i heard a scream in the woods somewhere

[singmod]

MARCH 2025 EVENT

PROMPT ONE: THE AURORA — TERTIARIUS Enola reaches out to the Interlopers and offers them the chance to gain an ability for the third time.

PROMPT TWO: THE HUNTED, PART TWO: The hauntings of the mysterious spectral bear begin to escalate in physical attacks on Interlopers, but assistance comes from a familiar face in trying to ward the Old Bear back.

PROMPT THREE — DON'T SLEEP: A mysterious creature is attacking and killing Interlopers as they sleep. Interlopers must either cosy up with a friend, or spend the night holding a sleepless vigil in order to fight it off.

THE AURORA — TERTIARIUS

WHEN: The Month of March, Mid-March.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potentially disturbing dreams; themes of starvation; themes of disordered eating; themes of animal attacks; mentions of blood; themes of terror.


There has been an increase in frequency of Auroras over the month of February and into March. It is very much something all within the Northern Territories are used to, barring the newest numbers to the ranks. The noise starts: faint at first, but then growing louder. An ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds difficult to place. There’s a kind of electrical buzzing with it all, a low, endless hum punctuated with cracks and pops. The sky is alive with sound, and with it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night.

Streetlights, illuminating the town’s roads; lights in stores and homes will come alive, buzzing and flickering at times. Rotting and rusted cars, almost entirely buried in snow will turn on, their headlights blaring. Electronics that had previously seemed broken flick on — and whilst there are no broadcasts available on televisions, and the radio waves only drone on in static, with occasional emergency broadcasts somehow still going. Any computers and phones will turn on, but will have no internet or reception. Instead, Interlopers may find texts and emails — many of them unsent. The everyday lives of their users stored within, now readable.

With it, Enola can be heard. For many, this is a familiar thing — but not everyone is overly familiar with Enola. She is the First Interloper, and although she is somewhere unknown — the Aurora connects all. She can be heard muttering, distracted and exhausted. Her whispered, unintelligent words a ghostly presence over the Northern Territories.

By mid-March, on Aurora nights, you hear her calling out to you. You hear her call your name. Soft whispers on the wind that echo, she’s trying to reach out to you: “I see you. I’m here.”

On one particular night, the Aurora is particularly notable — it’s almost beautiful, even with its haunting aura. The shimmering waves of colour dancing across the skies, brighter than they’ve ever been. During this Aurora, shooting stars can be seen streaking across the skies. Sharp glints of light across the night. Interlopers finds themselves stopping to watch the shower of stars.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there. I.. I can’t leave. I have to—.” she cuts off, exhales heavily. For a long time, there is silence. Nothing but Enola’s laboured breaths. She sounds… tearful, overwhelmed.

“You’re doing so well, you know that, right? You’re surviving this place.” she tells you. “Even if I can’t be there, I’m with you. All of you.”

There is a silence for a time, long enough that it makes you think Enola has gone.

“I promised I would help you the best I can. This place… doesn’t have to take everything. This is not the ending of all things.”

She tells you to sleep. For some, they recognise this and realise what may end up happening. For others it feels like going out on a limb. But you sleep, and perhaps a dream may come to you.

EFFICIENT MACHINE: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape, overwhelming for a moment before they begin to settle. You dream you are sat at a magnificent feast, the table laden with rich, exotic foods. The mere sight makes your mouth water, your stomach rumbles in protest. You have never felt more hungry in all your life, and you want nothing more than to take your fill.

You are not alone, you realise.

At the opposite end of the table sits a woman, her face shrouded from view, a crown of thorns and flowers upon her head. You cannot tell if she is old, or young. Perhaps she is both, but you feel slightly apprehensive in her presence.

‘Magnificent, is it not?’ she asks. ‘Eat, if you must. But you will hunger again, and know a time of nothing to fill your belly. You will waste away to nothing.’

You stare, unnerved.

‘But… touch nothing, and you will never understand such a pleasure again — but you will never know hunger again. You will never know thirst again. Death will not come for you for an empty belly or an unquenched thirst.’

You sit for some time, staring at the food before you. You hunger desperately, but in the end, you decide not to eat. The woman chuckles, nodding. ‘Very good, child.’

When you awaken, you feel content, like one does after a large meal. That pleasant kind of sleepiness that comes with it. You do not realise that this day will be the last time you ever feel this kind of satiated. There’s something within you that understands: you are blessed, perhaps by Mother Nature herself.

You are an Efficient Machine, and will never suffer for it in times when you have so little. Her bounty, no matter how toxic, will never harm you.

OLD BEAR’S BLESSING: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of kneeling in thick woods, one you recognise to be Lakeside. You hold a weapon close to you: your gun, your knife, your bow, whatever it is you use to arm yourself in waking life. The air is alive with breathing, your heart thunders in your chest.

You feel… warm, with blood. You are injured. Sharp claws have torn your flesh, fangs have punctured you, mangled your bones. The pain is overwhelming, and you look up to a shadow of a great and terrible beast.

The Old Bear. Impossibly big in this dream, more so than the phantom that’s haunted you the past several weeks. It towers over you. You cannot win this fight. You are tired, weak and injured.

But you will not be afraid. And you keep your weapon ready.

The bear approaches you, weighted and purposeful steps to your kneeling form.

Its giant muzzle is level with your face. The moment is fraught. Its jaws open wide into a ferocious roar, and you don’t flinch away — even as you feel its hot breath against your face. In reply, you scream back. You will not be afraid.

