nature offers a violence

[singmod]

NOVEMBER 2023 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — WHITEOUT: Methuselah makes an unexpected early return to Milton to warn Interlopers of an impending monster storm, and boy does it surely come.

PROMPT TWO — A CHOICE: Following the storm, sightings of a mysterious stag prompts a hunt down in the Basin and out in the Outskirts.

PROMPT THREE — REST MY WEARY BONES: While the storm causes a great deal of mess, it also uncovers some far more pleasant surprises. Hot springs.

WHITEOUT

WHEN: Early to mid-month.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: extreme weather; storms; blizzards; themes of survival; possible character cold-related injuries; possible themes of peril.


In the times that he is no longer occupying the Community Hall in the center of town to help tend to the newcomers, Methuselah is out in the wilds. Despite his growing age, he is a hardened survivor, and has been more than accustomed to life living as a nomad, out in the thickest, deepest parts of nature. Sometimes he can be encountered, sheltered in a cave or out in the woods, huddled by a warm campfire, or busying himself with his latest game catch. He seems to be always on the move, never staying for too long, and never coming into town — unless it’s to begin preparations for the latest batch of new arrivals.

To see him returning to Milton outside of these times is a curious sight, and the grim expression he carries is enough to make anyone wary. Even his voice is grave. The warmth and kindness usually found in his expression is gone, replaced with a deathly seriousness. He doesn’t speak in jest.

"I am long used to this world and its weather, even with the changing times to more bitter nights." he will say. "I have seen the years rise and fall, too many to count. Please, I beg that you hear me with this— a storm is coming. Greater than some of you may have ever known. It is in the air, and we must prepare to see it through. We do not have much time. Three days, perhaps. But no more."

He will tell anyone and everyone; encouraging the word to be spread around. He will instruct on what needs to be done, what needs to be gathered. The storm will be long and hard, and will last for some time. With that, Methuselah will begin to prepare the Community Hall as a place of refuge with a stock of food, fuel and water to get through the storm. Interlopers will be free to join Methuselah and bunker down together, or can choose to bunker down on their own in their own homes, or with others.

You have only three days.

And sure enough, the storm comes. Maybe you can notice the signs too: the sudden updraft, the slow gathering of clouds, the drop in temperature, the changes of pressure in the air.

Halfway through the third day, the storm rolls in: a ferocious snow-storm unlike anything you’ve seen before. Even with the fading amount of daylight as mid-winter approaches, the sky turns as dark as night as will stay like night for the duration. Strong howling winds batter the town, and even the sturdiest of buildings creak and groan under the weight. Trees will be felled, some buildings might not fare the storm.

Relentless snow that falls so hard it’s a complete whiteout, and will be impossible to navigate if one were to step outside. Even then, it isn’t advisable. The temperature is bitter, with a frigid windchill. Going out in this kind of storm would be a death sentence. Staying out in it for longer than a half-hour will certainly kill you.

It would be best to wait it out, to huddle around warm fires in the darkness. It may certainly be a test of patience, depending on your choice of place to stay. The storm will last a full week, a stark reminder of what you are, the words you have heard in your arrival: thrown to Mother Nature’s mercy, the Interloper in her design.

But will you persist?

A CHOICE

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards to end of month.
WHERE: Milton Basin, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: survival themes; themes of hunting; possible animal death.


After the storm passes, there’s a certain kind of hush that falls upon Milton and its surrounding areas as Interlopers are left to pick through the wake. While the temperature certainly doesn’t get that much warmer, there’s days and nights of clear, calm weather — short afternoons of weak sunshine and nights of chilly peace, the moon hung high in the starry skies. Winter is drawing ever-closer, but it’s still for a little while.

In the early evenings, before the sun sets, there’s strange sightings of a particular white stag that can be found roaming the area — particularly down in the Milton Basin. It seems quite elusive, but there’s plenty of Interlopers that have been able to capture a glimpse over the coming days. Even Methuselah himself has seen this beast before, remarking there has long been tall tales of a ghostly stag that roams the Northern Territories and is said to bring good fortune to those who manage to hunt it down.

Perhaps you’re a little low on luck. Perhaps you’re feeling lucky. You’re going to find that stag.

Hunting down the stag, however, will take a great deal of patience and time. You might find yourself waiting several hours to wait for it to appear. Building a snow shelter, or hunkering down in some old shack might be needed in order to keep warm. But if you’re patient enough, and able to withstand the cold for long enough — the beast will soon make an appearance.

