in this, even if it isn't necessary. It's obvious that they've all scattered to the wind, and Crozier feels he's to blame for it.

"It comes from Edward, mostly," he says, rubbing his fingers over the smoothed edge of the table, "the desire to continue the status quo. He patrols and offers his services as a man of the Royal Navy to the men and women here, but I never felt it appropriate."

He cares for the people here in his own way. The quiet support, the delivery of food and firewood to the Community Hall, the fishing weir and other pet projects to supply the people here with all they need to survive.

"The people here don't want or need our troubles, and I can't be captain. I have no ship, no crew. What would I captain?" He shakes his head softly. "I tried, once. I tried to be the man who could lead. I failed."

Edited 2024-10-30 01:45 (UTC)

James is of course utterly oblivious to Raju's thoughts, but giving James a good excuse to visit the cabin certainly wouldn't hurt, and he'll definitely take it.

But for now he's focused entirely on Francis, both listening and, just as importantly watching. It's an open response--not guarded in front of their company--so that makes James a little less concerned about how to answer in return, at least in that sense. He's more worried about the obvious guilt in Francis' words, the gesture of running his fingers over the table, the small shake of his head.

So it's clear what he needs to address first.

"We knew our situation was dire, Francis." He says it quietly, running his own fingers over the metal of the cup he's holding. "What happened was not a failure of your leadership."

He doesn't yet know exactly what occurred after his own death, other than a few hints here and there, but it had been bad enough at the point of his own last memories that surely Francis would consider it a failure. It's difficult for James not to consider his own leadership a failure, even at the same time as he entirely means what he's telling Francis.

But that's all on a grand scale, and what Francis says about the people here in contrast to what he says about Edward gives James an immediate suspicion about the situation. So, after a moment to be sure his previous words sink in before he offers a gentle argument, he continues. "I am not surprised Edward would fall back into familiar patterns." Especially in such an unfamiliar place, after such an... Ordeal. Of course he would want something he understands, something to focus on and some sort of goal to work toward. It makes sense.

And it also makes sense why Francis might feel like that's a judgement, though it's impossible for James to truly guess whether or not Edward might've actually said something about it. It's possible he did, even if just as a suggestion, though it's also possible this thought was entirely inferred on Francis' part. But either way--

"Are you so certain that he desires you lead the people here? Or does he simply wish for direction himself?"

It wasn't a failure of your leadership — something Raju's never told Francis the times that it's come up. He knows too well what it is to be the fire that keeps everyone else's hopes burning, to have people looking to you for everything. Carrying all of that, the failure of it is yours to carry too, no matter where the fault actually is.

He doesn't say it this time, either. And though he looks sympathetic, he doesn't reach out. This is for Francis and Fitzjames to talk out for themselves.

(ooc: I'll sit out the next few tags while the cold boys talk about their trauma a little bit.)

Crozier briefly takes his eyes off of where he’s been worrying down the wooden edge of the table to glance at Ram. This shift in perspective must be odd for him, two fellow officers speaking of their shared experiences instead of a friend sharing his personal story - an outsider rather than a participant. He averts his gaze and shakes his head with an almost amused smile.

“The latter,” he relents, “but it does feel odd to have so many of us here but be as splintered as we are. The expedition was never completed. It must seem unfinished.”

But not for Crozier, and therein lies the difference. ‘Complete’ isn’t an apt description, but ‘finished’ is, at least for the man who had outlived them all.

Unfinished is a way to describe it, and one that James thinks is accurate, if perhaps not enough. But he doubts there's a word that exists that can really describe the strange sense of feeling interrupted, the lack of closure, the deep sense of being somewhere they shouldn't be.

Though perhaps that last part is just him.

For a brief moment he thinks of the countless stories about spirits lingering, tethered to Earth by unfinished business, and wonders if it's perhaps not such an outlandish thought after all. Perhaps that's the most accurate description of how he feels, having held out hope for so long and then come to terms with letting go, only to then suddenly awaken in this place. What is he supposed to be doing here?

Falling back into old patterns would be the easy answer. Unfinished business. Pick up where he left off, with the goals simply shifted for their new situation; coordinate and lead those of the men who want to be lead, learn about and prepare for the challenges they face here, make plans and goals and work toward them. But is that truly going to accomplish anything? What's the point?

Those aren't questions he's willing to put into words, and wouldn't even if he and Francis were alone. So instead, after what's surely too long of a pause and a distinct blankness in his eyes, he drags himself from his thoughts enough to finally respond.

"It is a situation few, if any, of us are used to. Even when an expedition ends without accomplishing its goal, there's still a sense of finality, and an expected normalcy upon returning to England." And being here is anything but. James knows that Francis is of course aware of this, but it also seems like he's adapting better to it than some of the others might be. Or is pretending to be, at least.