Old Bear falls silent, salivating jaws dripping onto you. You gaze at the Old Bear’s huge, black eyes: intelligent and fearsome. The darkness in those black pools feels endless. And yet you feel… seen. The Old Bear sees something in you.

You will not be afraid.

When you awaken, you feel…. strong. Hale. Perhaps the best you’ve felt since you came here, perhaps for the first time in your life. But there’s something else, too. Something that rolls in slow waves in the pit of your stomach. Rage, some old kind of fury that warms your bones. The Old Bear has granted you a boon, a blessing. May you use it well.

DARKWALKER’S REVENGE: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape and then fade into nothing. When you look up, you are in a place of endless, impenetrable black. You are not alone. Enola stands with you, apprehension in her expression. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. In silence, all there is the sound of your breathing, Enola’s breathing. She looks about, searching, on guard. She steps in front of you, as if to shield you.

Something is wrong.

Enola looks over her shoulder at you. Her blue eyes are sharp, fearful. She says your name softly.

Out of the dark, an invisible force grabs Enola, lifting her from her feet and yanking her backwards and away from you. It drops her briefly and she falls to the ground. You can try to chase after her, try to help her, but there is an almighty sound: as if the very earth is splitting open. Enola is dragged from you, kicking and screaming and fighting as furiously as she can.

No—! Leave them! Leave them be—!

Something shifts, and it is as if she’s being dragged down into the very earth itself. She claws, trying to gain traction, trying to stop herself from being pulled down completely and disappearing into the dark. A gigantic skeletal claw rips emerges from the darkness and her from you. She’s cut off mid-scream, horror in her eyes.

In the dark, you are alone. Or so you think.

There is the slow churning sound of bones and scattering of earth. Out of the darkness appears the violent green of three glowing wolf skulls, impossibly enormous and rising and rising and rising.

It towers above you, gargantuan and leering. The Darkwalker. The wolf skulls snarl, their jaws pulling into terrible grins. The center of its skulls opens its maw, dripping emerald mucus. It is hungry, so very hungry. And then it lunges at you, swallowing you whole with the snapping of jaws and a terrible wet sound. There’s pain, and fear. Overwhelming and all-encompassing; and the dream snaps shut as it ends.

When you awaken, you feel sick to your stomach, exhausted. Perhaps even feverish. You will not be able to rise from your bed, spending an entire day sick with some unknown illness. By the nightfall of the second day, you will begin to improve and feel… stronger, somehow. Revitalised. The night is long and bitter, but you are not afraid of the dark.

But do you understand the price? Something has gone wrong. This is the Darkwalker’s Revenge. You may never know the light again.

NOTHING: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape, but only for a moment. The edges of your vision begin the blur with black, slowly closing in until everything goes dark and you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. You awaken, and although you feel rested, as if the dreamless darkness has helped you feel a little more ready to take on the day — nothing else about you has changed.

THE HUNTED, PART TWO

WHEN: The month of March, into April.
WHERE: Everywhere, but mostly Lakeside.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural creature; hauntings; supernatural experiences; themes of hunting, being hunted/stalked by an animal; bear attacks; potential gore/maulings; potential character death; potential NPC death.

For months now, a presence has been haunting the Interlopers across the Northern Territories. At first, nothing more than footprints in the snow that lead to nowhere, shadows against the rocks that disappear when you turn around.

The Old Bear has Returned, and may you find your way far from its teeth and claws.

Out in the wilds, you will find yourself being stalked. For many Interlopers, they have been through this dance before. The prickling sensation at the back of one’s neck. The thuds of its paws in the snow approaching you, low grumblings of a great, angry beast seeking you out.

Something feels different, this time. Something feels real, weighted.


In time, the creature will be upon you — a hulking, great bear with thick brown fur, snapped arrows sitting at its neck and a strange, keen intelligence. It watches you, follows you from a distance, up high. And soon enough, it will charge.

Fleeing from Old Bear would have you running from nothing but the wind. Previous attempts of standing one’s ground and attempting to shoot or fight the bear have proved that the apparition will dissolve into thin air quicker than a blink.

But not this time. The phantom is made of flesh.

Old Bear might not kill you, but a mauling from them will certainly draw you close to death if its allowed to get at you for long enough. Almost as if it hopes the resulting injuries or the exposure will kill you. Pray that you have someone with you to help fight Old Bear off so you can escape.

And It seems as if there is very little to be done to stop Old Bear’s approach even now with it being physically able to harm you. Flames will not harm it, nor ward it off, campfires will not keep it at bay. Shooting at them will only anger him even more if it can see you. The sound of guns may keep them at bay, provided they cannot see where you are. Flare guns are effective, particularly if Old Bear doesn’t see where its coming from. Hiding in buildings is effective enough too, with Old Bear clawing at wood and hefting its great weight to try and force its way inside for a time until it eventually gives up and leaves you alone.

But there must be something that can be done to beat the ancient creature back, and there is someone who may be able to help. On occasion, Young Bill, who is out in the wilds of Lakeside, may come across you in the midst of Old Bear trying to attack Interlopers. He will help chase the bear off with the use of a trusty flare gun — with it being far better at spooking the animal off for a short time. In the aftermath, Young Bill will help tend to any injuries in a state of shock and — once Interlopers are alright — with a grim smile.

“I thought we were all just seeing things. Ghosts. But that old bastard’s still around, like… for real, huh?”

