even though it's a cruel world

[singmod]

JANUARY 2025 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE HUNTED, PART ONE: Interlopers find themselves stalked and hunted by seemingly supernatural presence.

PROMPT TWO — TIES THAT BIND: Those little blinks of light noticed by Interlopers finally take form, showing Interlopers just how they're connected.

PROMPT THREE — WINTERSTILLE: A new winter storm hits, with a terrifying twist at the very heart of it.

THE HUNTED, PART ONE

WHEN: The month of January, continuing into February.
WHERE: Everywhere, but especially Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural creature; hauntings; supernatural experiences; themes of hunting, being hunted/stalked by an animal; bear ‘attacks’.


Methuselah once warned an Interloper of the changing behaviours of animals within the Northern Territories. Perhaps this is something of this kind of instance, or… perhaps it is something else entirely.

There are old tales, some of which might be found within the Camp Office like Nor'pogo: folk stories about the area — and not just of Lakeside, but further afield. One is the story of The Old Bear, and those who tried to bring it down.

In the early days of inhabitation of the Northern Territories by European settlers, a gigantic bear had already long made its home in these wilds. It was said that the bear was incredibly long-lived and unusually aggressive. The settlers had angered it by cutting it off from its feeding grounds and chased it off from where it had once freely roamed, encroaching on its territory.

Incensed, the Old Bear began to hunt and kill the settlers — determined to win back its world. It was said, however, that their weapons were no match against the creature. It was as if nothing could ever truly bring it down. Firearms could barely affect it, and its thick hide was filled with old, broken arrows that had tried and failed to injure it.

Three hunters, determined to fight back against the bear’s attacks on the settlers, and bring the animal down for its pelt to hoard as a trophy, decided to pursue the bear. Thus began a bitter hunt that lasted months. They chased it down all over Lakeside and then to the east, up towards the muskeg that lay in the shadows of Timberwolf Mountain. It is said that they went out onto the muskeg, never to return — with Old Bear disappearing with them, too.

Perhaps the four of them all met their end, both men and bear. But something has begun to stalk the Northern Territories once again. Footprints can be found in the snow, tracks of a bear far larger than anything found in the natural world. Prints that smell like bear, but there's something off about them. Prints that disappear into nothing, as if a ghost walks through the silent, snowy wilds.

Out in the wilds of Lakeside and Milton, Interlopers will start to find themselves being watched. A distinct prickling at the back of their neck. In the distance, they will hear the heavy thuds of a large animal trekking through the snow, the low grumbles of an angry beast.

At first, they are distant enough that perhaps you might be able get away from the sounds without incident. Fleeing for the safety of the indoors, or creating enough distance for the sounds to fade into silence. Surely the creature will not follow you, especially indoors. And you’re right. The indoors will seem safe.

But over time, the sounds draw nearer. Near enough to make you think it's almost upon you. You turn to look to see where the creature might be, only to find nothing in the immediate vicinity. You cannot see what huge, hulking creature is heading towards you. The woods are still and silent as they always are, save for the animals you would usually find in this place.

Or worse, you suddenly feel the heavy huff of breath behind you: hot against your neck, snarling. A beast upon you, ready to devour you whole.

And then, as you turn. Nothing.

As the month goes on, these instances increase. Other times, you catch sight of it. A huge shadow from the rocks above, shining golden eyes in the dark and a wide snarl of teeth. A bear, bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. Impossibly so. A mass of dark brown fur, broken arrow shafts protruding from its hide, watching you with a keen and ferocious intelligence — staring you down until suddenly, it is gone. Nothing but the shapes of rocks and foliage.

Sometimes, it leaps down at you. Charges at you.

Turn and run, and it will give chase — but you’ll find yourself simply running from the wind.

You are not just stalked, but haunted. Hunted.

TIES THAT BIND

WHEN: The month of January, into February.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: red strings of fate; possible themes of co-dependency; shared empathy/telepathy; potential forced empathy/mood/emotion alternating/mental manipulation; supernaturally induced pain; forced feelings of sadness, low mood.

In the Quiet Apocalypse, Interlopers face the harsh and unforgiving climate of the Northern Territories alone. Or so they think. Interlopers are all connected to one another in some shape or form. At the start of the month, the strange flickers of light that Interlopers previously noticed will begin to form a little more solidly and can be seen appearing at their fingers. They are incredibly weak at first, but in time the Interlopers will find that some of these strings of light will become far more stronger in their appearance.

