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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Painful Reminders

5th - 9th, evening/night, Milton

cw: s1 spoilers, depression, familial abuse (mentioned), grief for one's child, hallucinations, vampire starvation as self harm

Louis can't really bring himself to run the store properly, but he wants to be anywhere but the house he made dismal and messy. And the wiring is better elsewhere. So he comes into work at the Marché du Lac, the General Store he fixed up, and he plays some jazz on the record player as the Aurora picks up. The wood stove heats the front enough that he can hang up his wool coat and remain comfortable in a cable knit sweater and pleated slacks. The coils of his hair are free of their usual pomade. He's pallid and sickly and looks like he could do with a good meal.

He's sitting at the small round cafe tables at the window and looking at the cover of a little journal bound in pastel patterned paper, the kind a young lady might own. Occasionally he looks around, as if he's just heard something. Whatever it is, it brings a stricken expression, but he's not upset or confused enough to rise from his seat. Really, he almost expected this.

He continues staring at the cover, knowing it contains Claudia's memoirs of life being raised by "Daddy Lou" and "Uncle Les", her frustration about being trapped in a girl's body and unable to find companionship, and the last words of her victims collected as trophies before she drained them of blood. Normal teenager stuff. This is the only diary of hers he ever looked at, yet he's afraid to open it again.

When someone comes in, he hides the diary away in his inner coat pocket (over his heart) and turns his bright green eyes on his guest.

Bad Blood

27/8th, night of the attack, Milton

cw: arson, assault/battle, burning alive, dissociation?, fire burning down a house, murder, tobacco use (cursed), vampire feeding, vampire starvation as self harm, the violence is pretty brutal

Louis lives on the north end of town on Greene St. He wakes where he was dozing on the couch to the sound of breaking glass—once when his window is smashed in, and a second when a bottle is thrown through it to crash on the rug. Claudia's diary clutched in his hand, he bolts to his feet as a conflagration spreads quickly across his living room, already consuming their possessions.

Something numbs inside Louis. At the same time, something breaks. Nothing matters. He pockets the diary, moves to the front door, throws on his coat and deerskin boots, picks up his cane knife, and exits his house with purpose. Nothing matters, so he does the one thing he can do, the one thing he can be good at in this moment when all else has failed and he has failed all.

He bares his fangs as he marches around to the window and the tracks leading away in the snow. In the space of a breath he follows them with Free Runner and fells his unknown attacker in the distance. Blood in his mouth... He hasn't fed properly in weeks, and human is the best. He sits up, gasping at the blood moon, red dripping down his chin and out of the man's neck onto the snow. He doesn't know how long he remains in the heady thrall of the meal in his veins.

Louis scoops the dying man by the collar and drags him the way he came. Flames are creeping out the front door and licking up the sides of the house. Louis tosses him without ceremony onto the burning porch, and the arsonist briefly comes alive one last time as he reflexively jerks and shrieks in pain. With dead eyes, Louis mechanically fishes out a cigarette and lets the fire on the banister bring light to the tip before putting it between bloodied lips.

"You're lucky my daughter wasn't here, or you'd be in for a worse time." He's so goddamn tired.

Wildcard

Aftermath? etc. Plotting comment

CLOSED STARTERS

⚓ — PLOTTING POST

It feels a lifetime since he last spoke with Crozier. Memory of that day is hazy and strange, blurred a little at the edges. There was an anger that belonged to him — oh yes, it belonged to him — but it found voice in the wrong shape. Warped by the effects of this place, catching hold of every hurt feeling and making it feel like a weapon he needed to use against the one man he vowed to always stay loyal to.

Since then, Little has killed someone. No punishment is enough for it. No amount of self-inflicted hunger, no discomfort, no driving physical labor, though he does all of those things, for weeks. The only punishment that comes close is the beast-form this place cursed him with, the one that tugs at his spirit most when the moon is full. He falls into that horrible form, lets it take over him, keeps himself that way more often than he'd ever want to — a beast. But the empty place inside of him grows bigger, and it's exacerbated by so many other guilts, and he cannot forget one man he'd surely hurt deeply.

One morning in early September when he wakes, there is a single pocket watch chain curled at the bedside.

What he initially feels is confusion, and some faint ache. He recognises the fob — most of the men had pocket watches, an item carried even when time lost most of its meaning. Hours, days, weeks, months; all bled together, in the end. An item like this was a reminder of everything lost, everything separating them from their homes, and yet simultaneously a precious familiarity to hold onto. To cling onto. Edward, of all people, knew the value of such importance. He was one of the last to remain holding onto such concepts.

He keeps it with him now, constantly. Tucked into his pocket or sometimes held in his hand. He can't decide if it's a comfort or another emptiness, but he accepts whichever it may be.

One day he seeks out Crozier in the direction he knows he lives now, but has never visited personally. His heart is tight and strained; he keeps the watch chain curled around his fingers, brushing against it almost in some attempt to self-soothe. He comes across him outside first — perhaps the other man is up to some chore in the woods, or heading to or from his home. It isn't difficult to spot one another, two solitary moving things in the stillness. Little hesitates only a moment before he begins to approach him.

"Good day," he calls, more softly than he meant to. Even now, he feels smaller, like a child.

Edited 2024-09-10 03:55 (UTC)

A - PAINFUL REMINDERS Blanket TW for war, murder, death, unreality, violence.

i; the aurora
The Aurora itself doesn't immediately freak Eren out, but it shakes his sense of time and reality. To him, the swirling colours in the sky remind him of a place out of time, a place where he had control over too much all at once.

He wonders again if this is, somehow, his own doing. The only person he's voiced that to at all is Reiner, and only because Reiner brought it up first. But Eren would never give up his own power, not as long as he lived, and as far as he knows he hasn't actually died yet. He can't see past his own death; even his power never extended that far. Though it's not really about his death. It's about the after, the end of the titans, or maybe the end of everything.

He stares up at the sky, hands in his pockets, blank and distant like he so often is. Catch him doing this, just…standing there staring. He might shake himself out of it when the electric things start up, tense like he will run or fight (he would always pick fight before he would pick run).

"What the hell is that noise?"

ii - the voices

Later, the voices start. Again, it's almost something familiar for Eren. He can see across time, after all. Or rather, he can exist there. He had conversations with most of his friends that he will erase/has erased from their memories. He thinks they might remember when he is dead. He sees all of that now, Armin and the seashell (Eren has the seashell on the shelf in the house he claimed). Reiner. Jean.

Mikasa and the grief he inflicted on her, a wound that may never heal. She was left with the hardest job, the final decision that Ymir waited 2,000 years for.

He sits on a busted up shell of a car — one too torn apart to come to life with the other electronics of the world — and listens to her voice. It makes him sad, not for the first time, but he can't cry about it here. He still has some awareness that he's in public, that there are other people around whose memories he can't erase now. This isn't home, even if it reminds him of it.

Join him here. A couple things he might say, when he finally decides to speak:

"I grew up surrounded by walls."

Or maybe,

"Have you ever seen the ocean?"

Alternately, bring your own stories!

B - THE ENEMY WITHIN blanket TWs for animal death, gore, heavy violence, murder, probably gaslighting idk

i; the house on wolfjaw road

Eren hasn't gathered too many supplies, so there isn't much for anyone to raid in the little house he claimed. He was actually on a supply run, he and someone else (you?) scavenging some necessary items to bring back. He might be thankful for the help, but that's about to be disrupted. Instead of finding his things ruined, he comes back to some horror strewn about the porch. It was some kind of animal, a deer maybe.