He’ll gather up Interlopers and take them back to his cabin for any further treatment and a chance to get warmed up again. He will tell the Interlopers the story of the Old Bear (for those who have yet to read it in the Camp Office) before leaving to fetch a chest from his bedroom. Inside will be a broken spear, still covered in ancient, dried blood and carefully wrapped in fabric, along with ancient blue-prints on yellowing, fragile paper.

“My ancestor was one of the hunters who went after Old Bear.” he will explain, showing Interlopers the broken spear. “This was all that was found after they, and Old Bear, disappeared out on the muskeg.”

“I thought it was all just… stories. Hunters with ego trying to stop an old bear. But… that bear shouldn’t be alive. With the way things are now, with how things are changing. I… I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“When my old man was dying, he said it wasn’t the Darkwalker that was coming for him. It was the Old Bear. Maybe he had a point.”

It makes you wonder, considering the state of the world.

“You need something that can do what bullets or arrows can’t.” he tells them, laying out the fragile blueprints on the table. “Thick steel, far better for piercing through that hide. Make one of these, and you might just have what you need to keep that thing away. Maybe enough to keep it away from you for good. I don’t know if this might work, but it’s worth a shot. And I owe you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“There’s a forge at the Maintenance Yard. I’ve used it before, the guys there would let me do work there on occasion. I think one of you guys have been in there lately. We could make some of these. They’ll last longer than bullets, too.”

At least for those inexperienced in metalwork, Young Bill will accompany Interlopers to the Maintenance Yard and get to work — guiding them in powering up the forge and getting to crafting new spears. The spears are strong, sharp and sturdy, despite their modest appearance. Young Bill checks each one, whispering something under his breath to the steel as he runs his thumb along the edge, and perhaps you may hear the words. It’s strange, they are not English, but you understand them all the same:

‘May you know your enemy.’

You may not be sure if this will work, but if the Old Bear comes for you again then you have something new to try. And soon enough the creature will come, stalking you for some time before it draws in to attack. As it charges, readying your spear by kneeling in the ground and angling it just right will give you a fighting chance of piercing through that tough hide and giving you a fighting chance of avoiding being mauled. An intense, desperate fight will ensue, but the spear proves to be a valuable asset, allowing you to fight Old Bear off far better than anything else you may have tried before now.

And sure enough, the creature will run off — leaving nothing but blood upon the snow. You won’t be able to hunt the beast down, such is not the way of things with this strange, ancient creature. But you will have fought it off enough for it to leave you well alone. Until next time, that is.

DON’T SLEEP

WHEN: Throughout the month of March.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS:malevolent supernatural beings; sleep paralysis demons-esque creature; themes of hauntings; themes of peril/terror; death of npc interlopers; possible character death; supernatural death; possible sleep deprivation.

Something attacking the Interlopers in the dead of night. Perhaps there are whispers of it amongst Interlopers in town, utterings in conversation. A bad night’s sleep, a terrible dream. A monster in the corner, and being powerless to move against it.

A shadowy presence in the room where you sleep. Distant, in the corner of the room: something impossible tall and human-looking. Watching you. The first night it does nothing but watch from its distance.

The second night: it is closer. You still can’t quite pick out the details of it other than the bald head and unnaturally long limbs as it towers over you, bent to loom close.

The third? Well. Those affected don’t speak of the third night. The dead don’t speak.

Checking on neighbours, it will be uncovered that some of the Interlopers have been killed in their beds. Investigations of Interloper homes will turn up showing no sign of a break in, nor will anyone note anything out of ordinary on the nights that these Interlopers die — no screams, no signs of a struggle, no assailant running off into the night.

But it is clear that something is killing people as they sleep each night — often targeting Interlopers who live, or sleep alone.

As for the poor Interlopers themselves who are found dead the next morning, or after, their bodies will all show the very same injury: a strange depression in their chests. Anyone who wishes to look further than and perform some kind of post-mortem or autopsy will discover that while there has been little damage elsewhere in the torso, the heart has been completely crushed.

Something, some kind of… supernatural being, perhaps. No man nor beast could perform such an act.

Understandably, Interlopers will find themselves too terrified to sleep. What if whatever this is comes for them too? While they sleep? It means some long nights of sleeplessness ahead, until someone works out what to do here. The only problem is that people need sleep to survive. The body requires REM sleep in order to function, and the odds are already so terribly stacked again Interlopers without the preciousness of sleep. Sleep deprivation can be potentially devastating. Those who fell victim to the Glimmerfog last year will know only too well about that.

There are a couple of options of what to do, it seems.

Interlopers can avoid meeting a grim fate by sharing a bed for the entire month. There’s strength in numbers after all.It might be a little awkward, all things considered. But what’s a little awkwardness in the face of possibly dying horribly by some terrible creature? Bunking up with someone might be a decent idea of keeping yourselves safe — and also keeping yourselves warm, considering current state of the world and winter’s grasp clinging so tightly despite the coming of Spring.


Another option is to hold a vigil for another Interloper, to allow them to sleep for the night whilst you keep watch. Whilst this may be extremely difficult for some, it might just be enough to ward the mysterious being off from coming after Interlopers as they sleep. It’s entirely possible that the creature may actually still come for the sleeping Interloper — and will finally be revealed to the one keeping watch.

The being is nude, tall and pale, something possibly human-like but with little in terms of distinguishable features. Its face is nothing more than a warped, eyeless mask and an open, circular mouth of teeth, and with long, spindly limbs and clawed hands and feet. It’s a terrifying thing, and it may still attempt to come for the sleeping Interloper, clambering along the wall and dropping onto the bed, making to attack.