The look in Fitzjames’ eyes, caught halfway been what Crozier can only assume is some profound brood and vacant stare, makes him want to reach out and take hold of his hand, but that sort of intimacy that once existed between them seem so far away right now.

“Even if we had found salvation in being rescued,” he says slowly, “we wouldn’t have returned to normalcy.”

If they had made it back to England, it would have never been normal. They were all too fundamentally changed by what they’d experienced. He used to think about about Ross’ experience on the Victory - they’d been lost for a year, and James had come back looking like a shell of himself and remained that way for a good long while. If it had taken James such a long time to recover from a voyage that only killed three men, how were they ever going recover from what they’d experienced. Even half of that would have been a trial - hell, a quarter of it.

“There’s nowhere to go from here,” he adds, somewhat gravely. “No returning home, no long trek towards safety. Our goal is to simply survive.”

It's strange how familiar and yet entirely different these moments continue to be, as James finds himself oddly reminded of a night on Terror, when he and Francis had argued over... Something. The Passage, and the entire expedition, surely, even if the details of the discussion escape him. But he distinctly remembers that Francis had been--understandably, particularly with hindsight--depressed and pessimistic about the situation, and that James had pushed back both out of frustration and a sheer unwillingness to allow himself to consider things as hopeless as they seemed.

In this particular moment, he recognizes the parallel, and he recognizes the rush of denial that flows through him and only barely drowns out the creep of despair. But he doesn't make any effort to fight it, and really, why should he? Is it even really denial, or does he just disagree as Francis says they would've never returned to normalcy? After all, hasn't he been through worse?

He'd seen Tigris capsize, dragging two thirds of her crew to the depths of the Euphrates river. He'd seen a man shot in the head from barely an arm's length away. He'd been shot himself, he'd broken bones, nearly drowned, been deathly ill, lost the two people who had been the only parents he'd ever known, and countless other ordeals, and yet every time he'd bounced back. He had been fine. He would've recovered from this too, had he made it back to England; he would've allowed Will and Elizabeth to fuss and make him stay with them and their children, and then after a few months when he'd regained his strength and couldn't stand being in one place any longer, he would've set out on the next adventure.

A few horrific years on the ice and shale wouldn't have broken him. It hasn't broken him, even as his fingers tremble against the surface of his cup and he struggles to control emotions he won't face long enough to sort out. He's fine, and after a few months he'll have healed, and then--

Then what?

Not simply surviving. For now, perhaps, that can be the goal, until he has healed, but afterward there must be a greater goal. There's no point to simple survival alone, not when he equates the word with the struggle of it, the suffering and the single-minded goal of making through it to something more. There has to be something more, or survival--even a peaceful, calm version of it--isn't worth it.

"Does anyone even know what's out there? Beyond the boundaries of these towns we inhabit?" He manages to keep his tone in check only through force of will, on the side of calm curiosity rather than the frustrated desperation that's far closer to what he actually feels. "Is there truly nowhere to go, or has finding out simply not been considered worth the risk?"

There's something about the question that tickles at his funny bone, though he admittedly has a strange sense of humor these days. The need to test a boundary and push through despite common knowledge or sense, the call to adventure that can't be ignored - it's all just very...James Fitzjames.

"Don't take my natural inclination towards doom and gloom at face value, James," he tells him. He should know better than that, Cassandra that he's always been. "The mountains are impregnable, but that's what we assumed about the entrance to the mines north of here. The local man who threw the initial feast that welcomed you, Methuselah, tends to know a lot more than what he says. He gathered us all for a meeting and declared that we could get through the pass. Took a group of men and women out, and low and behold, that's how we entered the area by the lake.

"I don't doubt that there's more to discover. I speak of the day-to-day, the tendency to build a community instead of lead an overland expedition."

But if there's any man suited for that sort of job, it's James "best walker in the service" Fitzjames. He smiles softly across the table.

"You're not the only curious soul here."

And truthfully, Crozier is too damn tired to do anything but survive anymore. The old salt's done with exploring, he'd just like keep living in relative peace.

Were James in a bit better of a mood he might've made a remark about how difficult it is to predict if he should be taking Francis' words as insight from experience or the 'doom and gloom' he describes it as now, or perhaps how Francis' tendency toward brooding has been a terrible influence on him. But he isn't, and so he just sort of glowers back at that first remark, though it's less actually in response to Francis and more at the entire situation.