Anger flashes onto his face. He forgets about whatever he's carrying, shoving the unlocked door open and just dropping his little pile of things onto the floor. The house itself is fine, though there might be another window he'll have to board up or somehow fix now.

"Whoever did this better not still fucking be here," he says, his generally monotone voice lacing with anger. Eren isn't all that scary on his own, but there's clear menace in his tone now. Talk him down, or don't, or a secret third thing!

ii; the attack

He learns to lock the door. Maybe he's lucky that none of the attackers comes to the house; he has something of a history of being kidnapped. But not this time! This time, a man approaches him in the middle of the street as afternoon fades into evening. Eren doesn't know most people here, so he doesn't really think anything of it.

The man doesn't even say anything before he pulls out some sort of blunt weapon — a pipe or something; Eren doesn't have the time to really register what it is — and swings.

Eren has spent most of his life ready for a fight, and this place shouldn't be any different. The big difference here is that he can't heal from an injury. He's aware of that, which means he'd really rather not take a metal object to the face. His dodge isn't as smooth as it could be, but the man isn't expecting it so his next swing goes wide. The fight doesn't last long. Eren only takes a superficial hit against his upper arm. It will bruise, but it's not a big deal.

It ends with the man dead on the ground and Eren holding the piece of pipe. Feel free to fill in the blanks; it was fast and it was brutal. When Eren stands up, there's blood spattered on his face. He doesn't bother wiping it away as he turns to leave the dead man there.

He will be hostile to anyone he doesn't know who comes up to him. If he does know whoever approaches, he will be…less hostile, probably. He won't attack immediately, but after that display, it's pretty clear he could be a threat.

iii; uneasy alliance CLOSED to Reiner

Eren joins in whatever effort there is to track down the Forest Talkers and get rid of them. He doesn't engage them in conversations. He has nothing to say. He knows what they're doing; he's done it himself, after all. Maybe they really are protecting something, but it doesn't matter.

They're here hiding among people who didn't ask to be here, waiting to ambush them? He can't abide that. He's just here for the violence of it, his revenge drive always strong.

It becomes harder for Eren to tell who is against them and who isn't. He's not exactly paranoid, but he's certainly on edge. He doesn't tire of violence but his stamina is no longer infinite, and he can't stay out in the cold forever without his titan power to warm his blood.

Early one morning, restless and agitated again by the scarf he shoved into a drawer to avoid looking at it, he goes outside. He found a gun the other day and tucks it into his coat. It's just a little handgun, but it will do.

The first person he encounters who he feels like interacting with at all is…

He thinks of how often he made sure to avoid the Warriors in Marley. Only Reiner and Pieck knew his face, but that was enough. He couldn't be seen interacting with Zeke outside the hospital anyway. He saw Reiner only from afar, how he needed it to be, until he had Falco bring Reiner to that basement.

They meet in the street where it could be a standoff. Eren still has the pipe he got when he killed that one guy, held in one hand, resting against his shoulder. At least he's not all bloody today. Yet.

They're both traitors, and they both know that. What does Reiner make of all this? Eren could guess, because he knows Reiner well. But he also can't guess, has no idea, because this is the world gone sideways. Neither of them belongs here, like these people say. But neither of them had any choice.

They have never had choices, not really, despite all Eren's talk of freedom.

"Reiner," he says, unsuccessful in keeping the threat entirely out of his voice.

C - BAD BLOOD blanket TW for death, murder, violence, non-fatal injury

i; CLOSED to Michonne
There's a circle of a few of them fighting. He catches sight of one of the few people he's met here engaging them and he's all too ready to join here. He's got his pipe and a gun he found somewhere. He's an okay shot, though unused to handguns, so he favours the pipe.

He jumps right into the fray alongside Michonne and ends up back to back with her.

"These assholes picked the wrong people to fuck with," he tells her, and swings again.

ii; CLOSED to Levi Ackerman

Whether hubris, carelessness, or simply forgetting how long an injury takes a human being to heal, Eren doesn't make it through all that unscathed. He blocks something incorrectly and takes a sold fist to the face from a man bigger and stronger than him. It jars him enough that the fight doesn't go entirely his way.

He wins in the end, but it leaves him with a gash along one arm that just…bleeds. He doesn't have first aid supplies on him. Why would he need them? Oh, right, because not a titan. It's not bad enough to be fatal or anything, but it annoys him. His head spins and he just kind of sits there in the snow.

There are a few dead bodies nearby, not all of them his doing. Dissociating and bleeding are not a good combination, especially when more of them might come along at any time. Luckily, the person who comes along and finds him isn't a Forest Talker.

He looks up from where he sits there in the snow and blinks slowly. He'd know that silhouette anywhere.

"Captain," he says.

D - WILDCARD

[ want to try something else, including before/after the event? throw something at me or feel free to peep my plotting post! as a reminder, eren has marks on his face that will always be there and be very obvious. ]

Edited 2024-09-10 02:40 (UTC)

Painful Memories

CW: Allusions to suicide, drowning, child death, death in childbirth; Malevolent spoilers

Arthur's never seen an aurora before. He's seen black-and-white photos of it, he's seen illustrations and heard tales, but he's never quite been able to visualise it.

(Until recently, he didn't see a lot of anything.)

But when the lights suddenly flicker into life in his claimed house, and he hears the crackle of static and voices outside - well, of course he's going to run outside and stick his head out to actually see it. And overhead past the crackling, half-lit street lights, there's that massive, beautiful aurora.

He has to admit, it's still utterly breathtaking.

Until he realises he recognises the voices. A woman laughing, moaning, screaming in pain with the echo of nurses encouraging her. An older man, English and blisteringly furious. A Scotsman, begging through pain, A New Yorker choking on his own blood, a Southern bastard soliloquising, a Bostonian cackling with laughter, choking his name out for the last time.

A little girl, giggling as she plonks at the keys of a grand piano.

He keeps his head down, for the rest of the time it's up. Hoping that ignoring it might make them go away.

The Enemy Within

CW: Dead/mutilated animals, fire

i. The Animals
It's easy to find Arthur squatting down in front of some of the mutilated animals, when they first start appearing. He's got a black dagger in hand, but there's no blood on him - at least no further than the tips of his fingers, and the knife - there's an intensity to his gaze that clearly suggests he's fully in the zone, but his movements are slow and deliberate, doing nothing else to the animal except study it.

It's something to focus on. Something within his control. Easier to deal with than the follow-up later on.

ii. The Fire
Fire doesn't strictly bother Arthur, but it's not fun to wake up in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke, either. For a moment in the haze of sleep he's worried he left the fireplace alive downstairs, but then it gets stronger when he moves towards the window, and - then he can see the rubble next door, that he's been using for supplies, smouldering - not the low burn of something going out, but the licking flames of something about to get worse.

"Fuck, shit damn fuck-!" He's running outside immediately, boots immediately slapping through the fresh layer of snow - and immediately doubles back to grab the shovel sitting on the porch, to try and pile snow onto the flames spreading closer to his own house.

Bad Blood

CW: VIOLENCE, death, panic attack

i. The Attack
With the chaos rising, Arthur's on high alert. Which means falling asleep in his clothes, which means changing locations to sleep most nights in a fit of survivalist paranoid pique, even if it's just in the community hall sometimes. Presuming someone wouldn't attack him in a shared space.

He's proven wrong, but he's not harmed, not really.

But when the earthquake rumbles through the place, he feels the shift, a deep gut instinct. Whatever this is, is coming.

And then it hits all at once.

