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singillatim2024-11-10 12:15 am
singmod) wrote in singillatim2024-11-10 12:15 am
Entry tags:
- *event,
- arthur lester: maniette,
- billy prior: karen,
- casper darling: mimi,
- charles rowland: giz,
- chloe frazer: tess,
- cornelius hickey: kates,
- edward little: jhey,
- eren jaeger: lyn,
- francis crozier: gels,
- john irving: gabbie,
- kate marsh: cheryl,
- konstantin veshnyakov: jhey,
- levi ackerman: dem,
- levi jordan: cirape,
- michonne grimes: cloude,
- randvi: tess,
- reiner braun: kas,
- sameen shaw: iddy,
- snow white: carly,
- the doctor: kris,
- trixie: gels,
- wynonna earp: lorna
this empty northern hemisphere
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:
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
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.
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.
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.
no subject
(It's actually not at all unlike the way March squints at people when he's trying to work them out... maybe she's picked up more from him than a ring. ) ]
You're gonna have to try harder than that if you want to register on my "brashness" scale.
[ That's not a thing—
She shrugs at his question, willing to admit it. It's not like everyone here doesn't know she's buddies with March. They make the pine wine together, they hang out and drink together, they've... sometimes done other things together, but the main point is: March is... March. A year later, she still doesn't really know how to put what he is to her into words, but she's never had to. He gets it. He gets her. ]
Yeah. He's like half the reason I can still stay even sort of sane in this dump.
[ As much as she wants him to be able to get home, to Holly and his work and L.A. and the sun and the seventies, if she lost him she thinks she's lose her goddamn mind. The delicate balance of her sanity here is held, annoyingly, in the hands of a few very different people.
(Even now, she can feel the snow melting under her knees, soaking her jeans, when she'd fallen to Little's side and begged him not to leave her—) ]
So when we all got those little "gifts"... we made a deal. I'm holding onto his and he's got mine. It's just easier on us both, you know?
no subject
He doesn't know how to read her relationships with others. He's painfully aware that his perspective's different, that's something he's learned through this past year. The world that comes after his own ended is... so different. It changed, people changed, and then of course, Wynonna's not English to begin with, there are sure to be cultural differences there.... He's no stranger to seeing her being close with others, with men, and while it was originally a shock, it soon enough smoothed out into something that was just a part of her normalcy. Little understands it's different, for her.
But how does he... read this? Perhaps... perhaps he should have read it more clearly, perhaps it's been obvious; Mr. March has, thankfully, always seemed to be there to help her, often in ways and times Little wasn't able to. The man had taken her back to his home after the scuffle, kept her safe. He's safe, he's reliable, trustworthy; Little's immensely grateful for someone watching over one of his most— his most precious people here. But it's clear there's more, some deeper attachment, and perhaps.... could it be that Wynonna and Holland are courting? In their... especial modern way...?
Now he is starting to feel alarmed. Perhaps he's made a mistake with.. tonight, with asking her to dance, with looking at her in ways he shouldn't, saying things he shouldn't. Has he done something unthinkable? Apology gathers in him, towards both her and March, he would never— he hadn't meant to seem as though he would dare to—
To do what? What has he actually done? Why has he done those things?
His eyes sweep to the side, gazing off for a moment at a small group of people in the distance chatting, but it's without really seeing them. He's afraid to look her in the eye now, for too many reasons.
There's been an attraction to Wynonna for... a long time. He knows that, somewhere beneath all of the subduing he's done. One casts such thoughts out, doesn't dare nurture them.
But it's happened anyway. And perhaps for a man like Edward Little, ever led by his heart, it was inevitable that his would lead him to her. As much as he's obstinately kept his... physical feelings towards her under check, reduced them to something quiet and hidden, the emotional bond his heart feels towards her has only grown. He's never quieted that one. Not since the day they vowed not to cut one another out anymore. His heart has stayed open for her, warm and inviting and perhaps all of that.... has formed something that he's just now truly realising, tonight, when the smallest particles of himself felt stirred by her, when being physically close was at once a want that's surprised even himself. It's as though being near her tonight has opened something from the inside out, his heart's affection and fondness bleeding towards.... other forms of affection, and fondness.
And now that he's been allowed physically close... No. God, no. He's being inappropriate. Little looks back to her then, head dipped towards another nod of understanding as he stays polite and a little tense, some quiet dose of safe detachment even if it's only in the form of a subtle tensing of his hand, and his body language no longer so relaxed and easy. For a brief moment he wonders about her own little 'gift', but he won't dare ask. Surely, it was something painful, the way his own was. )
That's a precious thing. I'm deeply glad that you both can find a sort of solace from it. This world is not always... kind, in its choice of gift.