In the dying light of the day, it is there. It’s unlike any deer you’ve seen before: tall and majestic, with thick, soft fur of brilliant white. It almost looks ghost-like in some angles, it’s an incredibly beautiful creature. But it seems to have also noticed you, just as you have noticed it. It doesn’t dart away, however. Instead it stands before you, waiting for you to act.

You have a choice: slay the creature, or let it go.

It will not move until you make your decision, holding your gaze until you raise your weapon or until you lower it and give up your hunt. But there is a consequence to either action: if you choose to kill the stag, you will be rewarded with a sizeable bounty of venison. Eating said meat will help you feel fuller for longer, and the meat will keep for far longer than any other deer slain.

However, if you choose to spare the stag, the creature will lower its head, as if bowing to you. Then, it will disappear with a swirling of powdered snow. When you return home for the evening and go to sleep, the next morning you will find a gift at the foot of your bed: a pair of deerskin boots, or a deerskin blanket. These boots are supple, tough and waterproof — allowing for a great balance of mobility and warmth. The blanket is incredibly toasty, and will provide a great deal of comfort in the long nights ahead.

REST MY WEARY BONES

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards indefinitely.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a.



The storm has blown in plenty of snow to make traversing the area much more difficult, but there’s something else of note that comes with its passing. While the storm has brought much devastation, and some places have been buried in snow drifts, plenty of snow in areas has been blown away, uncovering otherwise lost secrets within Milton. Clouds of what looks like steam can be noted not too far from town, towards the mountains of the north.

If Interlopers head to explore the clouds, they will find old trails leading up towards the mountains. It isn’t a particularly difficult journey, for once, and they will soon discover that the storm has blown away the previously blocked access to a cave. It appears that this is the right place.

The air is warm here, pleasantly so. Warm enough that hats and mittens and coats seem a little unnecessary. One might wonder if someone lives within, and that a great fire is stoked to keep the place warm. But there’s no one in sight, no sounds of life: human, animal or otherwise. If they press on, they will discover that the cave floor is well worn with footfall: plenty of people have come here before, and the reason why is soon revealed.

The air grows even warmer, and more humid. The space opening to reveal small pools of slow-flowing water, warm water. The stone houses a natural hot spring, and following the cave out the other side will lead to another space in the rock open to the air, where there are even larger pools of warm water, perfectly sized and deep enough to bathe in. It seems that this place was frequently used by the people of Milton, where their life of hardship could be forgotten for an hour or two.

The water is pleasantly hot, and incredibly inviting. After so long in the freezing cold without modern appliances and utilities, a natural hot spring sounds like an absolute luxury.

FAQs

WHITEOUT

1. Characters are free to play around with this prompt how they want. Maybe they're dumb enough to go into the cold and get injured or sick. Maybe they're stuck in the Community Hall for the week. Fights might break out as tensions run high whilst everyone's stuck together, or maybe you're actually having a nice time.

2. For those stuck in the Community Hall: there are board games and old school textbooks stored in cupboards. There is also a piano.

3. A floorplan of the Community Hall can be found here.

A CHOICE

1. .... Yes, you can pet the ghost stag.

2. Characters will get one choice only with the ghost stag, meaning they can't keep going back to find it to get extra gifts.

3. If characters can't agree on a course of action, whoever acts first will get their gift. The second character will have a chance to try again another time.

4. If both characters agree on sparing the stag, but players want different gifts (ie. one player wants the boots and one wants the blanket), characters will get the gift the player wants their character to receive.

REST MY WEARY BONES

1. The hot springs will now be a permanent fixture in the Milton Area, enjoy!

PLOTTING POST

Comments

[fidior]

[ He'd been out in snow storms for longer than this, a few times: those treks back and forth from Erebus to Terror after both ships became stuck in the ice quite a distance from each other. And then on a couple of exploration parties; conditions so quickly worsened, and at times they would be trapped out in it for several hours, pitching small tents to try and keep as safe as possible from the elements, but always so achingly cold. Somehow, he'd managed to keep all of his fingers and toes. Was it luck? He was always extremely careful (sometimes too careful, the men might say), but.... it seems so easy to fall victim to what the cold can do to a person. It haunts him, horrifies him. As he watches Wynonna's hands, it's with apprehension — peering over from a few feet away until he moves closer, staring downwards. They'd only been out in the brunt of it for a short while, in comparison to some of his experiences, but...

The sight of pink and red tipping her fingers makes his stomach tighten uncomfortably. It's normal, probably; his own fingers surely look the same. Anyone's would after being in this cold. But it still frightens him, because he doesn't know what makes fingers go from seeming fine to needing to be cut off. He's continuing to stare as Wynonna speaks, his features Serious As Ever (and, comically enough, understanding neither of the concerns she voices.... two favourite fingers? She has favourites? Hitchhiking? What kind of term??)