Arthur finds himself in the fray - not that he's trying to escape it, but it descends upon him before he can realise which, if any, direction is safe to run. He has a knife, at least, already drawn, and when one of them rushes towards him - it's singular, bloody-minded survival instinct that takes over. The figure half-tackles him to the ground, holds him by the throat as a hunting knife plunges into Arthur's chest - and stops, aborted, with an abrupt clang of metal. And before his attacker can focus on that, Arthur's moving too, jamming his own dagger into the gap between their jaw and throat, and rips it out with feral panic screaming in his veins.

He wrestles out from under the limp body in seconds as it slumps off of him, and takes the new knife (a trophy, maybe, or just practicality), and stays low, whipping his head around to try and take in the panic of the fray. He can hear his blood in his ears and his own heavy breathing, but the rest of the world feels... quiet.

There. He focuses on another one, bearing down on someone he recognises, a hunting rifle raised, and Arthur launches towards the Forest Talker with all the energy of a trapped predator unleashed. "Hey!"

ii. The Survivors
He knows there's people running after the last of the Forest Talkers. Good for them. There's people here still injured.

Arthur is covered in blood, but to his private, perverse satisfaction, very little of it is his. His hands ache, his head is ringing and there's an itching trail of blood from his hairline somewhere - but the chestplate, as much as the sight of it made something less physical ache, had done its job beneath his layers of clothes. And despite his own exhaustion, he doesn't stop. He can't, not when there's other people injured.

So he stalks the streets, still holding onto that predatory energy like a second wind, the last of it in his sails keeping him going, as he finds people to help drag them back to the community hall. The injured, he tries to keep talking, keep them awake so they can get back to the hall in one piece to be helped.

And every time he drops someone off, he lingers, for a little bit longer each time, as exhaustion weighs him down. Watching the other people here, watching to see who else is closer to the edge than him.

The dead... he's not ashamed. But he's not proud, either. He'll start rifling through pockets, taking knives, ammunition, shouldering rifles and bringing them back to the hall as well. Every bit helps.

Wildcard

CW: TBA, potential Malevolent spoilers ofc

If there's any other prompts you wanna go for, or something I didn't include you'd like to fuck around with, go for it!

Edited 2024-09-10 03:52 (UTC)

It's the jazz, funny enough, that draws him in.

Green eyes meet brown, flecked with unnatural streaks of yellow (gold?), in the slightly alarmed face of a stranger to Louis - there's an unhealthy gauntness to his cheeks, the chestnut hair sticking out of a knit cap is dull and streaked with white, and a rough friction scar across his right temple nearly reaches his eye - but when the surprise passes he draws himself up, and he's of a height with Louis.

"Ah- I apologise," he comments with an embarrassed huff - his posh English accent is strong, barely tempered. "I should have realised someone was here playing that, i-it wouldn't have just- turned itself on."

PAINFUL REMINDERS(5th-9th): [cw for mentions of genocide, apocalyptical threats, etc. ]

It isn't hard to assume Venat's association, and were aether as plentiful on this world as it on Etheirys, no one would miss it: Light is a part of her, whatever this place has suppressed or taken. If all was right, the Aurora would call her. As it is, when the it brightens the sky and she awakens from her sleep at the sound of the ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds that accompanies it, she is up and moving to see this strange event for herself without delay. She yearns for a moment for her senses to return to her, for the Light aether or even the dynamis to flitter across her perceptions. But instead, she hears a soft voice, mocking and final that rises into a horrifying choir, a song she has dreaded for so long, that has drowned out civilizations and left only ghosts, that has haunted the edges of the universe for as long as she can now remember.

She hears the Scions, her hope, her faith, hears their voices as they fade away into nothing, as they surrender themselves. And of course, she hears that last voice, her sweet protege, her warrior and champion as they shout their defiance against the dark.

It is while she strains to hear the last of the conversation, that voice, that she sees it drop through from seemingly nowhere, the bright yellow-orange stone that she could never mistake. She makes a horrible noise as she pads towards, unable to deny what is in front of her eyes, what is soon enough between her fingers:

The constellation stone. The Sun constellation stone, the Stone of Azem. The stone that she had not held for millennia.

She is not sure which is worse: the fact that it is here, no longer lit, or that she could swear it is still warm, even pulled from the chilly ground.

It's easy enough to come upon her with it, after all. She won't move for some time, her eyes closed and her fingers curled against the stone like it might give her answers, like it might answer her prayers, like even a scrap of aether might yet reside within it to give her something.

Eventually, whether someone speaks to her or no, she will go back into the house. She will not sleep, however. And that stone will not leave her person. Ever.
THE ENEMY WITHIN (all September): [no CWs to start]

She is lucky that her home is not one of the first attacked.

She imagines, perhaps, that it is because she picked a place that had been vacated by another. Perhaps their information is old, or perhaps it had been deemed a less important target, empty and unnecessary to destroy as a resource for themselves later, once the 'Interlopers' had been removed. She hasn't heard enough or come to understand enough of these Forest Talkers to understand why they might be doing what they were doing other than pure zealotry.

But it does mean that she finds out about it and decides to try and take action.

She'll be looking for people to share her nights, one of them standing watch and the other sleeping until midnight and then switching to allow for proper, safe sleep. She'll propose that they switch up where they're sleeping if they can, between their two (or more) homes but she'll be glad enough for even one person willing to allow her the guard for rest that she'll probably agree with anyone's suggestion.

She'll be offering weapons training to anyone who might want it, primarily in the sword and shield she brought with her which are both still entirely functional weapons despite their lack of magic and for the occasional quick-footed sort, her chakrams for something more spritely.

Most importantly, she'll look to anyone who might have had a fire in their home or an attack and ask if they need anything. She has precious little, but even an open ear or an arm to lean on or a companion to go on a hunting or fishing trip with can do so much, or so she hopes.

She has ever been one who cares for her community, for her people. Being here has not changed that in her. If anything, the changes that this place has wrought upon her might have only made her more vehement.

[ closed to the Doctor ]

It was bad night.

A few different buildings went up near where she was and something in the light of the fires, the trees, the way the clouds have settled into the sky, how red it makes it look-

It has her stumble as she moves to help, stop and shake and swallow at the thought of what this looks like, what it almost seems to be.
BAD BLOOD (night of 27th-28th): [cw mentions of bloodshed]

One might expect Venat, with her old fashioned speech and her almost ethereal presence, would be all for seeking a peaceful solution, would view a leader's entrance as an opportunity for a swift and bloodless resolution. Imagining her brokering a peace or offering just the right words to make the attackers see reason, the defenders choose to end the conflict... it's almost too easy. She was, after all, a politician for longer than most of the people here have lived. She was one of the Convocation of Fourteen.

She has done much more since then, however, and the most important of these had used her sword.

The weight of the constellation stone, an aetherless husk of a thing, bounces in her pocket as she runs, as her beautiful sword, no longer lit from within, now catches the light of the fires, the light of the stars, the sparks as it collides with other weapons.

Darkens with blood when it doesn't.

Without her power. Without her world. Without her allies. Without her champion. She has chosen a new people, found a new tribe of mankind, and made them her own. Even missing all else, this is still her purpose. She will defend their homes, their lives, even their hopes and dreams. Their right to answer all the questions still bubbling within their hearts.

And she will cut down any who stand in her way.

[plotting comment | battle soundtrack |

yarnzipan]

Edited 2024-09-10 05:25 (UTC)

painful reminders ; skill issue ; OPEN
Oddly enough, Hickey's not hearing voices.

