this empty northern hemisphere

[singmod]

NOVEMBER 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — STRANGERS: The Darkwalker returns to directly target Interlopers by stripping away the very things that make them who they are.

PROMPT TWO — NO EXIT: Interlopers find themselves trapped within the bowels of the earth, with no way out, except one.

PROMPT THREE — LAST SUNSET OF THE YEAR: As the long night draws in, Interlopers find a way to bring about some festive cheer to chase off the chill and darkness.

STRANGERS

WHEN: The month of November
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mental manipulation; memory loss; loss of self/identity; potential identity crisis; potential personality changes; possible themes of depression; possible themes of suicide.

”They failed.”

For some, they have heard this voice before many times. For others they have only heard the voice upon their arrival into this place. An old voice, deep and dark and ancient. Something impossible, older than the earth itself. The one that floats into your ears and nestles there, sending an ice-cold shiver down your spine. Even to the most stoic and unshakeable souls, it is an unnerving voice. It feels wrong. It feels like an ending. It is the very same voice that spoke to you, right from the start. The words all Interlopers share with one another: You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.

They failed, and you realise just who ‘they’ are — the Forest Talkers. Mallory slumped in a cabin, slowly bleeding out.

”Interloper.”.

The voice that wants you gone. The one that wants to get rid of you. The Darkwalker.

”Inconsequential. They have gone into the Dark. As will you. As will all.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before it continues.

“What are you truly, Interloper?” it asks you. ”Or rather…. who are you? Take it away, and what are you left with?”

You feel your hands shake, you can’t seem to breathe. What does it mean?

”Perhaps nothing worth keeping, perhaps then you will finally see. Maybe you will finally understand your place. And perhaps then you will go into the Dark.”


You remember those words, and they linger within your mind in the days that follow.

It happens slowly, like the sea erodes the cliff face. The pieces come away, everything within you is slowly undone. Not an instant, but an insidious thing. You begin to forget things, about yourself, about the others around you.

You know you have loved ones, here in the Northern Territories, or even the ones waiting for you back home, but you cannot recognise their faces. You cannot recall the colour of a daughter’s hair, or the dimpled smile of a brother. You do not remember your father’s eyes, or your mother’s laugh. You cannot recall their names, their voices.

You do not remember those around you here in this world. You look upon a friend and see a stranger. You cannot recall the trials you have gone through together and come out the other side from. You cannot remember every shared moment, every small and brief moment of joy or compassion or hope. A hug, a hand held, a joke, a kind word, an apology.

Or perhaps you cannot remember any good thing you ever did. You cannot recall any act of kindness or goodness you brought into the world. You cannot recall your good deeds. Everything falls away from you, and you are left wondering who you are, what kind of person you are. Are you a good person? Or a bad person? Perhaps you’re a terrible person, after all. One who should not be here. Why should someone who has done nothing good with their life be here in this place?

Perhaps the Darkwalker is right. Take it all away, and who are you? What is left of you? Who are you if you cannot remember any goodness of you? If you cannot remember the connections you have made in this place? If you cannot remember the love of those back home?

Is it anything worth keeping? Is it anything that’s worth staying?

For some, it may be too much. Despair and disconnection are heavy things, and it may be too much. Perhaps they are nothing worth keeping, in the end. It may be enough to seek an end to themselves. Maybe it would be best to slip quietly into the Long Dark, after all.

It is a terrible trick, but it is one that can be broken. The Darkwalker’s hold has been broken before, and perhaps it can be broken again. Even if you do not remember yourself, the ones around you do. Leaning on those you are close to and talking with slowly pull the pieces of yourself back to you. The Darkwalker has power, but the testament of Interlopers is their persistence in this world, and that has power, too. Given enough time, and patience, and care — those around you may finally make you whole once more.

NO EXIT

WHEN: The month of November
WHERE: Everywhere...?
CONTENT WARNINGS: forced honesty; claustrophobic situations; nyctophobic/scotophobic situations; themes of peril; caves/possible cave-ins; themes of starvation/dehydration; themes of imprisonment

It starts with strange happenings at night, things left to be found by the next morning. Those within Lakeside many find themselves unsurprised You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re sure you were wide awake only seconds before, but when you open your eyes, confused and groggy, you are met with a strange kind of darkness. The kind that seems thick and endless, and you stare into it, trying to get your eyes to adjust but nothing seems to shift in your vision.