The strings are completely intangible. They cannot be touched, your fingers going right through them if you try. But Interlopers will find that these strings of light will eventually lead somewhere: to another Interloper.

Some may have heard of strings of fate, red strings that lead others to their romantic soulmates. These strings, however, are not limited exclusively to romantic soulmates and the strings can have far broader meanings. And they do not simply connect Interlopers to one another, but have abilities that come with them. Connections are powerful things, after all.

For those who crave connection or have particularly strong bonds with others, these strings may be incredibly influential on Interlopers, and these abilities may come very naturally, like breathing. For those who relish in the solitude, they may find their strings far weaker — although they may come to find they do not like this. That it disturbs them in some indescribable way. Others may note that their strings are frayed, they seem more fragile — noting a tense or strained relationship. This too will be something that Interlopers will find troubling or disturbing to them. It sounds like you might need to work on things to make things better.

There are four types of strings that will appear:

The Red String: This string represents close relationships of a positive nature but specifically romantic interests or lovers. Concentrating on these threads will bring a kind of intuition similar to that which is experienced by Interlopers who share the Moon Touched Feat. You speak a kind of secret language, almost like talking telepathically but not quite. You become fully in tune with one another, conveying meaning and understanding without uttering a word.

The Gold String This string represents close relationships of a positive nature, specifically friends, familial relationships, and comraderie. Interlopers will find that concentrating on this kind of thread shared with another will find themselves more in tune with one another's emotions, and know exactly what the other needs at any given moment. However, it may sometimes become difficult to identify who an emotion belongs to. Emotions can be passed to one another: one Interloper might be able to purposefully soothe another's anger, or raise another's spirits if they feel upset — for example.

The Black String: This string represents antagonistic relationships. Rivalries, enemies, or those you simply mistrust. However, concentrating on this kind of thread shared with another will bring pain to the Interlopers. Sometimes this might feel like an electric shock, other times it might feel like a slow, dreadful ache. After this initial pain, Interlopers will find that they are more prone to picking up the thoughts of the other person that they are connected to. This may be in the form of specific thoughts of what the person is thinking at that time, or it may be picking up the thoughts the other has had about the Interloper previously — possibly providing useful insight into the minds of those you dislike most.

The White String: Every Interloper will have one white string. It seems to lead towards the east, but Interlopers will find it very difficult to follow it and will not be able to follow it for long. At first, concentrating on this string will bring a sense of sadness, heaviness. But for some, they may even feel a sense of comfort, or the feeling of being uplifted.

Each string will give off some kind of impression of the Interloper it belongs to, something that comes to mind in terms of identification: a scent, a colour, a sensation, a food item. Whatever it is, it is something that is related to the Interloper the string belongs to. The white string will give off the impression of feeling alone, along with campfire smoke, blood, and the saltiness of tears. Underneath that, there’s something a little more subdued: warming winter-spice.

WINTERSTILLE

WHEN: 24th - 28th January.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: extreme weather; storms; blizzards; supernatural weather; themes of survival; possible character cold-related injuries; possible themes of peril; themes of weather-related horror; possible npc death; possible character death; possible animal death.


Those versed in reading the signs will note the approach, those who have learned to read the weather, nature itself, if they pay close enough attention: the shifts in pressure, the restlessness of the weather, how wildlife absconds. Something is off, something is coming. For the rest, Methuselah arrives into town. He is hurrying, as fast as his aged body can take him. The old man was right the first time when he came with warnings. Hopefully this time the Interlopers will heed him again.

‘Something is coming.’ he warns Interlopers, breathless. Methuselah is worried, even someone as long-lived as he. He has seen many storms, but something troubles him about this one. ‘A great storm. But, in the signs— something is wrong and it is coming much too quickly, I cannot say when it will arrive, but soon. We do not have much time to be ready.’

Interlopers will have only a day or so to prepare. To batten down the hatches, to gather supplies and hunker down. The Community Hall is a good place as any to gather in, and it makes sense to gather in there again to wait the storm. Many can go there, but others are free to wait it out in their own homes, with their select company.