He's not complaining. Why the hell would he question a gift like that? Everybody else seems tense, off, listening to people that aren't there and Hickey just...isn't. He knows whatever is happening is due to the Aurora. Whatever happens always has something to do with the Aurora. But why is he spared?

Hickey comes to the obvious conclusion that whatever is behind the Aurora (maybe that woman? Probably that woman) is malevolent as hell. After all, the voices, the fog, the weather, that all's pretty obviously bad. And he's got a thousand theories as to why he's not affected, none of them he's willing to say out loud.

That being said, Cornelius Hickey is still a nosy bitch. So anyone who's obviously lost in thought, obviously listening to the voices, is going to get Hickey sauntering up to them like nothing's wrong as he asks, "Mind telling me what they're saying?"

bad blood ; time for stabbin ; OPEN
Now this is more like it. As far as Hickey's concerned, the more people that incite violence? The more destabilized things get? The less others will look at him with suspicion when he inevitably has to take drastic measures to keep himself and his own safe.

Plus, these assholes are trying to burn down his house. He lives there? That's rude?

Hickey takes point by his house. Any Forest Talker who comes near is getting fought and they're getting fought dirty. Hickey takes every cheap trick he can: elbowing people in the face, going for the eyes, kicking them in the privates. He fights quick and dirty, not for show, but more for ending the fight as quickly as possible. And he fights with his knife, knowing full well how to use it.

He's having the best fucking time, and that shows in the shine of his eyes.

What the fuck is he supposed to do with a severed tongue?

Truthfully, Hickey knows why he has a severed tongue. Ever since seeing what happened in his future, when he drunk that tea, the image of his own death has been playing in the back of his mind. Cutting his tongue out, offering it to the bear, getting torn in half, it plays over and over again like a film strip on repeat (not that Hickey would know that metaphor). It lingers in the back of his head like a half-remembered song.

This is just another sign of that. This is just another way this place is trying to tell him that really happened. You're really going to die. It didn't work.

Which is...something. But Hickey, as always, is pushing behind any metaphysical nonsense right now to focus on the practicals. He has a severed tongue that he has to get rid of. How the hell is he going to get rid of it?

He finds himself knocking on Kieren's door, tongue safely stored away in a ziploc bag in his pocket. Zombies eat flesh, right? Maybe Kieren wants a snack?

[ ooc: open + closed top levels | ooc plotting comment ]

𝚌𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛: 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍
𝙸. 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝟻-𝟿𝚝𝚑, 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛.

[ Michonne was told what it was like. She's seen different versions of an aurora back home, didn't think much of it. But when she's outside looking up and her walkie-talkie screeches to life, it nearly takes her out at the knees. She knows the chances of reaching all the way to Alexandria are slim to none, knows that this might not even be the same version of the world, but she has to try. She makes her way past the cabin she's sharing with the Doctor, hoping to find more of a clearing. When she does, she looks up at the sky, holding the walkie up and pressing the button, speaking around a lump in her throat. ]

Shoto? [ Michonne closes her eyes, wets her lips, and begins again. ] Shoto, it's Daito. [ She uses their code names, releases the button. No response. But that doesn't stop her. What if they can hear her, but she can't hear them? ] I'm coming home as soon as I can. Maybe not—maybe not with the Brave Man. But I'm coming home soon. I promise.

[ She doesn't know if she has any right to promise it, but she does anyway. ]

𝙸𝙸. 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛

[ It's a different day, walking into Milton when she begins to hear a muffled voice, a small child's voice, that makes Michonne pause and listen. Then her breath catches when she hears The Brave Man. It's Judith, telling the story to RJ; how many times has she told him by now?, and her son's small questions. Walking until she finds a place to sit, she does so heavily, one hand around her own throat as if she can keep her emotions at bay. She hears Judith explain Carl to RJ, the big brother she can hardly remember and RJ never had the chance to know.

For as long as she can hear them, Michonne listens, unmoving from her spot. Until, unexpectedly, a voice she hasn't heard in almost a decade. ]

We can make it. I'm not giving up.
I tried. Please know I tried.

[ Rick's voice is the breaking point, and she leans over with her head between her knees. Knowing her would be to know she doesn't get to this point easily, but she's alone here, and it makes the ache that much worse. ]

𝙸𝙸𝙸. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 - 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜, 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙳𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗

[ She wakes with the note in her hand, balled in her fist as if she already read it once and rejected it. When she does read it, it doesn't process, not at first. She reads it again, then again and again. ]

𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘰, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘑𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰.

[ He wouldn't. Does this mean she'll find him? Where the hell are they, that he's abandoning an escape? Why didn't he mention RJ?

𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰.

Michonne dresses, the katana going onto her shoulders as the final touch, then goes outside. She walks around the cabin, once, twice, pauses to reread the letter, then walks until she's at the edge of the water. There, unaware and uncaring if she's alone, she lets out a scream fueled by confusion and hurt.

𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨.

She screams until she sinks to her knees, refusing to believe this note, even though it's his handwriting, the name of their daughter, she refuses. ]

No. Do you hear me? No.

[ Michonne screams it into the dark, daring the universe to respond. ]

Edited (Prose or brackets welcome! a little vague so anyone can tag in and not worry *too* much about location unless your character simply isn't around milton.) 2024-09-11 13:47 (UTC)

PAINFUL REMINDERS;

The aurora rolls in and March doesn't think much of it, sans the fact that he wants to smoke his last cigarette on the porch of his place as he watches the colours shift and dazzle. The place is spooky as hell, but a large part of March is just sort of used to it. Whatever bullshit that it's going to bring their way, he's going to at least have had a cigarette. He can take it.

The voices, warped but distinct, immediately disprove that notion. He hears his wife asking about a gas leak, hears Holly calling him the world's greatest detective just as much as he hears Holly claim he's the worlds' worst one. He misses her something terrible, but it's his wife that cuts him to the core, whispering things to him, causing his blood to feel ice cold despite his fire starting abilities. It doesn't matter that the voices are warped, or that he'd been mentally preparing--March knows that even if he does make it home, which is unlikely, she won't be there. That's the part that hurts the most, cuts the deepest, and makes him want to escape.

He heads inside, slams half a jar of pine wine by chugging the disgusting taste as fast as possible, and passes out so he doesn't have to deal with it.

When he wakes the next day and opens his door, there's a ring placed right in the middle of his porch. It matches the one he wears on a chain around his neck, and March's heart sinks. He doesn't move--he's not sure how much time has passes, just that he can't bring himself to look away. Snapping himself out of it is temporary, leaving only to grab that half-finished jar of pine wine and a single chair from his house. He'll set it on the porch like he did with the cigarette during the aurora, and he'll drink.

His eyes never leave the ring. He barely blinks.

BAD BLOOD - RESCUEE;

This is not great. This whole thing is not great. There is a house across the street, and it's on fire, and March is still reeling from his wife's voice and the other wedding ring he now has, and, fuck, is it so much to hope for for a month's rest? What happened to that fucking boar around Christmas? He wants that. Not whatever this is.

"Jesus!" He's barely got his winter coat on, one of his snow boots' laces are still undone when he feels a woosh of wind from a weapon. Leaving his home has earned someone on his doorstep--an interloper? Who the fuck is that?--the opportunity swing an axe in his direction. Sheer panic is written on his face, the thought of using fire fresh on his mind until he remembers her, her voice asking if there's a funny smell in the air, and it doesn't matter, it's Thanksgiving, hon, turkey smells great--

March does his best to dodge, sobering fairly quickly. His gun is still inside. He needs to get to it, but right now he's a little occupied. The squawk he gives out is just like his scream: high, girlish, and utterly ridiculous.