The air is stale, and there’s a scent of old, damp stone that clings to it. As you move around, trying to get your bearings, the room echoes oddly and it doesn’t take long to realise that you’re in some kind of cave atrium. And soon enough, someone else is waking up — you’re not alone in this place.

Moving around is difficult, and it’s best to use your body to try to navigate yourself. Testing the way out carefully with hands and feet. Maybe you have something on your by chance to help you light your way — a lighter, a pocket flashlight, matches. However, which way you try to feel out the atrium, you both soon come to the same conclusion: no matter how hard you try, there is no exit. No tunnel or passage out from the atrium, nothing.

You are both entirely trapped within this one space.

For a while, you sit in the atrium. Maybe you sit in silence, maybe you speak over what looks to be the inevitable: you’re doomed to die here, whether you suffocate or die of dehydration or starvation. You and your companion — familiar or strangers —

Out of nowhere, comes a scraping against the stone. You turn to find that on one of the walls, there is light — a ghost writing on the wall, carving into the stone to reveal letters that will glow dimly:

THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

For some, this feels eerily familiar. Those who have been in the Northern Territories have dealt with something similar: a game of truths, a game of deadly consequences. There is no Jackal-headed being, no chains, no blood. This time, there is the truth or there is waiting to die. For others who aren’t familiar, it may take some working out. Maybe it’s best to talk, after all.

Opting for silence will find that nothing will change in the cave’s atrium. You will be left, waiting to die in the half-gloom. Strangely, speaking any lies will find that the cave will rumble ominously, and with enough — rock will begin fall down from above, almost as the place is slowly caving in. As if the stone itself knows if your words are truthful or not.

But as the words say, the truth will set you free. If you say enough, speak your truth, you will find yourselves noting a shift on the air — a crisp, freshness that drifts in from one direction. Heading through that way will bring you to a tunnel that had not been there before, and with it — you will find your exit, out into the wilds of Milton’s region.

LAST SUNSET OF THE YEAR

WHEN: Preparations throughout November; November 26th.
WHERE: Milton Community Hall
CONTENT WARNINGS: drinking/alcohol; mentions of survival situations relating to AMC's The Terror.

As November begins to draw to a close, the daylight hours grow shorter and shorter. From the start of the month, there is less than seven hours of daylight and that number becomes smaller and smaller as the month goes on. The world is darker and colder, and the long night draws nearer — when the sun will not rise, and the Northern Territories exist in total darkness, save for the spare hours of twilight.

For some, it is not the first time they’ve experienced the darkness of winter. For a select few, they have known the darkness only too well — the bitterness, the hopelessness, the hunger for the dawn. But even in the dark, there are sparks of light — the crackles of fires to fight off the night and cold, or in a more figurative sense… the spark of an idea, another way to fight off the night and cold.

As the day shrinks, the idea grows. There is little to be cheerful of in the Northern Territories. Interlopers are tormented endlessly in this place: supernatural beings, harsh weather, precarious food situations, nightmares, the Forest Talkers and whatever mysteries lie within the Aurora. Survival is a persistence, but people are exhausted. Francis Crozier, former Captain of HMS Terror knows this more than anyone. A veteran, and a survivor of an ill-fated expedition— he has seen what becomes of those with low morale, when the darkness seems so thick and endless. He has seen many horrors.

This time, though, it can be different. This is not his world. These are not starving and maddened men, women and children. It is not Carnivale.

Over the month of November, plans are made and slowly bear fruit. Help is wrangled from Interlopers where they can — food preparation, decorations, musicians. Interlopers are encouraged to add their personal touches, country, culture, customs, to all that they plan. The only thing that’s insisted upon is light, so much light: lanterns, candles, torches, mirrors, sculptures made of ice that catch the glimmer of the nearby fires. The evening will glow.