Free Runners and Aurora Callers are invaluable in getting messages around the town and further out to those who live in Lakeside. As will those little strings of yours. It isn’t much time to get ready, especially if this might end up lasting several days, but some warning is better than none at all.

The skies darken and in comes a violent squall: snow thick and fast, winds roaring. Buildings creak and groan, as if they might tear themselves apart. Trees will come down, some buildings may not survive it. Day and night, the storm rages around. A complete white out.

And then, suddenly, in the early afternoon of the next day… it stops.

The snowfall ends. There is a strange whistling of the winds, and then it drops completely. Everything is still, silent.

The sky is clear. There is light, the precious few hours of daylight afforded to Interlopers at this time of year seems impossibly bright — no clouds can be seen in the sky. There is nothing but clear, pale blue.

But looking toward the skies will reveal a circle of clouds surrounding that clear, blue sky. Almost a perfect circle. The eye of the storm.

For those in the Community Hall, looking to venture outside, Methuselah will shake his head. No. — ‘I do not trust it.’

It’s slow at first. There's a strange sound in the air, something coming downwards. The highest trees and buildings are the first hit by it. They crack and shift ever-so slightly, freezing instantly. From the very top and moving downwards...

If you are outside, maybe you feel it in your bones: run.

The strange ice descends, freezing everything it touches, the strange white pattern crawling downwards. Run for cover, inside, out of the elements and into dry and warm shelter. Even inside, you'll notice it crawling downwards and towards you: white frosting over walls and furniture close to it. Everything crackles and groans as it freezes over— some unprotected windows will shatter, especially those of the long-abandoned cars still scattered around the town. Mugs and plates will shatter, even mirrors — potentially sending shards flying to unsuspecting Interlopers.

You'll need to move into the center of rooms, or close to lit fires and gather close. Keep the fires going. Keep the temperature high.

And hopefully the ice will not reach you.

This strange frozen stillness will last for the next twelve hours. You will be trapped, huddling, away from the edges of your shelters.

The silence ends. And then the storm returns, the howling winds and furious blizzards. The storm will rage on for another day until it finally fizzles out and the world becomes calm again. It will be safe to go out now.

There’ll be a lot of damage to the town due to the storm, and windows and doors will likely be frozen shut and difficult to open again, meaning it will take time for Interlopers to actually leave their places of safety. In the aftermath, Interlopers may find just how deadly that stillness was, how deadly that crawling ice: the bodies of the unfortunate, human and beasts alike, frozen on the spot — dead in an instant and left stuck there.

FAQs

THE HUNTED, PART ONE


1. Interlopers will be spared by any form of physical attack at this time. The attacks on Interlopers will only be instances of striking fear, and giving chase.

2. Other Interlopers who see a fellow Interloper running away from a chase will not see the bear chasing them. It'll look like they're just running from nothing.

3. While the bear will not come indoors, Interlopers will still note it stalking around outside, even scratching or thudding at doors or walls. These will appear completely untouched when later inspected.

TIES THAT BIND

1. Weaker or frayed strings will be less powerful, and Interlopers may feel compelled to rectify this as the sensation of having a frayed or fragile string will be unpleasant to bear.

2. It is even possible to have strings that are connected to people who are not present within the Northern Territories, including people who are in Interlopers' homeworlds. Interlopers may try to follow these strings, but will find that the strings will lead to nowhere — like looking for the end of the rainbow. You will not receive power benefits of these strings, only have an impression of who it belongs to.

3. You cannot see an Interloper's other strings, other than your own connection with you. However, you can see other Interloper's White Strings.

4. If a relationship isn't really black and white, a mixed-colour thread would be acceptable of a relationship that could shift either way or is more complicated in nature. There would be a more dominant colour of the two, however, and the abilities would be from the dominant colour.

5. Concentrating on a string gives off the impression of who it belongs to, you do not have to follow it.

WINTERSTILLE

1. Interlopers with the Cold Fusion Feat will be able be out during the storm at any point and be completely unaffected.

2. Interlopers with the Lightbringer and Moon Touched traits will prove valuable for providing warmth/heat when hiding from and waiting out the ice.