"Fucking Christ give me a goddamn minute!"

The forest talker lunges. March, in an attempt to scramble away, jumps back. He hits the railing of the porch of his house and proceeds to lose all balance, flipping backwards and landing directly into a pile of snow.

"Shit!"

BAD BLOOD - RESCUER;

After being rescued -- thank God -- March has double backed for his gun. Adrenaline has made the alcohol practically evaporate from his bloodstream, feeling far more sober and alert than he has been in since the auto show bullshit back home.

The streets are chaos, and March barely knows what he's doing or where he's going but he knows he has to help. An alarming conclusion to reach =given who he is on the best of days, but he's not questioning it. He'll pistol whip someone from behind, wanting to be conservative about his bullets. Sometimes he's able to use his lanky frame to physically pull someone off of a fellow Interloper than needs help.

By the end of it a scrawny looking wolf with blue eyes and tawny fur leaps at forest taker, jaws snapping and teeth gnashing.

Edward hasn't picked up his gun since June. It's remained out of sight — but never out of mind, no, the weight of it stays with him even though his hands don't touch the weapon again. The weight of what he'd done with it.

He tries to shove it all down into that same deep dark place within himself where so much else has been swallowed into. The months following June are spent letting himself fall victim to the beast within him, the one this place infected him with. A large furry thing with sharp claws and teeth; he spends much time that way, as the wolf.

Things are repeating, like some nightmare playing out again. The growing paranoia, the tension, the dread. And then it all snaps. The bloodshed erupts like a war.

There are too many people he needs to keep safe. Kate and John at the cabin, Wynonna at another. The rest of the men from the Expedition — every single one is a ghost he can't bear to lose again. There are young people, and new Interlopers, and he's lost in the chaos yet again. His shotgun is with him, because even he knows he needs it, but its weight and shape feel foreign to him now, and unwelcomed. His hands don't want to grasp the thing that tore Mikel to pieces, to feel that trigger against his fingertip.

He won't kill anyone. That's the thought that stays with him; the gun will be used the way he should have used it last time — to disarm, to injure, to incapacitate, but not to kill.

Suddenly, there's a Forest Talker barreling out from between two buildings, and he slams into Little's side. Panicked, he yanks the barrel of his shotgun upwards, aiming it away from the man; the thing goes off in the struggle, a loud blast, rattling back against his arm. The man headbutts him, hard, and Little sees stars as he stumbles backwards. He points the gun towards his attacker in threat, but still doesn't pull the trigger. His fingers don't even near it, and his aim is clearly wavering.

"Stop, now!"

Little's dizzied hesitation is more than enough; the Forest Talker knocks the gun out of his hands with one forceful blow, and then a second one against his chest. Now Edward's falling down, and as he does, the man raises a large spear over him; he'll waste no time taking out this easy prey.

Edited 2024-09-13 04:17 (UTC)

Bruce has been here long enough to get mostly settled on a practical level - find somewhere to use a house, have a proper coat and more or less have worked out the clothing situation - but that's about it.

The aurora isn't a thing that strikes him as anything but interesting, until there are voices. At that point, it's a problem. At the point he walks out and finds a blood encrusted Robin Uniform (or, well, part of one) there's a bigger one.

He just... walks away.

Which leads him to finding March on the porch, staring at the ring.

He doesn't have the emotional bandwidth for this.... especially not right now. He has no intention of doing anything but walking by.

He's oddly surprised to find himself approaching and sitting on the edge of the porch - and as far away from the ring as he can get. "On a scale of 1 to 10 how drunk are you? Not drunk enough isn't an answer."

For Scratch;

[ The noise is cacophonous, chaos and mayhem startling Zane out of whatever reverie he'd been deep in. He'd been inside himself, internal, feeling, but a broken window and the embers of a soon-to-be-fire causes him to stir and return back to Milton. He watches the smoke curl up into the sky for a few seconds before his scrambles to his feet and begins to run.

Normally, he'd be skittish. Paranoid, even--he's not a fighter. The idea of physical harm -- this body without any of his skills -- is frightening. He can kill, has before, but it's best to leave that to the experts.

He knows one of them, too. Nearby. Close. He has Darling's hunting knife on him when he bursts into Scratch's door, hair as wild as his eyes. He lifts the hand that doesn't have the weapon to punctuate his next words, breathing heavily. ]

Do you hear that?

[ It's an invitation. Scratch can do what he does best: the other can be unshackled, free from remorse he doesn't have in the first place. A release on a pressure valve. Zane, caught up in the euphoria, hurriedly begins to strip off his shirt. If he's going to join in, he needs the right aesthetic. Everything has to be perfect. ]

It's time.

For Darling;

[ Scratch does what Scratch does best and Zane watches, deeply regretting the fact that his camera doesn't work. Eventually, though, the excitement ebbs. He feels the cold at the same time his mind slows, sharpens, slams back into reality with a few blinks and a swift shake of his head.

This is good. This is art, yes. This is beautiful. But beauty makes him think of one person, and he quietly slips away from whatever Scratch is doing. He's positive the other doesn't care - he has a Doctor to find.

He knows it won't be hard to spot the man he's completely and utterly obsessed with, even in the dim light and among the chaos in the streets. Not with how Zane has memorized everything from his silhouette to the sound of his footsteps. Covered in blood that isn't his clutching an old wooden table leg and with the euphoric wave of frenzy dissipating, his smile is gone completely. He has to find Darling. He needs to. ]

PAINFUL MEMORIES; OTA

A photo appears to him one day, causing a slow, sleepy realization to occur to Tom. The voices he'd been hearing hadn't been his imagination. Barbara's voice hadn't been real, he'd been correct about that, but it had been this place reflecting her back at him. He picks up the photo from the nightstand, stares at it, runs a hand by his Barbara's face, scratched out in hatred.

This isn't his photo. It's Cynthia's. It has to be hers. He sincerely hopes his new friends won't mind that he skips his morning fishing routine, and instead begins to pace as he figures out what to do.

He wants to get rid of it. He doesn't want to get rid of it. Zane is of two minds, but wherever he wants to do it, it's not going to be where he sleeps. Maybe he's close enough to whoever's house he winds up going to, maybe he's overheard where someone lives and invites himself regardless of if they know each other, maybe he's just found an unlocked door and broken in: either way, there is a man by a fireplace that isn't his, fire warm and comfortable (he supplies his own firewood, of course), staring at the picture in his hand. Movement causes him to turn around, a soft smile on his face that doesn't quite reach his face, eyes glassy with tears as a few run down his face. ]

Hello. Did you get a present, too?[ He'll hold up the picture to illustrate. ]

BAD BLOOD - WONDER + THE THICK OF IT; OTA (tw corpse mutilation)

[ The world seems to be on fire. Everyone is lost--everyone is panicking, rightfully so, darting to and from, fighting, and endless stream or violence and anger and confusion and oh, it's here that heat, that wonderful mess that human beings have inside of them, all tangled and warped and beautiful.

He's on his way from Scratch, shirtless and unconcerned with the cold or current danger as something catches his eye. There is a body of a man on the ground, blood thick and dark among the whiteness of the snow, and Zane falls slowly to his knees next to it, tilting his head. He takes in the angle of the other's neck, the way he'd fallen, how beautifully posed this dead man is. Still. Quiet. Fascinating. ]

We are the sharp rocks under your knees
In front of the altar
Where you are kneeling

[ Yes. That's what this is. That's what this must be. Another spiral. And it's marvelous. There is a knife by the dead body, and Zane picks it up, shifting on top of the corpse to straddle it. ]

This is the ritual to lead you on.