There isn’t so much a ‘dress code’, per say. But Interlopers are encouraged to dress up for the occasion. Maybe hunting around in the homes of former Milton residents may prove lucky — with some rather dated formal-wear that has remained forgotten in the back of closets. It’s vintage, is all.

On November 26th, there is less than an hour of daylight. The crowds gather to watch the sun set after it has barely risen before the festivities begin.

The food is simple and hearty, much like what can be found at Methuselah’s feasts. While pine wine has been brought along, hot tea is also available—both can keep the chill away. Crozier digs into his stores to share all, a promise to every person as they descend into darkness: no Interloper will go hungry this winter.

There’s dancing, of course, an area cleared and illuminated with torches. There’s an insistence on a party thrown in open air, no canvas to obscure the stars, though inside the Community Hall the warmth calls to those needing a break from the chill.

It is important to remember that the last sunset of the year is not the reminder of the darkness ahead, but the promise of the first sunrise of the next.

FAQs

STRANGERS


1. While the Darkwalker Ward Talismans anointed with Interloper blood (first created by Heartman earlier in the year) will help ward off the worst of the Darkwalker's influence, Interlopers will still find themselves vulnerable to this kind of influence — particularly if their spirits are low, or if they've found themself questioning themselves or their relationships around them as of late. Interlopers who do not have Talismans (this is a handwaved thing) will fall victim very easily to the Darkwalker's influence.

2. There are three ways players can play with this plot: they can go with a loss of self, the loss of game-cr or the loss of canon relationships/canon story. Players can go with whatever way they see fit. They can also go with the nuclear option of all three, or a mix of the three.

NO EXIT

1. The truths need to be meaningful in some way in order to secure freedom. 'Small truths' will not be enough.

2. Either both or one of the characters can speak their truth in order to free themselves from the cave.

LAST SUNSET OF THE YEAR

1. A big thank you to Gels for reaching out and helping with this prompt!

2. Characters will be able to find 'formal wear' of a sort within Milton. Bear in mind that a great deal of the fashion within Milton is dated, with a lot of the clothing being decades old that the original residents of Milton would have carefully kept safe. For a rough idea, nothing would be from anything later than the late-00's.

3. Players are free to write out any preparation threads as well as party threads! This could be outfit hunting; resource gathering for food, etc.; or making decorations for the Community Hall.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

[gildedlife]

James can take being wrong, especially if it's for something so ultimately harmless and, perhaps, even positive. If Prior is somewhat less uptight or self-important than he seems to be, then all the better, and James is entirely content to be corrected on that even if he might well require some proof first.

"I find it moreso that one's application of either version of the word can vary so greatly. A dinner party or a ball may be an entirely serious affair, while something like this can be considered unnecessary at best or a show of irresponsibility at worst. Yet the content is nearly identical."

As someone who enjoys both types of gathering, and who is extremely aware of how his own participation in either might be judged very differently, it's something he's put some thought into. Perhaps not exactly the same point as Prior is making, but adjacent.

[fissure]

Admittedly, he hadn't expected Fitzjames to engage and now that Fitzjames has, Prior has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. This certainly isn't a show of irresponsibility (although, if anyone is risking turning this into an entirely serious affair instead, it's Prior).

"Point made," he notes, his voice a low drawl of chastisement that leans a little too hard to be anything but a form of staunched amusement. If this is the brand of socializing expected, then Fitzjames is right to suggest it's not Prior's way.

Glancing around at the growing revelry, all at once Prior feels out-of-place and under-dressed. He's made no attempt at anything beyond his usual attire: a packing of shirts and over-shirts, trousers, socks-on-socks, the long officer's coat he'd come with (still coveted, like a security blanket).

If he were more cooperative, this would be easier. If he were less critical and less on guard, it might even be pleasurable.

(He remembers a time, once, when that was a word that he wanted to use to describe life. Not even all that long ago, really, although the circumstances were very different. Over Birtwhistle, over humiliation, he'd decided – no, re-decided – what pleasure was. It hadn't stuck, possibly because Prior can't be as bad as he imagines himself to be, but as equally likely because Prior been trained to feel nothing at all.)