3. Players are welcome to either camp out in the Community Hall or within their homes!

PLOTTING POST

Comments

—Holland March

[pacificator]

It’s difficult to focus when everytime she looks down, she sees strings of light webbing out from her hands. Brilliant gold threads wind around and away from her, leading to fuck knows where and god knows who. Those are bad enough, especially the ones that flicker and fray and fade, tugging at her the way Waverly used to tug at her arm when they were little, demanding her attention. Some of them gleam purely gold; some of them are wound around with scarlet or black. Some glow like string lights, some flicker like a flashlight with a battery that’s going bad.

Also bad: the threads dark as this never-ending night. She’d lightly touched one with her thoughts and got a brainful of chatter back, and now she does her best to ignore them, along with the thin white thread that spins out far away to the east.

But worst of all by far is the thread that unspools, blood-red and brilliant, from her fingertips; the only one of its kind. The second she’d focused on it, her stomach had tightened abruptly up, cramping with anxiety. There had been the sensation of fingers drifting over fine wool, the faint warmth of sunrise shyly kissing her cheek.

She’d dropped it like a piece of white-hot cast iron and gone looking for a distraction and an excuse to get the hell away.

Fortunately, she knows someone who’s always up for providing one, and who never wastes time worrying about whether an idea — like, say, following the frying pan sized pawprints left in the snow by something a lot bigger than either of them — might be a bad one, which is how she’d ended up in the woods with Holland March, following a line of tracks.

Another thread stretches easily between them, firm as cord: comfortingly warm seventies sunshine gold, slashed here and there with cherry-red accents, like a sports car with racing stripes. She breathes in the familiar scent of lingering cigarette smoke, almost able to feel the bristly brush of an unshaved cheek against hers, the bite of well whiskey sliding over her tongue. It’s March, through and through.

Wynonna glares at the place where the prints vanish, again, leaving nothing but creamy, unbroken snow. “This thing is really starting to get on my nerves.”

Does she mean the bear? Does she mean the string? Yes.

[questioningmermaids]

Probably, March shouldn't start up again. Probably. It's old hat by now, just like most of what he has to say and what he does, he's been here for so long. But he really, genuinely can't help himself:

"You know where this wouldn't happen? LA."

He has to say something stupid. There's too much tension, too much fear he's trying to ignore, and Wynonna gets it. There's proof in those strings they have, Wynonna's like gunsmoke and booze and some podunk town March would get lost in immediately. He hadn't even questioned if it was hers once he discovered it. Hell, he didn't even complain when Wynonna decided for both of them they were going on a hunt, just grabbed his jacket. The bear thing's a fucking nightmare, anyway. It's starting to really get to him.

"Hey. You get any strings other than mine? I think one of these is for Holly, still trying to guess the rest before I approach them."

[pacificator]

"Yeah, well, it would in Purgatory." Bear, ghost, whatever: all this is hitting a little too close to home. She call all too easily imagine that these are the woods outside the badlands, and that she's stomping through the snow with Dolls, not March, on the trail of some new rev shitbag.

But if she were home, she wouldn't have these fucking strings threading out and around her, a web of light tying her down. Tethering her. It's enough to make her want to head for the hills, until they all fade away, no matter how much those faded and frayed strings make her itch, tug at her thoughts.

Not that she needs the string connecting her to Holland for her to know he's freaked the hell out. Tracking down malicious, ghostly bears is pretty far from his usual beat, and he's just talking to be talking, because that's how he deals with this shit when he can't just get drunk.

Which doesn't mean she loves the topic he picked. Wynonna looks over at him, then back at the path they're trudging along. "Yeah, a bunch."

(And she's sure he doesn't need the string to know how she feels about that: unsettled, wary, disbelieving.)

"Gold, that one white one we've all got--" the only one she can see on everyone else, anyway, which is good. She slides another glance at him. "A couple black."

Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't ask. "...You have any red ones?"

[questioningmermaids]

Bear? What bear? Paranoia is temporarily forgotten as March catches two things immediately. One, that half-glance that Wynonna does that signifies she doesn't want to talk about whatever she's just said and two, that suspiciously casual tone of voice. Doesn't need a string for that. The Canadian goes ahead and blows the case wide open with the question she posits next, and March's brows raise.

"Kinda." One, half-red, mostly gold, something he's surprisingly happy about. "Just a little red in one of 'em."

The pause seems longer than it actually is.

"Speaking of Little..." He's hooking his pinkie around their thread as he trails off, concentrating on her emotion. Shit move, maybe, but hey--it's there for a reason.