The creature can be scared off by the one standing watch by even so much as a firm word, let alone a physical attack — and it will be enough to scare it off from both the sleeper and the watcher for the duration. And it truth, it will work — while the being may continue to go after other Interlopers for the remainder of the month, both the watcher and sleeper will not be troubled ever again.

FAQs

THE AURORA — TERTIARIUS


1. The final three Aurora Feats are now unlocked! Please see the following page for more information. Aurora Feats are completely optional.

2. Interlopers will only receive ONE Aurora Event. The only time this is available is this month. After March, players will have to wait for the next Feat round for another chance at an Aurora Feat.

3. Now that all Feats have been revealed, the game will hold further events with three Feats chosen at random until the Endgame.


THE HUNTED, PART TWO

1. The spears don't appear like much, nor do they appear like they will do much damage — but are incredibly sturdy and strong. Is it magic? Belief? The power of folk story? It's hard to say. But there's something about them that is incredibly effective in dealing with Old Bear.

2. Interlopers are allowed one spear each.

3. Interlopers can make an additional spear to bring back for a friend who might not be present.

4. The language Young Bill speaks to the speaks is one native to the game-world and thus fictional. However, those familiar may note similarities with the languages of the indigenous peoples of Canada.

DON'T SLEEP

1. Interlopers who are haunted by the creature and spend a single night sharing a bed with another will find that they will 'reset' their hauntings but there will be an additional day added. Their next night alone will be uneventful, the second will have the creature appear at a distance, the third will have the creature closer and the fourth would be the day they would be 'caught' by the creature and killed.

2. As Community Hall is a bit of a grey area considering Interlopers are sleeping 'alone together', it is player choice if the creature targets them or not if they choose to sleep there.

3. The creature will attack Interlopers whenever they are sleeping, regardless of the time of day.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

[fidior]

[ He watches her light each one, the space around them progressively lighting up more and more — not bright and abrasive but soft and warm, a glow more than a shine, the darkness still present, still felt in those space inbetween, those flickering shadows, but not swallowing up everything.

It brings her closer to him again, and for a long moment he's just looking at her. The movement of her hands doesn't escape him, and things are strangely awkward there in the space between them. Like something needs to push, or pull, slot into space, and both of them are just slightly off-center from where they should be. It's not an altogether unfamiliar sensation to experience around Wynonna, but the startling realisation is that it's been a long time since he's felt this particular awkwardness. The thread allowed them to come together like two puzzle pieces, like two organs in the same animal, breathing and working as one, understanding without needing words, knowing.

And it feels so much better, it fits, when he fits with her. When they're together, synched for all the ways they may process differently, and as of late it's involved a physical closeness too, which is ironic for how much it's continued to agonise them both....

But he's thinking of the time she held his wounded hand in both of hers. The time she curled up with him in bed, warm and safe. When they'd danced there in the quiet, when they'd sat side by side on his couch, voices soft and smiles shy and then so relaxed.

What he wants more than anything in this moment is to be close to her like that. To hold and to be held, to feel the security that both offers. It makes him mournful, lonely, like a space left cold by a warm blanket suddenly lifted.

'You've never been a killer and you aren't one now.'

His breath hitches again, eyes softening, blown-out pupils reflecting flickering flame. It wounds that specific place inside of him; she doesn't see him as a killer, not before when he'd told her what he'd done, not now, and it matters more than anything. He isn't a killer.

Control it. As always, Wynonna helps guide him through, there's help he needs and she's there, putting a plan into motion. What he's been doing for these past weeks isn't quite controlling it, more keeping it hidden away like some dangerous animal kept beneath a dark curtain. But now... now it's become keeping it staved, not just hidden but suppressed.

Controlled, in comparison, would be a much better option.

But how to do it? Perhaps, with the aide of these lights keeping him safe (keeping her safe from him? Hopefully...) he might be able to better explore just how that could be possible. Though he hates the thought of looking at it more closely... but how can be control a beast if he doesn't know exactly what manner of beast it is? ]

I have not wanted to... discern what it is that I feel such a draw towards. [ He wets his lips, feeling himself getting nervous again. ] What it is, exactly, that causes such loathsome hunger. But perhaps I should try to... identify it? In an environment as safe as this.

[ He looks purposefully at her, not so much curious as desperate, wanting to hear her opinion of that idea, ghastly though it is. ]

[pacificator]

[ He still looks twigged to hell and back, his already dark eyes even darker now with pupils dilated into huge pools of black that swallows up the warm brown she's used to. From fear, from whatever want he's so afraid of, she has no idea, but it doesn't really matter, not when they're so tangled up in each other. And still, there's trust, too, as he looks back down at her. He's anxious, but willing to listen, wanting her help.

God, she hopes she's actually capable of giving him whatever it is he needs. He looks at her like she really might be able to help him find an answer, or a solution. He says he's safe here, with her. She hasn't been anyone's safe place since Waverly.

Frightened as he might be, he's at least thinking; panic hasn't overridden his brain and frozen him into a helpless standstill. He's still cautious as he makes his suggestion, as he looks at her with those dark and distressed eyes, but he's still making his wary way along the logical path. Uncertain as he is, when he meets her eyes and his voice trails off into that question, she nods, firm and without hesitation. It's pretty much the exact same thing she was thinking, and it feels good to be aligned again, even if that alignment feels a little shaky, a little fragile. ]

I don't think you've got many other options.