He might ask about it momentarily, but for the immediate moment, he's just concerned, and looks up with a widening of his eyes when she flinches back from the fire with a hiss, clearly pained. He knows that's normal too; he's well-familiar with that biting pain, but..... she said they felt numb....

Quickly, he's peeling off his own wet gloves, setting them neatly down on one of the chairs that hadn't fallen victim to being broken apart for firewood, so that they can dry. Then he's lifting his own to examine them with bated breath, and finding himself startled by how red his own fingertips are. Considering his gloves are fingerless (he's still been wearing the woolen uniformed gloves from before...) perhaps it shouldn't come as a surprise..... but it still does, heart giving an odd flip-flop in his chest. Only a few days ago he'd seen his hands in a similar state, after rushing out into the snow to go fetch Crozier.... Kate had helped him then, gotten warm water, but they don't have that here. ]

—Ah. I suppose they're a bit—

[ ...Bad off. Surely not any emergency... Just extremely irritated by the cold. He's sure of it... And now that there's a fire to keep them dry, they should be fine. He lifts them up to it, wincing a little at the sting, but driven by a bout of desperation to just get them warmed up. Quickly, he looks back to her, nodding in reassurance (despite his own face looking miserable and a bit frightened.... Little, please....) ]

Don't worry, Miss Earp. I've seen worse than this — I'm certain we'll be fine. ...Are you all right, otherwise?

[ He's still very much in "check in mode", looking her over as though for signs of injury or distress otherwise. ]

[pacificator]

[ She can barely feel her fingers, but she starts working at the zippers on her boots to get them off, too; her socks are soaked and she needs to get her toes dry and warm, get the icy bolt of metal that is Peacemaker out from against her leg. But all that's abandoned when she glances over and sees the gloves he's peeling off: soaked, wool, fingerless. The tips of his fingers as red as a drunkard's nose.

His bullshit reassurances bounce right off her as she stares at him in disbelief, getting up on her knees to get a better look at his hands, ignoring the way he winces back from the flames the way she just had.

His question about her own welfare she doesn't even bother to acknowledge. She's already saying: ]

Why the hell don't your gloves have fingers?

[ The words are sharp with worry – with fear. If she's responsible for him getting frostbite – for him losing a finger or worse – people here like Little. Hell, even she kind of... not that like is the word. What's to like about a stiff-backed rule-following good guy? But he's not the worst person to have around.

All this running through her head in a panicked stream as she reaches for his hands. ]

Let me see.

[ Her own smaller ones are pale, reddish-pink, and unhelpfully cold. But friction might help; she can rub some warmth into his fingers, if he'll let her. And, of course, who wouldn't want assistance from someone who's already grousing about it: ]

What kind of dumbass Arctic explorer wears fingerless gloves?

[ That tight thread of panic is going absolutely nowhere, and, panicking, she does the only thing she knows how to do to try and manage her worry: blames him for it. This guy's trying to take care of the whole ass town and he won't even wear decent gloves? How has he not frozen to death yet? ]

[fidior]

[ He blinks, looking dumbfounded at the question, laced with clear concern — the sharpness of it alarming him too, but mostly.... surprised by the action itself. She's reaching for his hands and he lets her, standing there as he looks down and watches, trying to ignore the uncomfortable thud of his own heart; he fears it, fears pain and disfigurement; being out on the ice made him realise how much he fears such things. To hear that clear note of alarm in Wynonna's tone — Wynonna, whom he's rarely seen so affected by things — makes him feel oddly disjointed, out of place.

Perhaps it's that fact that has him almost comically obedient, unable to even think about resisting (...never mind the fact that he would be compliant to the request no matter what, even if his own social norms might be questioned by the gesture of allowing himself to take a woman's hand), but he allows Wynonna to do as she likes, not offering an ounce of resistance when she starts rubbing his fingers with her own. Which are just as cold as his, and quite flushed themselves, and he's lifting his brows to protest when she asks the question again — re-iterated this time, and... quite colourfully..

Little looks dumbfounded all over again for a beat or two, before he answers the only way he knows how...... sincerely. ]

It is part of our uniform. We— everyone wears them that way.

[ There were full gloves for certain occasions, but as far as his daily working uniform... it was these, thick and woolen and open-fingered so that he might handle his gun if he needed to, as well as be able to easily use his hands to do anything else. He'd worn them both off the ship and on; it was just how it was.

....And, like the rest of his uniform, how he insists upon staying now.