[pacificator]

She's pretty sure she can guess which string that is for him, and can't help feeling the same slight sting she's gotten every time she looks at the difference between the half-red, half-gold string that leads to him and the steadily burning red one that leads... elsewhere. This would all be so much easier if it were the other way around.

...Or not, considering the way he's sinking his teeth into the things she absolutely did not say. Sometimes she hates the fact that he's a detective. "Nobody said anything about Little."

She certainly hadn't. And she's an old hand at schooling her features, giving him nothing but the exasperation he surely expects, but it's only been a few weeks since her worst suspicions were confirmed at that party, when she'd shifted a little closer and he'd gently spread his fingers over the material of her dress, hand pressed warmly to her back. Just like then, there's a confused and frustrated lurch that feels like it tugs her whole stomach sideways.

She's not a teenager anymore; she's not going to pine away like Kate, moping over someone she can't have. But there's a distinct flavor of annoyance-tinged longing that's been eating at her for months now, that she doesn't understand and wishes weren't there and can't seem to dig out of herself, no matter how hard she tries. "If you keep bringing him up, I'm gonna start thinking you've got a crush on him."

[questioningmermaids]

Wynonna's good--real good, even, and March looks at her insisting she didn't say anything about Little and promptly, pointedly, looks at where their string is, gold and red and swirling. He knows bullshit when he sees it.

"He's not really my type. Wynonna--you didn't have to say anything about Little. The fact that you aren't is pretty telling, dig?" Probably, he shouldn't launch into this. Probably. They're not drunk, it's going to cross a line, he risks Wynonna getting genuinely upset.

Strange, how he suddenly cares about being an asshole. Maybe this place has changed him.

"I've seen you physically fight three guys that all look like pro-wrestlers. Kinda weird that you can do that and then avoiding anything about the guy who's biggest fault is being reedy."

[pacificator]

He looks at her, and he looks at the string between them, and Wynonna reaches like she could yank it out of his grasp. She can't — she can't even touch the thing — and that only pisses her off even more. When her hand comes up empty, she closes it into a half-fist, pointed an accusatory index finger at him as she leans in, brows furrowed and eyes hard. "That's cheating."

Tapping into her emotions via string is cheating; it shouldn't be allowed. But what she doesn't get is why he doesn't just indulge her, why he doesn't just let her lie and get away with it. Maybe he's bored. She should have found some other mystery for him to worry at, like a dog sniffing around a mouse hole. Wynonna drops her hand and gives him a flatly aggravated glance. "You're one to talk about being reedy."

Maybe that was a low blow. She feels a little bad about it... but only a little. "Look, it's not about fault, okay? He's fine. He's great. He's, you know... Victorian. And I'm..."

—Finding herself rapidly accelerating toward a dead end punctuated with pit falls full of snakes and spikes. "...me."

[questioningmermaids]

March responds immediately, hand moving to his breast pocket like it'll somehow produce a cigarette. It doesn't, but the movement is practically habit now. "Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but you being you isn't a deal breaker."

Wynonna's probably feeling like she's trapped. March would, at least, but what the fuck else are they going to do wandering around this godforsaken wilderness?

"This isn't Purgatory." A beat. "It is, but not yours."

[pacificator]

"I didn't say it's a dealbreaker, asshole, I said I'm me. And it's not like he's my type."

That's for damn sure. There's no edge to Little at all, no danger. She can't imagine the people she knows meeting him without feeling a cringing pang of embarrassment (not that any of them would find him anything other than pleasant and decent; Waverly would probably love him) at how deeply uncool he is. What would they even do together?

None of which is anything she wants to think about right now, and she doesn't know why March is cornering her on it, except that she does know why. She gets it. If he wants a straight answer, waiting until they're in the middle of the fucking woods so she'd have to physically run away to avoid it is a good move, if also a dick one. "What exactly do you want me to say about it, March? That I don't have any fucking clue what to do about it? Fine, yeah, there's a string. It's red. So what's that supposed to change, huh?"

[questioningmermaids]

March's brows raise considerably as she talks, slowing his own movement. He squints, bending down, looking at her hands with his own on his hips.

"Huh. I don't see it. Weird."

[pacificator]

She rolls her eyes and takes the opportunity of having his face so close to her hands to flick her fingers at his nose. "Then maybe there isn't one. Are we done? Because there's a fucking bear out here I'd really like to not get surprised by."