[ Pushing it down, trying to ignore it, clearly hasn't helped. And if it is anything like what she'd thought it might be, trying to simply leave it alone might just make things worse. She knows all about that, too.

He wets his lips, and she mirrors the motion almost unconsciously (and even now at what has to be in the running for least appropriate time for musing on anything other than the problem at hand, there's a quick flicker of her glance down to his mouth as she remembers how it felt against her own, as the urge to push up on her toes and press her lips to his again rises sharp and hot). ]

Even if it scares you, even if you hate it, if it's a part of you now, there's no getting away from it. Believe me, I know.

You said touch makes it worse, right?

[ She'd run as far as she could, all around the world, trying to stave off the curse, trying to pretend that just because she wasn't in Purgatory the clock would stop and she'd have her twenty-seventh birthday without anything stranger than maybe an ill-advised one-night stand happening. But she'd been dragged back in, anyway. The killing hadn't stopped just because she wasn't there.

The thought of Edward, the gentlest man she's ever met, unwillingly and unwittingly being the source of hurt, of death, hurts her more than she would have expected, punches a knot into her stomach. This isn't a gun he could put down and she could pick up, to be the sin-eater for one more person along with the generations of her own family who came before and who might still appear in the future. She can't protect him from himself.

But she can do this: offer herself as a test subject, as the control for this experiment. She makes her fingers release her wrists behind her back and brings her hands between them, palms up and fingers relaxed into soft parentheses. Her arms are bare all the way up to the short sleeves of the shirt she's wearing. Her neck and throat are bare; her belly is bare. She's as vulnerable now as it's possible for her to get, and just in case that wasn't enough, she takes another small step forward, almost close enough to let her hands brush against his front. Offering. ]

So touch me, and this time don't try to push it away. Let's see what we're dealing with.

[fidior]

[ 'Believe me, I know.' He may not know exactly how she knows, but there are things he might guess from what she's told him. Weights carried, burdens bore. She accidentally shot her father when she was just a girl. She blames herself for her sister's fate. She blames herself for— almost everything. He isn't the only one with dark, dark memories and decisions and regrets shoved up and in and away.

She knows what it's like to hate herself, because he's felt that in her, the crushing tidal waves of grief, loss, self-loathing. He wonders, often, how many times a day she might look in the direction that thread claimed to lead to Willa, filled with the need to go back there, to try, to fight.

So he does know that she knows. He trusts in that. He watches her relax her body into something open, willing, inviting, hands held palm up, step taken closer; she might as well be offering her bare throat to a wolf. ....An ironic thought, maybe, considering they've lovingly chomped at each other's muzzles and sides and throats as wolves. ....Best not to think about that right now....

Edward takes a step to her. It's as small as the one she'd taken towards him, but they're already so close, and now he has to tip his head just a little bit down to maintain eye contact with her. He sighs, full-bodied and tense, but when he releases it, it eases some of that tight tension out of him, lowering his shoulders again.

For a moment, he hesitates. Eyes slowly roam Wynonna's body, where so much of it is exposed to him. (Hunger, and once again he's stricken by the knowledge that it's both so foreign and not so new. But there's something different, something pressing, something more. He feels so weak from not eating. He needs her — but how?)

...He reaches for her hand. It's slow and cautious and with trembling fingers, but he slides them around hers, holds on like that for a moment. Touch. It sparks electric through him, but that's not unusual for him, not with her. She makes every part of him come to life.

Slowly, Edward lifts her hand upwards, almost to his mouth. Like some preparation of a kiss upon her knuckles, and he flushes as his lips come close. They don't actually make contact; he just stands there like that, her hand drawn up close to him, a careful test. But no demon rises in him, no compulsion to open his mouth and bite into her flesh; he stares down at her skin and it's not that he wants to... to eat it, as horrible as the thought is to indulge at all. ]

I don't think this is... dangerous, [ he voices, even if he's not entirely sure about that. There still is some lurking danger, and everything sensible says to end this now, but she's doing this for him and he has to do this, too. He swallows, throat moving thickly. ]

I might... have you closer, [ he says, wanting to stay as polite as he possibly can be about something like this... and also as a warning, before he gently
lowers her hand so that he can give it a cautious pull to coax her closer to him. He's taking a step forward too, and that brings them almost flush, almost like they're about to embrace, or dance again. Their hands are at one side, and he squeezes hers now. He has to tilt his head slightly, hovering over one of her shoulders. If his eyes drop down, he'll see the bare skin of her neck, warm and soft. ]

Are you still all right?

[pacificator]

[ There's a pregnant pause — how she's always hated that term — and then he is moving towards her, slow and deliberate, one step of his booted feet bringing him close enough that her fingers do now brush against the material of his clothing. He's not as tall as Dolls, but when he's this close she still has to tip her face up to meet his eyes, even as he's looking down to her, and it means she misses the movement of his hand towards hers until she feels his fingers carefully sliding over her skin.

It feels like the sweep of a match head against the rough sandpaper of a lighting strip. For a moment, her whole self feels condensed into a few square inches of skin on the back of her hand, painted into life by this cautious caress. He curls his fingers under hers and lifts her hand, gentle, genteel, even, and the muscles of her throat flicker as she swallows, watching the way he bends over her knuckles, her hand loose and relaxed in his.