Lifting his glass, he presents what remains in toast briefly enough to signal that's what it is before he downs it and sets the glass aside. "You seem the expert; I'll do this your way."

[gildedlife]

Agreement to do things James' way is not something he needed, as he intended to do things his way no matter what, but it does make things a lot easier. He doesn't outright smirk, but the light in his eyes is distinctly mischievous, and he sets his tea aside on the nearest table as well before grabbing the sleeve of Prior's coat.

"Do you know how to dance?" No matter the answer he's already dragging Prior out toward the dance floor, because the dancing itself is a foregone conclusion.

[fissure]

The gasping, grasping for words is entirely unlike Prior's typical demeanor but he's well and truly caught too off-guard to respond until they're deep into the makeshift dance floor with no immediate escape in sight.

"I know of dancing—" Which Prior feels stupid enough saying that it colors him pink. It's only because it's Fitzjames that he doesn't immediately lash out. His gaze flicks about, but finding no one else is paying either of them any obvious mind, he remains in proximity instead of fleeing. "Mostly only ever done the other kind," he adds, because there is little in his life that Prior doesn't akin to sex.

Interestingly, his practiced accent slips, too, into a moment of rough Northern-ness. His roots were water-logged to start, clinging haphazardly to the shore of a coastal town with the stink of fish all about. When he'd severed the anchors, he'd hoped to never go back, and a part of that is divesting himself of everything, including the accent. Posh and school-taught has, traditionally, been the way to go.

[gildedlife]

That last comment earns a roll of James' eyes, though he might've chosen to ignore it entirely were he sober. But he isn't drunk enough to miss the change in accent, something that definitely catches his attention, though he doesn't address it immediately.

"Dancing isn't that difficult. You can learn a simple waltz." He declares it confidently, with no room for argument, possibly enjoying a little bit being the one to apparently catch Prior off guard this time. He takes Prior's left hand, and puts his right on Prior's shoulder. "I'll lead in reverse, so that you can learn the steps before truly leading." If Prior learns to lead then he can at least reuse this skill later, although James also suggests this because he isn't totally sure how much opposition Prior might put up to the idea of learning what's typically the woman's side. Might as well just avoid that issue entirely.

[fissure]

The confidence worn by Fitzjames is the only reason Prior doesn't seize up. He doesn't sound as if he's chastising Prior for his lack of skills, and that's probably the most soothing balm available at the moment.

"Lead in reverse?" The skeptical nature of the question suggests that Prior realizes that makes him the woman, but he'd never take offense to that. It's simply untenable to suggest there's any shame in that, although Prior knows this thought process isn't shared with many others. Not because of his mother – no, she was pale and proud, too, but not a force to be reckoned. It's ultimately Sarah that comes to mind and even if there's a stab of loneliness following the reminder, it doesn't stop Prior from allowing Fitzjames this moment.

"I don't suppose there's much advantage in learning to lead when there's four-to-one advantage over the fairer sex." The lack of women is almost as depressing as the lack of sunlight. "Did you have a lady back home?"

[gildedlife]

"Unless you'd prefer to learn to follow, or suffer through an explanation of how to lead before you actually attempt it at all, this is the simplest way to learn." James will go backward as if following, but move first, directing Prior by pulling his hand or shoulder; it's a bit of a odd in-between role, but whatever, nothing about any of this is exactly normal anyway.

"No." He answers the question simply, without elaboration, and moves on. "It is strange, who is chosen to be brought here." The imbalance in gender is certainly noticeable, but so are things like eight people who already knew each other being here together, most people being from a particular time period, and so on. Certainly strange patterns, though whether or not they mean anything seems to still be in question.

[fissure]

"I have a fiancée." Prior isn't about to allow himself to be swayed, except by the music. As he takes on this part of Fitzjames, he demands something for himself. "Sarah."

[gildedlife]

James can't help but raised his eyebrows at that. "Oh? What is she like?"

She must be an interesting person to be engaged to Prior, though what manner of 'interesting' is yet to be seen. James takes a step backward with his right foot, making the first move in the dance, and he pulls gently but firmly on Prior's hand to indicate he should step forward with his left foot.