[ Tom, eyes wide, physically here but mentally elsewhere, holds the knife with both hands high above his head and swings down, right at the heart. Messily, he begins the process of cutting the organ out of the dead man with an alarmingly honed sense of focus and purpose, uncaring of the world around him. His hands are shaking not from disgust, but excitement.

Whether he's shoved off or snaps out of it himself, he'll scramble to his feet in a panic, the actual reality of the situation hitting him immediately. He scurries like a rat, wide-eyed and visibly afraid, trying to make his way towards some form of shelter to avoid the fighting. ]

BAD BLOOD - LALO'S CABIN; OTA

[ Most of the blood on Tom isn't his at all, which is good considering there is a lot of it. They got to the basement--a basement? Who's basement? He doesn't know--and he has a chance to rest as violence erupts around them. All Tom cares about is that he's safe, Darling is safe, he's fairly sure Alan is safe, and there are two dogs that seem to sense that he's not doing so well to put it mildly, and that's more than nice, that's fantastic.

He'd been stabbed in the stomach and is lounging, still completely shirtless and curled up with one of the dogs to the best of his ability. He dozes on and off, waking up every few minutes, completely drained and paler than usual. When he's alert, he's happy to chat. ]

Some place this is, huh? Some night.

BAD BLOOD - CREATION; OTA (cw - corpse desecration)

[ When the dust settles Tom gets to work. He's a film auteur, not a sculptor or carver, but he's still an artist. He still knows exactly what he wants.

Tom moves with confidence. Not to rebuild, not to assess, but to make. A few bodies get tossed into a pile and the filmmaker gets to work. He's manipulating them, posing them like mannequins, setting up the perfect shot and humming to himself as he does so.

It doesn't matter that they were once people, one not even a Forest Talker - what matters to him is the final picture. What matters to him is art. His own health isn't of much concern to him, wincing as he moves a particularly broad shouldered corpse around, bundled back up in winter gear. Despite the gruesome act, he seems happier than he's ever been. ]

PAINFUL REMINDERS

a. VOICES
cw: this thread will involve themes of parental loss / possibly themes of being abandoned by parent (father)

[ Konstantin typically goes out of his way to avoid being in the discordant thick of Aurora Nights. The alien entity inside of him is extremely sensitive to them — to the sharp crackling pops, buzzing static, hums of electricity. Loud sounds and bright lights have been used to hurt it, before, and it doesn't forget. It's afraid.

He finds no pleasure in that knowledge, no matter how much he might loathe the thing that has made him its home. When it begins — a car alarm blaring in the distance, streetlamps popping on, the sky flashing with brilliant, fluttering colours — Konstantin starts heading back home. But he and Vasiliy live on the outskirts, and it takes some time to get there. He's still walking down the street when he hears it — whispered, but out here in the stillness, so easy to detect. To recognise.

His mother's voice. Konstantin freezes, turning quickly around, alarmed. She's been brought here? The thought horrifies him, but he can't help an instinctive yearning that makes him immediately feel like a child. He wants to see her, misses her— ]

Mom?

[ There's no one there. Of course there isn't. It's just another trick of this place, another ghost, another memory, or dream, another ache. But Konstantin's drawn right to it, unable and unwilling to walk away. His mother speaks to him — or about him, he hears her mention his name, so many times. Kostya. He's all she has, and he's left her.

There's an old bench nearby, just under one of the streetlamps, and Konstantin slowly eases into it. And there he stays, listening to her, eyes soft and wounded. Occasionally he replies in Russian, voice quiet. She doesn't seem able to hear him, but he still speaks back. ]

b. ITEM
cw: this thread will involve themes of child loss / child abandonment

[ A few days later, Konstantin stands in the Community Center, near the fireplace. It's very early in the morning, and things are very still and quiet. He thinks anyone who makes this place their home will still be sleeping, and he doesn't expect to bump into anyone else here right now. He wants to be alone for this.

In his hand, he holds a nevalyashka doll — small and wooden, its rounded body meant to swivel, a fun toy for children. In space, they had used them to test gravity. He holds it very close to the fire, staring down at the flickering flames.

He could have done it somewhere else — but his heart couldn't bear the thought of burning the thing in his own cabin, and he didn't want to risk starting a fire anywhere else. The Community Center has the best flame to warm a large space with; a small wooden item would burn in seconds.

But even now, he hesitates, his chest tight and aching, his throat feeling too thick. He gasps quietly, softly, and his other hand reaches up to his jaw, fingers spreading over his mouth to stifle the sound. Enough. Enough of this.

On a little coffee table nearby, another item glints: a small, shiny medal, shaped like a star. His back is turned to it, his focus on the doll in his hand. ]

THE ENEMY WITHIN

cw: dead & mutilated animals / mention of human death / drinking blood

[ The first dead thing he sees registers as mildly alarming, but not terribly odd. A rabbit, torn apart in the snow: there are a number of wolves in this place (including people who can turn into them now...), plenty of predators that might make a mess out of a small animal.

The second one makes him freeze. A different animal in a different location, but close enough that it could have been done by the same predator. The mess is certainly the same — the deer is only barely recognisable from what's left of it. There's blood everywhere.

It could be the wolves, or it could be any number of the people here with... odd diets, odd behaviours, he's learned about many of them. There's Bigby, Kieren, Chloe, Louis — there's also himself, and the fact that the alien inside of him has been emerging without his knowledge or memory, and he's always known it's just a matter of time before it starts demanding more food, to hunt the way it needs to. It's only a matter of time before he's finding humans torn apart like this, instead. He still remembers the way the prisoners had looked after the thing was done with them. Pulpy messes slumped against the ground. This place gave him back his Hero medal, some ironic gutting gesture to remind him that he's not that man, anymore. He's this — a dangerous monster.

The smell of fresh blood is sharp in the crisp chill. Konstantin takes a step back right as he remembers he needs to, but he feels the alien in his gut reacting to the wet coppery scent that he breathes in, or maybe he imagines it, but either way his heart is suddenly racing.

Hands fumbling, he pulls something out of his pack — a large thermos; he hurriedly unscrews the lid, which is meant to be used as a cup to drink nice and neat from, and it falls. He ignores this, forces the thermos itself to his mouth and takes deep, ungraceful gulps. Some of what he's drinking spills out and down into the snow, and it's as red as what's pooling around the deer, smells just as sharp and metallic.

Everything's unraveling. Every careful thing he's kept safe and contained and secure. ]

BAD BLOOD

a. THE COSMONAUT
cw: no alien appearances here, but Kostya is Not Well and so might at some point get ill and spit up some.... fluids. blood or alien goo. it's fine

[ It's like what happened in June — the sounds of screaming in the distance, the loud crack of bullets going off, the billow of black smoke coming from burning, ruined buildings. Last time, he'd managed to stay away from most of it, kept to the safety of his isolated little cabin tucked way out. And he needs to go there again, to find Vasiliy in all of this, make it safe for them, but—

—this time, he won't abandon others along the way. He's trying to make it back, but as he does that, he's helping anyone he can. Maybe it's stupid, considering how ill his condition perpetually makes him, maybe he's a fucking time bomb waiting to go off, but he remembers who he used to be, and that man drives him forwards, refuses to die in him, not yet. He has to help people.