She's got no clue what to expect. Maybe she should be bracing for pain, for a sudden attack— but nothing comes, except the warm puff of breath over the thin, delicate skin at the back of her hand. I don't think this is dangerous, he tells her, and she'd have to disagree. It's just a completely different kind of danger than she'd thought to worry about.

It's unusual for him to reach out and touch her first. Even these last few months, since their dance, since the strings, it's rare for him to do so much as brush the backs of his knuckles against hers, unless she's reached for him first. And then he's— giving, warm and shy but willing, affectionate in a way she can hardly remember anyone ever being with her. (Loving, might be the word she'd use, if her thoughts didn't skitter away from it in a panic anytime they might come even close to brushing against it.) For all his hang-ups and propriety, he'd come to lie there in that bed with her when she asked him to. (He'd asked what she needed and her answer had been thoughtless at the time, but now she thinks she'd answered it seriously after all: she hadn't needed food or more water or more sleep, she'd just needed him, and he'd been there, right there, without hesitation.)

And just as she expects him to let go, to step back, to create the space between them he always seems to need, he does... not that. His voice is low and she can almost feel the touch of it running over her skin like velvet and when he gently draws on her hand, she moves forward without hesitation. She doesn't protest as he lowers their hands, keeping hold of hers as he moves even closer, close enough her chest brushes his every time she breathes in, which is happening a little faster now. His jaw and cheek are visible out of the corner of her eye; she can see them hazily through her lowered lashes. He asks are you still all right? and she blinks half-lidded eyes a little too rapidly, swallows. Warmth pools in her gut, slowly spreading through each limb, up along her belly and the bared, bowed curve of her neck. ]

Uh-huh.

[ A little too fast, a little too light, feeling weirdly weightless. It's also a lie: she knows exactly what this is she's feeling, and all right isn't how she'd describe it at all. Would someone caught in the middle of a wildfire sweeping through the prairie say they were all right?

Her hand shifts in his, abortive. Stops. Slowly moves again, her fingers sliding between his, pressing palm to palm. ]

Closer. Okay.

[ She lifts her other hand to find his free one, but she doesn't take it in hers: instead, she guides it toward herself the way she did once before. This time, there's no thin barrier of silky fabric between his hand and her body, and she's warm to the touch, muscles shifting under skin at even this small movement. Wynonna draws his hand to a spot where her side curves to her back and presses it there, her fingers lingering for a moment before lifting away once more. Her eyes, when she glances up and sidelong to his face, are dark pools of pupil surrounded by a thin ring of clearest blue-gray. ]

How's that?

[fidior]

[ He doesn't yet know, doesn't yet understand, that the only reason he hasn't started draining anything from her with that one touch, is because he doesn't want to do that. That somewhere in him is still control — even if being so close, even if the spark of touch, stirs those hungers, coaxes whatever darkness has infested him like an encouraging embrace, makes it purr and lick its lips.

But he doesn't want to hurt her, to take from her, and for now maybe he can refrain from doing that. He'll think that's a good thing. Soon, sooner than he expects, he'll learn the error of this thinking.

But he doesn't understand any of this too explicitly, and doesn't know that he won't lose control of himself any moment, and so each touch and movement and flutter of Wynonna's soft long eyelashes is dangerous. He barely breathes when her hand slowly shifts, adjusts, waits to see what she'll do, and then her palm is against his, solidifying this closeness in something that's more, something locked against one another. To pull their hands back now would require untangling their fingers from one another's, for however many seconds that might take — and it may only take literal seconds, but he knows it'd feel like so much longer. He can practically feel her pulse against his, or maybe that's only his own, maybe it's just that strong right now, or maybe it's some phantom, still-faintly-tangible remnant of the red thread, or maybe that's just in his head, but—

Maybe none of that matters. It's him, and her.

She's moving his other hand and he lets her, stays very still as she places it at her side. And again, this is all so familiar and so different; his hand remembers how to settle at the curve against her waist, but there's no silken red cloth for his fingertips to nudge against, only bare warm skin, and he's never touched her here before. Not like this. When her hand leaves his alone there, he's afraid, for a moment, his own hand staying very still.

'How's that?'

Terrifying, for more reasons than one, and brand-new, and threatening to be overwhelming, and maybe a risk, and—

'You never think I should touch you.'

Edward's mouth tips open as he finds thought through the dizzy swirling fog in his mind, and his eyes find hers looking up at him like that, and for a moment, his want is his own, not something else's, no demon's or Dalkwalker's or whatever is the source of this unholy appetite that's been born in him. Gently, his hand adjusts its position so subtly, fingers spreading a little more across her skin towards her back, not just placed there but holding to her, and holding her to him, and the gesture might coax her body against him even more, and now there's hardly any space between them. ]

It's nice.

[ It's another confession to her, voiced soft and low and with the blood of his heartbeat pounding in his head, and he continues, clarifies— ]

This is nice.

[ Not safe or all right or any necessary word to keep him grounded. This is nice. But he hasn't forgotten that there's a purpose to this, chest moving slowly as he breathes against her, and he swallows as he slowly moves his hand against her skin, rubbing up and down, gently. He doesn't know that he could be seconds away from doing something so horrible. But he should voice a knowledge that he does have, even if it's so difficult to truly describe... It comes out almost whispered, words low. ]

...I can... feel you. More, than usual. Deeper. It's almost— it's almost like before, the red. [ The thread. Almost, but not quite. What he's feeling isn't instinct, isn't her thought and feeling and existence, but it is her existence, in some form... ]

You feel... alive. Inside. I can feel it. [ Alive and warm and he could sink his teeth in, except not really his teeth, it's not with his teeth that he could eat what's so indescribably appetising within her. What is it? Edward pauses, realising with a slow-melting drop in his stomach that it's maybe horrifying, what he's saying, and he wants to give her every out she needs. He tenses again, doesn't remove his hands from her, but stops that subtle coaxing push towards his body for a moment. Stops pressing her to himself; she could pull away if she wants to. ]

Do you wish me to stop? To let go?