[fissure]

Following, or being led, Prior takes the necessary steps as they're laid out. He's not particularly light on his feet and he occasionally finds them too close for comfort when not responding quickly enough, but the rhythm is easy enough to suss out.

"She's a Geordie, you know," he says, remembering traveling to stay with Sarah and her mother. Tyneside wasn't all that different from where Prior had grown up, although on account of the war, he had seen a lot more friendly faces out and about. "We met in Edinburgh. She works for the Ministry of Munitions putting together explosives." The swelling of pride he feels is strange, but the truth of the matter happens to be that women have always proven themselves stronger in Prior's eyes and now that they've been given the vote, they may as well kill people like the rest of them and finally be given credit and compensation for it.

"There was another before me." There's no conspiracy here and Prior pushes out his lower lip just a bit to indicate mock upset. "Killed in Loos. Poison gas," he says almost nonchalantly as they twirl around the designated dance floor.

[gildedlife]

He's unbothered by the mistakes or proximity, at ease in this particular setting, at least when he's slightly drunk and not thinking too much about anything beyond the immediately obvious.

Fortunately, Prior's providing a good distraction beyond just the dancing part of things, and James listens with genuine curiosity at the descriptors of Sarah, and what Prior does and doesn't say about her. Where she's from, where they met, her work (an interesting and somewhat surprising occupation), that she was widowed; all worthwhile and important information, but--

"And her, herself? What is she like?" What is her personality? Bold, perhaps, to be working, particularly in the field that she is. Resilient, to find a new partner after her first husband's death. But which of her traits does Prior consider her most important? Which would have drawn him to her enough to want to spend his life with her? Is there a connection of that type at all, or is it more practical than that?

[fissure]

"She's not at all naive," Prior says, both proud and abrupt. "Saw right through me, she did." More of the North slipping out. He doesn't care so much now, although he realizes he hasn't the right or enough pine-based battery acid in him yet to not regret that later.

Thinking back to their last meeting at the train station, he wishes he could go back and give Sarah a proper goodbye. At that moment they'd both been thinking the same thing: This might be the last time. And they'd been both right and altogether wrong, as all around them the same scenario played out in waving handkerchiefs and tipped hats hundreds of times over, in hundreds of other stations along the line.

"We're an unlikely pair." He snorts indelicately, giving Fitzjames a break and attempting to take over in this leading he's made feel so easy.

"I like to think so, at least, although our mothers aren't convinced: Somehow neither of us are good enough for the other." The distaste for classism is so thoroughly ingrained within Prior, he almost feels a fool for dancing around, like Fitzjames is representing all of the world with his one-two-three-four instruction.

"She's beautiful. In her own way. No—" He stalls any protests that might come up. "It's not meant to be awkward, I only mean that no one else is beautiful quite like her. No one could be. She has a... sadness, but she covers it well and with a confidence that I'd want for my daughters.

"And my sons, for that matter. There's no divide anymore, not with someone like Sarah in the world."

[gildedlife]

He lets Prior take over leading without protest, and although it means part of him can fall back on muscle memory, he still keeps a little of his attention on the dance just in case he needs to give direction again. But mostly, he's listening, picking up all sorts of little things that don't escape his attention despite being slightly drunk.

More of the accent, more certainty to James that Prior purposefully hides it, rather than his idiolect simply containing a few words or phrases that come out that way. The choice to purposefully hide an accent is one made for many reasons and isn't terribly uncommon, but it is interesting, and James wonders which--if not many--reason it is that Prior chooses to do so. Blending in, perhaps, attempting to fit into a part of society he wasn't born into, trying to gain status through mimicry of what those with power would want to hear.

Or perhaps James is projecting. Either way, he's too drunk to dwell much on those thoughts even if he wants to, and he doesn't; he's much prefers hearing how Prior talks about Sarah. These are the sorts of descriptions he'd been interested in, giving him a much better sense of who Sarah is, but also a little bit better an idea of who Prior is as well.

"She sounds much like my brother's wife, Elizabeth." James says this with a softness that makes it clear he's greatly fond of Elizabeth, and this is certainly a compliment. "And congratulations are in order, it seems, for your engagement."