In addition to the more grand, existential issues, he just doesn't really like what he's heard about this place in general. The whole bit about discovering the mines were passable after all is something he's already been told about, and had been somewhat suspicious of then; he's equally suspicious that the mountains aren't really as impassable as they might seem, and wonders what attempts have been made. And what's past Lakeside? Surely it can't be impenetrable mountains everywhere, there must be a way through, even if the route is dangerous or unstable or--

He's getting ahead of himself. He knows--very begrudgingly--that he's in no condition to be running off into the wilderness, and so this line of thought will have to wait for now, or at least be confined to speaking with others and considering plans should there indeed be others who are interested. In fact, perhaps similar issues have been the reason why others haven't made more attempts, or that attempts haven't been successful, and that though reassures him a little; it could simply be a matter of immediate problems getting in the way of solving broader ones. That's understandable, and far more easily accepted than prospect that there truly is nothing more than this.

Some of his tension fades out, slowly, and he busies himself with finally picking up his cup to consider trying the tea. He doesn't quite get to that point just yet, instead muttering half into the cup and half to Francis--

"Curious is certainly a word for them."

He's joking. Sort of, anyway; he knows Francis didn't mean the word in that way James is turning it, but it's an easy pivot away from a topic he'd like to leave for now.

Crozier's eyebrows inch up his forehead - well. A single eyebrow. The sardonic eyebrow, the one he typically uses when his own curiosity's piqued and he's experiencing a good mix of skeptical and amused.

Is Fitzjames deflecting? Likely. It's all too much, and he knows he hasn't been helping much to soothe Fitzjames' anxieties. But how could he possibly? Fitzjames was a dead man, and now he's not, and suddenly there's no ship, no crew, no rank and expedition, and his former captain is sitting across from him with one hand telling him that they're trapped in this strange valley.

So he allows the deflecting and the silent brooding and all else that Fitzjames is experiencing, at least for now.

"You don't include yourself in that mix?"

He tilts his head and takes a slow drink from his very stupid mug.

Don't give him that eyebrow.

James pretends he doesn't see it, attention focused instead on his mug, though he still doesn't try it just yet. Instead, at Francis' comment, James waits a moment for Francis to be right at the peak of his slow drink before responding.

"You know very well that I am entirely unremarkable."

There is of course nothing even slightly true about that remark, but he delivers it with a tone of complete sincerity.

The eyebrow will stay, Fitzjames.

At least until he starts choking on his tea, bringing his stump to cover the sputtering and coughing.

Where was this man? Certainly not at any Admiralty gala or wardroom dinner he attended!

He takes a few quick breaths to stop himself from devolving into an undignified hiccup fit, then sets down his mug with a dull ‘thump’ on the table.

“Is that why you spent all those long hours slightly curling your hair?”

Ah, success. He's still got it, apparently, even if 'it' is 'being a menace to his friends', and he's had so little opportunity for practicing that particular skill in the last few years. After all, Admiralty parties are definitely not an appropriate place for such things, and neither had been the Expedition.

So he doesn't bother to hide how pleased he is with himself as Francis coughs, briefly reveling in his victory, and then Francis throws that jab at him and hey--

"Slightly?" Whenever he curls his hair he does so masterfully, thank you.

“You should be surprised I even noticed.” They both know he was too pickled most nights to pick up on Fitzjames’ beautification efforts. Too pickled and too annoyed by him in general, both were working against Fitzjames.

He tries again to take a sip of his tea, idly listening Rama putter around the kitchen behind him.

"I'm most surprised that you noticed but never said anything." Surely it would've been an easy thing to bring up, back when they'd both been entirely willing to interpret things in the most uncharitable ways. Of course he isn't entirely surprised this particular thing wouldn't have made it into an argument, as there had been far more hurtful things to go for.

But that's so far in the past now that the thought is nothing more than a vaguely humorous hypothetical. Besides, it's not as though James would likely bother with such things now even if he could; he's pretty sure if he tried to curl his hair now it would just break off.

James finally takes a sip of his tea, not sure what he expected, but it's... Strange. Not in a bad way, and not really in a familiar way, quite different from regular tea, rosehip, and the various more common herbals like chamomile that he's at least vaguely familiar with. But it's warm, and almost earthy, and although he has a sense it might be something of an acquired taste, it seems worth acquiring.

Crozier replies with a quiet chuckle. He had more things to pick at than his coifed hair or the perfectly-tailored uniform - unfortunate now, in retrospect, that such silly things bothered him. They both had reasons to hide themselves.

"Ram, how's the veg?" he asks, cocking his head to try and meet his gaze. He'd been quiet these past few minutes, probably just listening to him and Fitzjames talk in a way he was unaccustomed to.

it must be that old evil spirit

Hashtag so blessed

hashtag especially blessed as I continue testing my luck~

cw mention of past starvation

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