[questioningmermaids]

"No, not the string."

March straightens up entirely.

"I was looking for the shovel you're using to dig yourself further and further into a hole with."

[pacificator]

....maybe she should have punched him instead of just flicking his nose. Wynonna folds her arms and envisions getting a shovel just so she could smack him over the head with it.

"Is there some cheat code I can use to get this conversation over with more quickly? Can I press X and just skip it?"

[questioningmermaids]

It's Wynonna's turn to say something he doesn't understand whatsoever, but it doesn't matter: he's got Wynonna hook, line and sinker.

"You could talk to Little about it," he offers.

It's easier said than done. It's complicated. March knows it, so he circles back to what the other was saying earlier.

"Might clear the air at the very least."

[pacificator]

"Yeah, that really sounds like me." Talking to someone to clear the air. It's so absurd she actually laughs, briefly, hands falling to her own hips as she glances around.

Maybe Thomas was right and he really does -- did -- feel a little... have a little... but that doesn't mean his end of this string is the annoyingly brilliant red hers is. And how does that make sense, anyway? "Look, it doesn't matter, okay? I already managed to fuck things up at the party and that was without saying anything."

[questioningmermaids]

This is, in a very weird way, a good distraction from the impending doom the bear leaves him with. And if it gets Wynonna's head out her ass? It's a win-win. When he looks at her, his voice is surprisingly soft.

"What colour's his string, Wynonna?"

[pacificator]

She stares at him for a moment, then licks her lip and looks back up at the sky, blinking rapidly as she shifts, as she half-turns away like there's any way out of this. She can feel his fond determination through the string that binds them together; she knows he can feel the swell of confused emotion that keeps welling from all the tender places he's poking her. She feels stripped bare and sore, her face cracked open when she finally looks back over at him. "Why do you have to make me say it?"

If she doesn't say it, she's still got plausible deniability. She can just ignore it. She can pretend she doesn't see it and nothing has to change and she doesn't have to look those feelings she's been shoving away in the eye and accept them. "If I say it, I can't go back and un-say it. And if I say it..."

She exhales, heavy, as something else, a sadness she hasn't wanted to acknowledge, seeps gently into her chest, like cool water, soothing and aching in equal measure. "If I say it, things won't be the same between you and me. You know that."

And even though his string isn't fully heart's blood red, that doesn't mean that loss is any less wrenching than all the others she's known. He might not go anywhere, but it'll still be different. Some door will shut, some distance will grow, it'll be different. "Maybe I don't want to say something that'll change everything. Maybe I want to keep us."

It's so childish, and she knows it, and saying or not saying it doesn't actually matter: it's already changed. Maybe that's why the thought hurts so much.

[questioningmermaids]

Wynonna's trying not to cry, and March's jaw tightens in return. He did this, he made the indomitable Wynonna frustrated enough that it's glassy eyes instead of fists. She's right, too--they can't unsay it. But maybe that's for the better.

Wynonna can't keep living in the gutter when someone's showing her the stars. It's as simple as that.

March sighs, bringing his hand up to scratch at his facial hair, casual despite the roiling emotion. He senses Wynonna's from the string, knows she can feel March's fear seeping through that little gold-red string. He's not sure which sadness is his and which is hers at his point. He's not entirely sure he cares.

"Yeah." It's small and non-committal despite the gravity of the words. He looks anywhere that's not Wynonna, feeling the weight of the ring he wears around his neck, the sting of the cold air. His voice is surprisingly leveled for someone who's usually a mess.

"It's not like I'm going anywhere."

[pacificator]

She hates this. Standing at the edge of something both irrevocable and impossible to ignore, while he scrubs at the golden scruff on his cheeks and she tries to come to terms with the way it feels like something's been scooped out of her.

Except it's not gone, not really. It's just shaped a little differently, and all the new corners and edges hurt when it tries to fit into the same place it had before. "You better not. You promised me a hunt."

Not this one; the one back home. The one only he knows about, even now.

Whatever this string is, it's not really enough for the way they're twined together, gold and red, everything he's been to her this whole year and everything they still are to each other. She swallows against the sadness that vibrates through the string; she doesn't know if he's more afraid or if she is. The only thing she's got is that he's still the person she wants holding onto Ward Earp's badge, and she'll still wear this ring for him, however long he needs. And that... that doesn't have to change.