So as Konstantin makes his way towards the outskirts, he'll jump in to assist anyone being targeted by Forest Talkers, try to pull others in to safe areas, or team up with others to help rescue someone else or safely make their way around the bloodbath. ]

OOC. open-ended prompt for folks to have fun with whatever they're most interested in writing, so feel free to wildcard a situation and I'll roll with it! Or poke me at my plotting post if you'd like to plan out something specific; I'm happy to whip up a starter for you.

b. THE ALIEN
cw: nondescriptive brief mention of seizure / alien parasite horror / head gore & NPC death offered in later parts of prompt

[ With all of the chaos, the bloodshed, the violence, it was only a matter of time before this happened. There's nothing Konstantin can do to stop it. Maybe you actually see the process — how the cosmonaut's body abruptly goes into seizure and crumples to the snow, unconscious and unmoving for several long moments before something comes up from inside of him, spilling out from his mouth in a wet, slimy heap. Usually, the thing forms a protective membrane around itself, but this time it leaves him in such a hurry that all that emerges is a pale worm-like creature, body writhing uncomfortably in the cold of the snow.

Or maybe you come across the alien after it has exited him — you might spot Konstantin's body several feet away, lying motionless on his side, seemingly either unconscious or dead. By now, the creature has grown, though just a little; this harsh environment keeps it weakened, tempered down. It's formed two skinny arm-like appendages that it uses to pull itself clumsily around with, and a couple of smaller vestigial pairs curl up uselessly against the sides of its thin, snake-like body. Its little head is hooded, much like a cobra's, but the cluster of eight glittering black eyes registers as very spider-like.

Maybe when you come up, the thing's attention fixes on you. If it recognises your smell or voice, its reaction will be very different to a stranger's appearance.

Maybe, instead, you're fortunate(?) to come across it when its attention is on someone else. The alien doesn't know or care about the categories of Interloper and Forest Talker. All it knows is that people are screaming and blood is being spilled, and when it smells the fresh wet injury of a man nearby, it's rounding on him. Some might recognise Gord Marriot, an Interloper with a deep gash in his shoulder, almost as though someone's taken an axe right to it. The poor man's arm is hanging oddly too, and his other is wrapped around it as he grits his teeth in pain, gasping sharply. There's a trail of blood behind him, bright red against the snow.

Maybe you see the attack happen. Gord's injured enough that there's no chance of defending himself against the small creature that lunges for him, no matter how weak and slow it may be in this place. It rams into his legs and starts crawling its way up his body, causing the man to lose his balance. As soon as he's down, it's on him, long tail lashing wildly as it goes for his face, his head — tearing through skin and then right into his skull with surprising force; its mouth is designed for this. It won't be a quick death, and certainly not a painless one. The man's screaming, blood gushing from his head and face as the alien rips violently through.

Or maybe you come across the scene after the man is finally, thankfully dead — or mostly dead. In any case, he's stopped screaming and gone completely still, and the alien is no longer in so much of a frenzy, its long tail stopping its whipping movements as it feeds from its victim. Judging by the slurping, sucking sounds, it's drinking more than truly eating, swallowing back blood directly from the man's ruined mess of brains. ]

— ETC.

plot post / wildcards welcomed / happy to toss up specific closed starters / will match format

The aurora is beautiful, so much bright lights in the sky, swirling, painting the inky blackness like a canvas. Tom had truly missed the colour, missed the beauty of it in ways he didn't fully realize until now.

It's the voices he can do without. His wife, his beautiful Barbara is wailing at him, crying, tied to a chair and pleading with a version of him that he's not entirely sure is real or not at the moment. It takes him a moment of staring once he has the photo in his hand to realize that it's not just in his mind. It's real. She's not real, but the voice is--most likely thanks to the aurora, like he's heard.

Tom doesn't want to be in the house. He paces instead, and pacing moves him outside, stopping only for coat appropriate for the weather. He holds the photograph close to him, the little reminder of his wife that doesn't even belong to him, her face scribbled out in a fit of envy. It doesn't matter. Not anymore.

It hurts, though.

There is a beautiful girl in the snow covered street, hair as white as the flakes falling, magnanimous in both elegance and height, clutching something as tightly as he's clutching the photo. Tom speaks softly, uncharacteristically still.

"A memory?"

Painful Reminders

[ He knows this color. Verdemist green, a particular shade of light forest green with just a hint of olive, one of two greens used on the 1971 model of the Buick Riviera. It coats one side of the twisted piece of steel he'd found next to his bedroll when he awoke. Fraser runs his fingers lightly over the bullet hole punched neatly through the metal, thinking about the voices he'd heard the night before. His father, his grandparents... Ray Vecchio, loudest and most insistent of them all.

He has no context for the piece of Ray's car that has found its way here. He takes it out onto the porch and into the weak winter sun, forgoing the steaming cup of coffee beside him in favor of studying it. There are a few facts he can determine with relative ease: the bullet came from a .38 caliber pistol, consistent with his own sidearm. The warping suggests the car had exploded, not simply crashed; that assumption is consistent with the scorch marks that leave smudges of residue on his fingers. When he brings his fingertips to his nose, touches them delicately to his tongue, he can smell, taste the acrid fumes of gasoline.

He's careful with the metal, treating it as gently as he might a delicate photograph as he turns it over and over in his hands. Normally, he'd be alert and responsive to anyone stopping by for a cup of coffee or a chat.

Today, he sits on the porch, deep in thought, not noticing any new arrivals until Diefenbaker shifts, makes a small sound, and brings him out of his reverie. ]

Bad Blood

[ Milton is chaos.

He hears the sharp report of gunfire, the crackle of flame; smells smoke and blood on the air. Diefenbaker has already tackled one Forest Talker; the wolf snarls as the man yells and struggles. A quick kick to his jaw outs the man out, but Diefenbaker is still loathe to leave him behind.

He must, though, because that man was hardly the only intruder, and the people of this town need help. Fraser runs through the hubbub, stopping here and there to help an Interloper up and to safety, his voice calm even as he pitches it louder to be heard. ]

You're alright. I have you.

[ Diefenbaker guards their backs, then leaps into a run when Fraser gently deposits the person down and turns back to the fray. Everywhere he goes, he tries to calm, to assure, a cardinal-bright figure attempting to stem the flood of violence. It doesn't wholly work — soon enough his knuckles are bruised and bloody from Forest Talkers he's forced to subdue — but some of them back away from fighting, skittish, their eyes huge and unsure. These younger Forest Talkers seem less inclined to mindless violence, and to them he lifts his hands, open, placating. ]

It's alright. You don't have to do this. I can help you.

Wildcard

[ plotting post |

repeatandfade | blueofthebay @ disco ]

Edited 2024-09-10 18:59 (UTC)

[ Hickey's still running on adrenaline. The fight, the combat, it's whipped him up in a way where he's finding it hard to calm down. He feels like he's buzzing, so full of energy that he has to step away from everything for a bit, just to catch his breath.

It's when he steps to the side to take a moment to himself that he sees someone moving around a whole bunch of corpses. Hickey's immediate thought is goddammit Wake, they're not going to let you get away with this now. You got away with that previous mutilation, something that Hickey suspects he would have done anyway even without the Darkwalker's influence, don't push your luck.

He goes over there, announcing his presence with a loud, ] Oi!

[ Before he catches the eyes of the person making the weird corpse tableau and recognizes the mania that he's taken to believe as Zane's. Goddammit. ] Fucking hell, Zane, you lot all need to change up your hair or something. Anybody ever tell you that you look eerily similar to Wake?