[fissure]

There's no doubt that Sarah would find all of this exciting and Prior's fairly certain no one would need to teach her how to dance. She would likely be endeared by Fitzjames and full of a sharp-eyed enthusiasm even in these bleak conditions.

"Are they in order?" Prior feels that edge coming, but instead of allowing it to cut, he merely shrugs as if it means very little. "We couldn't be farther from marriage or each other."

[gildedlife]

It's a valid point, and one that James tries almost desperately to forget. It won't do any good to think about the fact that they're all so far from their homes, not just physically--if they ventured out of the bounds of this community and traveled to their homes, would they, or the people within them, even exist in this world and this time?--but in every other sense as well. And he doesn't want to remember trying to make peace with that thought during the Expedition, when he'd realized he wouldn't ever be going home.

This is no exception. He doesn't want to think about such things, especially not while a little drunk and splitting his focus between dancing and speaking, so he forces those thoughts from his mind--and, doubtlessly, from where they had shown briefly on his face--and offers a light remark instead. "Perhaps, but the engagement itself still occurred, did it not? That's worthy enough of congratulations on its own."

[fissure]

Fitzjames has a point. It pings around Prior's chest like butterflies and not bullets and he nearly full-on steps on the other man's boot, only shearing luckily off the edge and catching himself with a tighter grip around Fitzjames' body.

A muttering apology accompanies Prior's renewed attention, cast down at their feet as if to get his bearings. He falls back into line fairly quickly, recovery in some measure.

"I do miss her," Prior admits, lowly. "But I don't know that our engagement wasn't predicated on... dismal promises." He lacks any sense of guilt despite how it sounds, and goes on to explain: "Neither of us expected me to make it back."

Under reddened cheeks, eyes and throat and stomach stinging of pine, he comes to a stop as the music does, but doesn't let go. "I should have married her before I left, but I was—" Afraid. He was terrified, in fact. To hold on, to let go, to do anything at all or nothing at all.

[gildedlife]

James stumbles just a little as the edge of his boot is caught, the natural consequence of expecting to be able to shift weight without actually being certain it'll be possible, but likewise recovers smoothly enough. He's still far slighter than he should be, having not really gained back any weight since arriving, but even despite drinking he's solid and steady when Prior catches himself by holding onto him, a clear sign of how much his health has finally been improving in the last few weeks.

Improving physically, at least. The thoughts he'd forced away just moments ago return once more as Prior continues, and he can't stop them so easily this time.

Many of the men on the Expedition had fiancees or wives. Many had entire families. Children. And those men had expected to come back, to return to those people they loved, and had been expected in turn to do so. The partings were all meant to be temporary.

But none of them will ever go home. Not a single one of those people waiting will see their loved ones again, and they will never truly know what happened to them.

He sucks in a breath that shudders through him in a way that Prior can surely feel in their proximity, but James' voice is still light in a practiced way when he speaks, and what he says is genuine. "Perhaps. But there is nothing to be done about that now, and expectations or not, she agreed to marry you. The rest of it is formality."

Or not exactly formalities, but close enough. Finding someone one cares deeply enough for to agree to marry, whether or not they think they'll get to the point of marriage itself, is the hard part. Marriages themselves, after all, mean very little without that devotion.

[fissure]

Prior pulls a face. He's not quite sliding back into the swing of things, instead dithering with righting Fitzjames' clothing that might have been set astray in the fray.

"Stop trying to cheer me up," he chastises, but for once Prior makes it clear and obvious that he's not bothered so much as hoping not to descend directly into an all-encompassing sadness. "Instead, distract me." He needs it, by god. And there are few people he trusts enough to allow taking his hand in this manner.

"Indulge me."

[gildedlife]

James allows the fussing for Prior's benefit, as it seems to be providing a distraction, and when Prior then outright asks for one James is willing to oblige. He needs a distraction too, after all.

"Well, you have somewhat-passably mastered a basic waltz, so perhaps something more complicated." And he will continue to drag Prior into more and more complicated ballroom dances until the fun of it wears off, or they're too tired for brooding. Whichever happens first.