( He winces a little, knowingly, before that apology leaks into his expression, pooling out into his eyes and making his mouth tug down slightly at the corners. It's so hard to look at her. He's rarely known what it is to want anything, it's such a foreign concept for a man whose life has been dedicated to purpose, not want. He's been comfortable that way, and before the expedition went so wrong, he was happy living that way. ....If not happy, then very content, which was very much fine with him, even preferred, much safer, much more sensible.
(She's the first thing he can ever remember wanting. He realises it now, has been realising it tonight, and now it's there, warm and aching deeply. His hand softens at her back but doesn't necessarily loosen, the gesture still affectionate in its way. Even now, he can't fully pull back from her, though he knows he should. Soon he will; this night will be over. Night or morning, time has slipped away, the way it did all those months back on his couch, and for a brief period, he was hers and she was his.) )
I do apologise for inquiring about such a matter, though. It's not my business, Miss Earp.
no subject
And now she can actually feel it, the way he brings the walls of his reserve back up. He looks away from her for a long moment, and when he does meet her glance again, there's something careful and guarded in his own. Even the way he's holding her is changing, back toward something more formal and not so intimate, and if she knew what happened, what she said or did — well, maybe she can't go back and fix it, but she might be able to make it stop. She wants it to stop, the way his eyes are filling back up with that familiar shaded sorrow. His mouth isn't laughing and soft anymore; it's turning back down at the corners again and she can't stand it. He deserves a chance to be happy, to be lighter, to enjoy himself. ]
You really don't have anything to apologize for.
[ Why the hell would he apologize for asking about March— ]
I mean, you know he and I are buddies. It's not like it's a secret.
[ Her brows draw together, puckering the skin between them. His hand is lighter on her back again; she wants to put hers over it and press it down. He's still close but it feels different, it feels like something's gone wrong and sour and she hasn't— had enough of him yet. She doesn't want to let him go. She doesn't want this strange golden moment to end, just to go back to everything she feels and wants that he doesn't.
But, more important than all that: he looks... unhappy. It squeezes in her chest, cooling down the flush of warmth that she hadn't been able to shake off on her own. ]
Hey, are you okay?
no subject
What he does know is that he doesn't want to cause her any distress, or Mr. March.
The other thing he knows is that this feels like loss, somehow, and it's very strange and he doesn't deserve to feel an ounce of longing or lament. Not him. He doesn't deserve anything but loss; Edward knows that.
(And yet, his heart has its own will, not understanding the concept of what's deserved. Wynonna has never been his to keep, in the ways his foolish heart seems to suddenly think she is, or could be — and why would she? He's truly being absurd — but his heart mourns her, all the same.)
Even now, she's asking if he's all right, checking on him, and Edward quietly berates himself for any melancholy showing through in his features. Still, around her... it's so hard to hide himself, now. His eyes are soft and wet and swimming; his heart patters against its ribcage. More than anything, he's filled with some desire to embrace her again, hug her. He doesn't, but he does smile a little at her, shy and warm. )
I am — it's been a very enjoyable time. ( He means that, authentically. She makes him feel more happy, and free, and many other things that for so long, he felt himself incapable of. He misses the moment already.
But something pauses in him, and his eyes themselves seem to hesitate, lashes fluttering softly like a shuddering breath. Then they find her again, falling to the blue-grey pair. He stares at her for a long moment, savouring it — the way she looks at him, the sweep of loose curls. Maybe weeks or months ago he wouldn't have been able to say what he says next, but then again, it's always been strangely easy to be honest around Wynonna, despite all the ways he's tried to hide his honest feelings. But when he looks right at her, his heart has to do the speaking.
His words are soft, and quiet, and for a moment he barely breathes. )
A man would be fortunate to be so close with you, Miss Earp.
no subject
(Can she have that? Can she ask for it? If she can't have him for real, can't she at least have one nice evening where he didn't seem so far away, so proper and polite? But of course she can't. She'll leave here thinking about the way he looks and remembering the way his fingers spread gently over her back and she'll go home. Alone. And it's better that way. If he's stopped looking at her with that unguarded warmth, at least she won't have to worry about him looking at her with disappointment anytime soon.)
His stupidly thick, stupidly beautiful lashes lower over his eyes, fluttering as softly as moth wings, and she feels another lurch in her chest. It's painful, when a heart skips a beat; what it really means is something is wrong. But he looks at her, and he speaks low and with a strange weight to the words — for a second she can't parse them at all, is too busy wrestling down the ripple of warmth that runs through her like a spring thaw at his stupidly sexy voice murmuring things to her from only inches away. Hell. ]
Yeah?