[ Or to the other guy, the actual Alan Wake, that Hickey met at the hot springs. ]

Eren mostly only comes in because of the sign saying this is a store. Of course he doesn't really have anything to trade with at present, but what the hell. The music makes him pause; he's never heard jazz before. He actually has never seen a phonograph or record player, so the fact that music is coming from anywhere at all is strange. The only radios he knows are for announcements, not entertainment.

Louis eventually turns and looks at him with probably the brightest eyes he's ever seen, which he does mark as strange. But so many things are strange here; Eren himself has titan marks branded on his face that won't go away. He has no reason to judge strange.

"Sorry, I…this is a store, right? Where's that music coming from?" he asks, awkward, out of practise with just doing regular person things.

[open and closed starters below | plotting comment | wildcards welcome!]

Edited 2024-09-10 23:42 (UTC)

Painful Reminders [OTA]

[i]

The aurora had always been James' favorite thing about the arctic. Watching the lights dance across the sky had never really lost its wonder, and unlike so many of the other beautiful things--the ice, the snow, the water--the aurora had also never become a threat. It was just something beautiful.

And so when it flares to life one night, he doesn't hesitate to go out to look at it, and it is truly spectacular. The colors are intense and bright, and even if the strange sound that accompanies it is unusual and slightly ominous, he can ignore that. It's nice to just be able to enjoy something, if just for a little while.

He is also soon distracted from the natural lights to turn his attention toward the unnatural ones, and then toward the radio in a nearby broken-down truck. He's gotten used to the vehicles by now, as strange as they still ultimately are, but had paid little attention to the radios; now, however, they're fascinating, even if the one he's messing with is only emitting static.

It's probably clear he's never seen a radio before, turning the knobs at almost random, an although most of his focus is on that, he is paying enough attention to notice when someone approaches. From where he's half-sitting in the truck, he turns to glance at the new presence, then gestures toward the radio.

"Do you know how it works?"

[ii]

After a little while, something shifts.

Maybe it's that he's less distracted, maybe it's that he's wandered a little further from the hum of electronics, but whatever it is, he begins to hear what sounds like a voice. At first, he thinks he's imagining it; as it becomes more clear, he wonders if he's simply hallucinating. It's entirely possible it's the latter, and if so, he should probably go back to the cabin where he's been staying.

As he begins to return, the familiar voice doesn't fade, even when the hum of electronics kicks back in. Not only can he tell who is speaking, he can hear the individual words, and the clarity of it is what prompts him to ask the first person he sees--

"Do you hear something?"

He should be more specific, but if he is hallucinating, the last thing he really wants to do is ask someone if they hear a voice.

Edited 2024-09-10 23:47 (UTC)

Bad Blood [OTA]

[i]
[cw: violence, death, blood, ptsd, dissociation]

In general, it's very good advice not to bring a knife to a gunfight, especially if your knife is not really a knife but a large shard of porcelain. But, to be fair, he hadn't exactly started the fight, so the uneven match-up had been out of desperation rather than foolishness.

That's likely also why he'd won, the will to live combining with previous experience and a fluke of luck; when the Forest Talker had appeared from seemingly nowhere, James had whirled around to face him, and the motion combined with the snow had thrown him briefly off balance. That had been the moment the Forest Talker had chosen to fire his rifle, the shot a very close miss but a miss nonetheless.

The next few minutes are a violent struggle, first for the gun, then James' improvised knife, and then it's over. Now there is a man dead in the snow, a jagged slash torn through his throat, and James on his knees next to the body just staring, frozen and silent in shock.

[ii]

James is armed with a much better weapon now, the rifle a comforting weight in his hands despite his unfamiliarity with the exact design of it; he's figured out how to load it, at least as far as he can tell, but is not entirely confident that shooting it won't reveal he's made a mistake. He'd prefer not to find out the hard way that he's done something that would cause a misfire or worse.

Fortunately, a gun is intimidating enough in itself that he may be able to avoid firing it at all. He makes his way through the town, looking for anyone he knows--others from the expedition, the few people he's met here--and running toward the sound of any fighting in an attempt to intervene or assist.

[iii]
[cw: violence, death, gore, blood, ptsd, dissociation, looting a body]

He, thankfully, does not have to kill this person. They are already dead when James finds them, sprawled out in the snow, their head an unrecognizable mess of pieces from either close-range gunfire or someone who lost themselves in their use of a blunt weapon. No matter which explanation, it's horrifying, and he finds himself far away for a moment--the man ahead of him on the ladder has been shot in the head, there's part of a leg lying in the snow, nearly every single body in the row of corpses is missing something--before he can mentally shake himself back to the present.

A quick glance around, rifle at the ready, and James confirms there's no one else in the immediate vicinity even if shouts and gunfire are still clearly audible from other altercations nearby. He has an opportunity and a short amount of time, and he needs to take advantage of both.

The body belonged to someone tall and large enough that the thick, forest green knitted sweater they're wearing might end up being a little big on James, especially with all the weight he's lost, but it'll work. It'll work, and it looks warm, and this person isn't using it anymore. There is no reason not to take it.

But getting a sweater off a dead body is far easier said than done, however, especially when trying to avoid getting any more gore on it than absolutely necessary. James ends up having to put the rifle on the ground next to him so he can use both hands, and the process takes both a bit more time than he's expecting and a lot more concentration, enough so that he doesn't notice someone stumbling upon the scene.

Edited 2024-09-14 16:49 (UTC)

The only reason James hadn't gone in search of Francis before now is that he's been behaving, for once. Sort of. It is definitely not because he doesn't want to hear any potential complaining about overexerting himself, and also definitely not because he is slightly worried he actually will overexert himself.

But the situation has changed, tensions have heightened, and James' main concern is to check in on Francis; most importantly he wants to be sure his First is alright, but he also wants to get his opinion on what exactly is happening here. This entire thing feels like it came from nowhere, and James is sure he must be missing context, but with everyone so suspicious and on edge it's not as though he can ask just anyone.

A small, renovated hunting lodge to the west of town is what James remembers of the description Francis gave, and it isn't a huge amount to go on, but with a little determination and patience it should be enough. The first few places he considers don't seem to be right and he passes them by, but eventually one location looks promising and he decides to approach.

[ He may stripped of all his powers, but the thing about being born out of darkness and chaos is that it never quite leaves you. It always lingers, and, much like how some people can sense a storm on the horizon, Scratch can just feel when shit is about to hit the fan.

It's delightful. It's about God-damned time.

He's sipping weak instant coffee when Zane comes bursting in, at the height of his eccentricity as he begins peeling off his clothes while brandishing a knife. Yeah, shit' definitely going down. ]

Time for what, exactly?

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Page 1 of 133

it must be that old evil spirit

Louis de Pointe du Lac | For The Love Of God Don't Interview Those Vampires

Painful Reminders

Bad Blood

Wildcard

Edward Little ⚓ The Terror

— Francis Crozier.

eren jaeger | attack on titan (all prompts in milton)

Arthur Lester | Malevolent

Painful reminders

Venat | FFXIV

Cornelius Hickey | The Terror

closed to kieren, just cw for gore & body parts for this entire damn thread

Michonne Grimes | TWD: TOWL

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙾𝚃𝙰

Holland March | The Nice Guys (usual alcoholism tws apply)

— A. Rama Raju.

Painful reminders

Tom Zane | Alan Wake/Remedy Connected Universe

Konstantin Veshnyakov 🛰️ Sputnik

Painful Reminders (cw allusions to domestic violence)

Benton Fraser | Due South | all prompts OTA

bad blood - creation, just keep that cw for this entire thread

painful reminders

James Fitzjames | The Terror

no subject

no subject

Closed to Raju

no subject