His mouth stays open, flustered by the question but also by the gesture itself, staring down to her fingers rubbing against his own. It's... very new, this kind of gesture. From a woman. He's trying to stay still, and he knows this situation is dire, but he can't help shifting a bit, giving a swallow, nervous. ]

That— helps. It feels as though it's helping. [ He's actually a little stunned by it, the circular motions helping to nudge his blood flow along. He can push past his discomfort, it wouldn't be the first time that Wynonna has made him nervous in very particular ways, and especially now that they're both facing such a situation... ]

....Thank you. I can do this for yours too, if you like.

[pacificator]

I'm just saying, that could be a factor in getting frostbite.

[ She has no idea how to tell if it's helping, cupping his hands in hers, massaging his cold fingers with her own smaller ones. Far from the soft hands of a gentlewoman, hers are strong and a little callused, the black polish on her nails winking in the firelight as her fingers rub over his in circles. He says it's helping and she nods, then lifts his hands and bends her head to breathe warm air over the pink tips of his fingers.

Inexplicably gentle, perhaps, for anyone who hasn't seen her with Waverly, who didn't know her as a girl who used to wear white dresses and pick flowers with her sisters. But gentle is the name of the game, here – warming up too quickly is almost as bad as getting too cold to begin with, and her breath is a softer, kinder warmth than that of the fire.

Finally, satisfied that at least he won't feel like the diffused heat of the now lively flames isn't going to burn his skin off, she releases him and sits back on her heels, reaching to tug his greatcoat back over her shoulders after it had slipped with her moving. ]

Yeah, okay. One second.

[ It certainly won't hurt, but first she's shifting on the floor, sliding her right leg out from underneath herself to plant her foot on the hearthstone. Her fingers are still cold and stiff, but she can manage this much: carefully pulling Peacemaker out of her boot, just as carefully setting it on the floor beside her before she unzips first one boot, then the other. They go to the hearth to get dried out, along with her sodden socks, leaving her barefoot, trying to warm her numbed and frozen toes before she looks up at him. ]

Will you sit down, please? You're making me nervous. Sit down, warm up. We can get more wood for the fire when we've staved off hypothermia.

[fidior]

Well, I suppose... snowstorms weren't so common, when I was serving aboard Terror before here. They'd come on occasion, but... these gloves were sufficient enough otherwise.

[ His daily uniform didn't involve gloves with the fingers left in, so he doesn't wear them now, either. Is it foolish? Stubborn? If he had to put a name to it, he'd say it was loyalty — which is perhaps both of those other things, of course.

But for him... it's important. It's all he had. (Has.) He'd lost it once, when Thomas Jopson and those sick men had been left to die alone. He won't lose it again.

....Even if it manifests as something so ridiculous as maintaining the uniform he'd been issued, in an environment where he could stand to make some wardrobe improvements for his own safety.

All thought is brought to an abrupt pause as Wynonna puffs warmer air against the sting of his nipped fingers, and it's— something that has never been done to him, and certainly never by a woman, and he's feeling an odd dizziness behind his eyes and through the flow of his blood and as startling as it is for him, it renders him completely still as opposed to getting flinchy with nerves (thankfully). He just stands there, eyes wide and staring, hardly daring to breathe. It's an immediate relief when she stops (and an odd chill left behind when she does, and he realises the gentle warmth and care felt nice only after the fact. Oh. Oh.)

His mouth parts, stunned, and he's staring down at his hands, fingers curling tentatively. When he speaks again, it's with a very unflattering break at the back of his tight throat, like a flustered boy. ]

Right — sorry.

[ Quickly, obedient as ever, he does what she says, although he's still stunned and stunned further still as she removes her shoes and socks to expose her bare feet. Of course, in such a harrowing situation, this isn't.... something that should give him pause, but it does because this is also the first time he's seen a woman's exposed feet so closely, and it's—! This is a lot that is happening to him right now!

There's a slight nervous tremour as he slowly undoes his own boots, an arduous process as they come up nearly to his knees... and peels off his own socks. He's flushing as he sets them neatly aside, embarrassed. Only a few days prior, Kate Marsh and some assistants had removed his boots to warm up his feet and it was an experience that took him some time to recover...... This one is even more daunting, if one could believe it....

He sits there, knees bent, feeling the warmth of the fire against him, and everything's no longer feeling so biting, warmth beginning to blossom slow and easy. His fingers already feel better from her efforts, and he swallows as he turns his head to look at the woman, finally making eye contact again. ...It's hard to keep it. He's practically swimming with anxious energy as he holds his hand up as though to offer to take hers so that he can reciprocate the gesture... He's trying. (Just, perhaps, not very well.) But this is a matter of survival! And he'll do whatever it takes so that this woman does not lose any parts of herself. ]

If I may.