[pacificator]

[ Their fingers are laced loosely together, not gripping each other, and in fact every part of this is slow, careful, gentle. It's the exact opposite of the hurricane strike that was Doc, or the lip-splitting, bruising flare of desire with March. She can feel every individual finger move as he spreads his hand over her skin, as he brings her so gently closer. It isn't a pull, just guidance; she's already there, her free hand going to his shoulder and smoothing over the fine wool of his clothing to the side of his neck as her body presses against his. Every breath he takes feels like it echoes one she's exhaled. His fingers move over her skin, shy but without lifting away, and she shivers, a full-body tremor that starts as a spark under her skin and runs like chain lightning through every vein.

It's nice, he murmurs. There's no one else here and they're almost as close as two people can be, but his voice has dropped to nearly a whisper. She can't trust her own at all, swallows as she nods, as her lashes drop and her eyes close. She's never felt his touch on the bare skin of her body before. She's a little surprised that silky red dress hadn't smoldered away under his palm back on the dance floor, at the party that feels like a lifetime ago. ]

I like when you can feel me.

[ If she opened her eyes, would she see that red string wound around her fingers again, where their tips are just slipping into the soft mess of his hair, the short strands at the nape of his neck soft against them? It almost feels that way, like they've clicked back into place with each other. She still understands him. Somehow, he understands her. ]

Alive doesn't sound so bad.

[ Though it does make her think again of Louis, of vampires, of stories about men draining women for youth and health and beauty. Doc's ring was a different kind of bargain made; she doesn't know if what's happening to Edward will have the same effect. ]

Is that... what you want? My life?

[ Maybe. But she doesn't feel like she's in danger of anything but spontaneous combustion right now. Not when he's holding her so gently, trying to give her a way out, one she definitely does not want.

In answer, she shifts against him; far from pulling away, she leans in closer, nudges her forehead against his, nose tip brushing nose tip. He's so close she can feel his breath puffing against her lips, her cheek. She shakes her head: no. ]

I don't want you to let go.

[ A breath as her heart pounds, blood swirling in her head, running hot through her body, and her lips curve into a smile as her eyes open, heavy and half-lidded. ]

I think you should seriously consider never letting go. That sounds a lot better.

[fidior]

[ He feels Wynonna shudder, and he's felt that in her before — from the inside out, from the place that thread allowed him to feel, but now... for all the ways he can feel her on the inside, there are other ways he can't. The shudder that comes is a sensation that's experienced externally, and it makes him shudder in response, like current flowing through her and into him. It's soft and striking and he can't stop himself from exhaling in a sharp puff against her skin.

'I like when you can feel me.'

She shouldn't say that, this isn't something... positive, that he can feel her; it's unnatural that he can, it's wrong. (But then, he could feel her through the red, which was just as unnatural and yet felt so right, an impossible paradox that logic had no place for, a space that his heart dominated in.)

It's dangerous that he can feel her however he can right now, but— maybe it isn't? 'Alive doesn't sound so bad' she says, and it's true. It's also true that he likes feeling that in her. She's alive, she's breathing, she's safe and warm and her body feels tight and firm against him but somehow not close enough—

The question has him pausing from some hazy lulled place, lashes fluttering as he keeps his eyes dipped down low. ]

I don't know, [ he admits in another whisper. Is that what he's hungry for? Her life? Surely it can't be. (But what if it is? Fear ripples through him again, but it's easier for it to feel a little numbed now, in the face of how warm and comfortable and safe Wynonna is against him. Surely it isn't that. To hunger for her life... It would mean that he'd hunger specifically to kill her, wouldn't he? Not simply a hunger for flesh or blood, pieces and parts of a person, but... her life. He wouldn't. It can't be that. He'd never—)

She's closer now, and that fills some need in him that exists despite, or perhaps in parallel with, the other needs that he can't quite define. She's closer now, forehead against his, nose brushing his, mouth and eyelashes so close. He can feel, more than see, her smile as she says she doesn't want him to let go. She trusts him. (Trusts him, and wants him, and his own heart is syrup-heavy, pulsing slow but thick now, melting, warm and sweet.)

He should keep figuring this out, what this is. Should follow up that "I don't know" with more thoughts, but Wynonna's smiling almost against his mouth, and she's opening her eyes again, and he's tilting his face just slightly to the side as he presses his mouth against hers in one movement — not fast, not harsh or hard, but steadfast, no hesitation, no resistance. His hands follow the natural motion of his want, the one that's against her back pushing her up into himself that little bit more, and the fingers at his other side that are loosely curled in hers tighten and grasp, locking. None of it's rough or insistent or demanding; it feels more like two halves sliding naturally into place, they know exactly where to go.