[ Another smile's playing around her lips now, faintly disbelieving. If it were anyone else, she'd say he's teasing her, but Little — though he has shown a sense of humor, buried deep beneath all the protocol and Victorian rigidity — doesn't tease her. He can't know how laughable those words would be to the greater Purgatory population.
But she knows he feels that way, that somehow over the last year he's started to enjoy having her around. She thinks, anyway. They're friends; she saved his ass during the Forest Talker attack and he was grateful for it, so yeah, maybe he does feel fortunate that they've gotten close.
(So close, though... is that different? Should it be?) ]
I'll be sure to let everybody know. I think they mostly feel the opposite way.
[ There's a sinking feeling in her chest, and after a moment, she recognizes it for what it is: this — this nice moment, this dance, this thing where she was holding him gently and he was hold her back...
It's over, isn't it? She knows it is, she can feel it, even as she wets her lips, the familiar muted taste of lipstick on her tongue, and takes a breath. ]
Do you want to keep dancing? Or we could....
[ She flounders for a second, trying to think of other options. Maybe this part is done, but that doesn't mean the whole night is, right? And she— doesn't want to let go of him yet. She still wants his attention on her; she wants his shy smiles and long thoughtful glances; she wants him to look at her. Just her. Just... for a little while longer. ]
Get a little air.
no subject
His heart aches to reassure her, to give her softness and warmth, to tell her that she's wonderful, that she's one of his most precious people here, that he likes being with her (but it's so dangerously close to yearning to be with her, and— he can't. He shouldn't.)
He catches the slight, quick movement at her mouth, and his eyes flicker downwards to there again in one of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments, eyelids immediately shuddering as his gaze travels back up. She's offering to keep him for a while longer, and there's plenty they could still do together — he'd like to have that drink, properly, with her, to converse, to laugh, to look at the sparkling little world around them, sheltered from the worst parts of it all, just for a few hours.
But he can't do this, either. He shouldn't.
He doesn't trust himself to, and he's afraid that he's already crossed some line. And of course, he doesn't deserve any of her warmth. What has he been thinking? There's a man's wedding ring hung from her neck. The gesture, whatever its complex truths may be, surely means that Wynonna keeps someone within her heart, doesn't it? Little's been such a fool, selfish and indecent and all he can hope is that he hasn't hurt either she or March in some way. )
Ah — I don't want to steal too much of your time, though.
( He smiles again, still polite and a little self-deprecatory, as though it's a sacrifice for her to be here with him instead of to be anywhere else. His hand doesn't dare keep lingering, so he awkwardly lets it drop from her back in one motion.
He isn't immediately exiting, or saying he will exit, but he takes a purposeful step back to free her from the proximity of himself, at least. )
no subject
And then it doesn't work anyway, because his hand is falling from her back and he's stepping away. Her fingers slip out of their gentle hold as he opens his hand and lets hers go, and then she's just standing here, by herself on this makeshift dance floor, feeling like an idiot in a dress she can't believe she'd hoped he might like, or at least be visibly alarmed by. ]
Right.
[ Even though it's the middle of the winter and this dress bares her arms to the shoulders, she hadn't felt cold until just this moment. ]
Sure.
[ He smiles a little, apologetic, and she bites down hard on the inside of her bottom lip to keep the words that want to bubble up and out locked away inside. They sit there, growing sour in her stomach: that he could never steal her time, because here she was offering it up to him with both hands. He just doesn't want it, and she's an idiot for so many reasons she can't even begin to list them all out.
Because it's not just her time, is it; not really. It's her, and how different she is from... everything he probably finds normal and desirable and safe. He's polite about it, because of course he is, but this is the first time she's reached out to him and he hasn't reached back, and it hurts in a dull, aching kind of way, somewhere behind her breastbone. He's never pulled away from her before. Not like this, not since they agreed to quit putting up walls between them.
Her jaw works as she swallows, before she tosses her head, lips pressing together with a flattened attempt at indifference as she gives him the only thing she really can: a way out.
That she gives it to herself, too, is just icing on the cake. She's got to... get out of here. She can't stand to look at him and see that melting apology in his eyes. If she walks away first, she doesn't have to watch him leave. ]
I should probably go check in on... some other people.
[ And miracle of miracles, that doesn't even have to be a lie, because off to the side she can see Kate Marsh making her way back through the room, her face looking uncharacteristically flushed. Wynonna takes a breath and sticks a smile onto her lips, tugging them with a flicker into a brief curve. It feels strange and plastic; it goes nowhere near her eyes. ]
Have fun with the rest of the party, Little.
[ She doesn't give it another second before she's turning and making her way through the crowd, wishing she couldn't still feel him there at her back.
It's fine. It's enough. And in the morning, this stupid world will go on just like nothing ever happened. ]