She swallows again, and steps off the cliff. "It's red. His string."

And not the way a couple of the others are, mixed with gold, more possibility than anything else. This string, the one that feels like warm wool and shy morning sunlight and the glint of something precious; it flickers nervously, but the color doesn't shift. It's red as sunset, as an apple. "And I'm not going anywhere, either."

[questioningmermaids]

"I know," March says, and he's not sure to which part. He knows whatever it is that Wynonna and him have is solid and indescribable. He knows what they have isn't going anywhere, even if they both fear the what ifs. He exhales through his nose to avoid the heavy sigh building up in his chest, tries to ignore the tiredness that's starting to seep through him. Forces himself to finish the conversation he started.

They're always gonna be them. And that's all March could ever ask for.

"He's good for you, Wynonna. You're good for him." There's sincerity in those words--and March finally turns to look at the other, gives a slightly lopsided grin. It's mostly genuine.

[pacificator]

Despite it all, despite the ache in her chest and the panic bubbling not far behind, she scoffs out a laugh at that, rolling her eyes as she shakes back her hair. "Because I always go for the good for me option."

But he's not wrong. And it's not that March is bad for her, exactly, but if she never, ever changed, he'd be fine with it. If he never, ever changed, she'd be fine with it. They'd keep each other at the status quo, forever. He accepts her exactly as she is and she doesn't have words for how much she's needed that.

And still she has shifted and changed over the last year; it's strange and terrifying but maybe that's what he means when he talks about what's good for her, because she can draw a direct line from some of those shifts and changes right along the track taken by that glowing red string.

(But maybe she still hasn't changed enough, because her throat closes up at the thought of trying to tell him how much he means, that she'd still do anything for him. That she... loves him, even if she can't say it, even if it's a complicated and multi-shaded kind of love, one grounded more in gold than red.

But he's never needed a string to know how she feels.)

[questioningmermaids]

"Maybe it's time you start."

He doesn't think they're bad for each other. They're pretty copacetic, will always be copacetic--it's what's giving March the push to actually say this. Maybe he's changed, too. Not as much as Wynonna, but a bit. Enough to be self aware. Enough to know that he shouldn't stay stagnant, even if he's not ready to address that yet. Doesn't think he ever will be.

Doesn't mean Wynonna's not. He inhales sharply, reaching up and wrapping an arm around Wynonna, pulling her into a half-hug, kissing the top of her hair.

"Still gonna go on that hunt with you." His other arm swings up, pulling her into a hug proper. "Nothing's gonna change that. Or the fact that I'm the better dancer."

There. Cut through all of this, just a little. Some low-stakes levity. That's what this needs.

[pacificator]

That gets exactly the laugh she knows he's after: a smile pressing dimples into her cheeks, eyes closed as he presses a kiss to her hair. One arm comes up to wrap around him, the other hand grabbing a fistful of his blindingly bright jacket to tug and push like she's giving him a little shake. "Maybe according to a blind, drunk judge that you've bribed to lie."

He's doing it on purpose, and she appreciates it, him making this as easy as possible on her, on both of them. Besides, he's right. Aside from the occasional night spent together, how much will this really change? And it's not like she knows what the hell is between her and Little, anyway. Even admitting the string is red doesn't mean anything other than some indication of what she's feeling. He still politely, gently, let her down at the party. This doesn't change that.

[questioningmermaids]

Wynonna laughs and March feels just a little bit better, as selfish as it is. Maybe it's just her throwing him a bone, but it cracks that final weight off of both of their shoulders, he thinks. Nothing's really going to change, and as March runs his thumb over the piece of thread connecting him with her, he feels warm.

"My lawyer can convince anyone of anything. Even non-drunk judges," he assures, and can't help the chuckle.

"I'm still going to tease Little, though. Just so you know."

[pacificator]

She rolls her eyes as she pulls back, without totally letting him go. When she breathes in the musky scent of leather and old cigarette smoke and liquor, she doesn't know if it's the thread or just him, but either way it's warm and familiar and comforting. "Why wouldn't you? He's a good target."

Teasing Little is one of her own favorite pastimes, after all. "But it's not like you know what color string he's got for me."