He doesn't know how to kiss, not like she does — but it's feeling that leads him in these seconds, not a checklist of steps to take, of order to keep. And her mouth is warm and wet and familiar, and she's so alive, yes, so alive, and his body comes alive against her, everything feeling hotter, tighter, alert and hungry. His belly's so warm with heat of want; his blood's so hot. Edward gives a sound that he can't control, a soft moan, wanting more, unable to detangle the threads of want from one another — he wants her closer, wants her all over him again like she was that aching night when she pressed herself against him, mouth against mouth; he wants to eat, he's so hungry, it's not that he wants to hurt her but she tastes so warm and good and alive and yes, maybe yes, he wants to feed on what tastes so good— Something in him sucks and slurps and takes, just seconds-quick; Wynonna might only feel a little pinprick sensation of dizziness, like a nudge of vertigo.

Edward's eyes, which were closed before he realised it, open again suddenly, pupils constricting fast in the sudden shift from dark to the flicker of candlelight nearby. Then they swell again as a surge of fear almost reels him sideways, rises up in him sudden and sweeping. He lets go of her, takes a step back, head giving an odd sharp shake to the side, like he's trying to frighten off an insect buzzing near his ear. He's so stunned he can't even be horrified yet, but it'll come. For now, apologies spill from his lips, still half-parted, and he looks lost, confused. What... ]

I'm sorry— I'm sorry.

[ He could be apologising for the gesture of intimacy, and some part of him is, but the other part knows there's something else. A spark of delicious scintillating brightness, there and gone. He felt in her. For a moment, he tasted it. He doesn't know if she'll even be aware of it. Will she? Could she have... felt that? He can't let it happen again. ]

Please forgive me. This is much too— it's too dangerous. I mustn't— I mustn't pursue it further. No— no further.

[pacificator]

[ He's warm and steady against her, aside from that little tremor that goes through him like it had slipped from under her skin to beneath his, and it's been a while since they've been this close. Not since January, maybe, when she'd clung to him, broken-hearted and beaten, when she couldn't hold back any longer and kissed him. She can feel the way his pulse picks up in the fingers that are laced with hers. He's close enough to kiss again, his breath warm against her lips, his own lashes low, and she only has time to think it before he leans the last extra half-inch and his mouth is against hers. He's—

In all the time she'd spent wishing he'd finally put a little action to the way he looks at her sometimes, dark-eyed and warm with want, she'd pretty much resigned herself to the certainty that if anything was ever going to happen, it was going to be on her to make it happen. He's never even kissed her back, always too stunned to do much more than keep breathing.

It's her turn to be stunned, now. Surprise washes over her in a bewildered wave, but it's only a heartbeat before her eyes press closed and her fingers thread into the soft waves of hair at the back of his head. His hand firms against her back, his fingers clutch hers and hers tighten right back as she pushes herself up and in, as close as she can manage to get, lips parting to kiss him back. Everything else washes away on a flood of pure want that empties her mind and pours, hot, into her chest, her gut. He doesn't know what he's doing and this kiss is a little awkward, but it's okay because she knows more than enough for both of them. She's angling her head and controlling the pressure, the small motions of her lips against his, he's so warm and his mouth is soft and sweet where it presses to hers and then he makes that little sound and it goes off in her gut like a depth charge. A silent, immediate expansion that clutches back in on itself almost instantly. She's never wanted anything in her life so much as to hear him make that sound again. She wants to hear it tacked onto her name as it falls off his lips like it's the only word he remembers how to say anymore.

Maybe it hits her harder than she thought, because in the next second there's a weird, dizzy swoop that leaves her head reeling like she'd just glanced to the side and realized she was on the edge of a cliff. Her stomach tightens, and her knees feel weirdly weak, and— yes, this is a nice kiss and it's burning through her like flame through tissue paper but she's not exactly the swooning damsel type.

It does, however, leave her even more off-balance than she might otherwise be when Edward rips himself away without warning, and she finds herself stumbling a step or two forward, awkward. She blinks away the haze in her head, her face flushed and lips pink and a little shiny from his mouth, warm and wet and willing for just long enough to turn this from frustration into utter disbelief as she stares at him. ]

Are you kidding me? You're doing this again? Now?

[fidior]

[ He's staring back at Wynonna who looks just as confused and dazed as him for that initial moment, struck off-guard, face and mouth flushed darker, eyes all glossy and warm. Then her expression sharpens into something more clear and focused, but it doesn't seem— afraid. She doesn't seem alarmed by any spike of pain, no surge of hurt. Just confused, and incredulous, and he knows how this looks. ]

I'm sorry! [ He stammers again, afraid she might come close to him again, afraid he might be unable to stop himself from letting her. His pulse thrums and throbs with adrenaline, with want, with hunger, and it terrifies him. What was that? What might it become if he let it happen longer, more? (He wants to, wants to feel it again, feel her again.) ]

I must leave. I must leave now.

[ 'Is that... what you want? My life?'

One second of finally making direct contact with whatever that was in her, and he wants more of it. It's too dangerous, especially when every piece of him is so willing to tip right into her, to wrap himself up in the warmth and contact and lull of her. His mind is spinning from the sensation of his mouth against hers, the way her lips moved, the way she knew to hold him, react to him, push and pull.

Edward turns sideways, then turns away from her, then moves towards the door in one quick shuffle. He's reaching for it, hoping she won't try to stop him and wanting nothing more than to stay, shaking his head again as his heart pounds in his throat. ]

Please don't find me again, [ he has to tell her, because he knows Wynonna will want to, and he's sweeping from the door out into the night that's not quite dark enough, calling out as he does. ] I need some— some time...! I'll sort this out.

[ Famous last words.... ]