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

a black sheep — closed, for fidior.

[pacificator]

[ Rule number one: you never get off the bus.

In this case, the bus is a the warm building, where there are other people for company and help; where there's food and light and heat. Only an idiot would leave all of that for the slim promise of not dying frozen and alone in the middle of a howling blizzard. But isn't it better to leave than to be driven out?

She slams out the door, and then the storm is on her like a wolf. It's instant, sinking teeth into her flesh and bones even through her layers as the wind shrieks and ice pelts her face, helpfully as loud and chaotic as the howling in her own head. Raised voices and slamming doors; the Wynonna Earp special. She was an idiot to think things could change here, that she'd somehow be less... cursed.

No one from Purgatory has followed her here, but she hears them anyway, even through the howl of the storm around her.

(you are such a shit, Wynonna! )

True enough, but it still pisses her off. ]

Tell it to someone who cares.

[ Muttered between half-frozen lips as she stubbornly struggles onward. Peacemaker is an agonizing bolt of burning cold against her leg; she has no idea if she's heading towards one of the other town buildings or if she's simply hauling her ass through this blizzard only to wind up in the woods to die of exposure.

Still seems like a better option than going back, honestly.

Snow sweeps across her footprints as soon as her boots lift, her tracks vanishing into the storm. She doesn't notice; she doesn't even look back at all. ]

[fidior]

[ It's unsurprising that agitation and confrontation would make an appearance in the confines of the Community Hall — really, Edward was expecting it (dreading it, trying his hardest to prepare for it). But he's seen it before, trapped men growing progressively more and more upset, tense, angry.

When the disruption first starts happening, he's down in the basement like he often is, keeping guard over food stores and supplies, but he hears a shout from above and starts heading up immediately, grabbing for his gun. (He won't use it, of course, but its appearance could be enough to stifle a disruption.)

He's just in time to witness a few people looking distraught and unnerved, and a familiar figure sweeping out in a swift, heated movement, the front door slamming shut behind her. Horror immediately grabs hold of him, and Little's lifting his hands placatingly to the group congregated, to the apparent subject of Wynonna's fury, but— he's following her before doing anything else, he must. He knows how blinding the storm makes things, and if he loses sight of her....

He's handing his shotgun to the nearest familiar face he sees (needs to leave it, so he can move faster, he thinks) and then he's rushing out and into the blizzard, one hand planted against the top of his cap to keep it securely to his head. He can't see anything but white, and it's more aggressive than the cold, unfeeling ice that he'd most known for those years, but he has been through the occasional blizzard before. Seen men drop dead in less than this one. He ducks his head downwards and moves as quickly as he can, panic pumping blood through him fast and hot. She'll die. If he doesn't find her, she'll die.

There's no hope of following any footprints as he moves; the swirling freeze covers everything. But there is the advantage that one must move slowly here, and he'd slipped out mere moments after she had. He thinks he sees a darkness through all of the stark white — several feet up ahead, and he's squinting to it, raising his voice as clear as he could possibly make it, although it surely sounds muffled nonetheless. But he repeats it, willing his vocal chords to work harder, louder, hoarse and painful in the cold. ]

Miss Earp! Miss Earp!

[ It's the first time he's ever said her name aloud, the knowledge of it only recently gained during his time in the Community Center as he was taking stock of who all was keeping refuge there. Eventually, her name came up to him from someone else's mouth. He hopes she'll hear it now from his own. ]

[pacificator]

[ The storm is a living thing, and it is implacable; the wind shoves her off her footing, the ice cuts her cheeks, the snow freezes in her hair. There was a blizzard like this, once, back in the Ghost River Triangle; farmers had found their livestock frozen solid when the storm finally lifted. She'd been so young then, but she remembers the way the snow piled against the door, the windows, until there was nothing to see but white. Willa had opened the front door to a solid wall of snow, then shrieked when Wynonna grabbed a fistful and flung it at her.

Who have you hurt the most? August Hamilton had whispered it into her ear, his razor cold against her throat, but how could she answer when two of them weren't there to even pretend to forgive her? The storm whirls white around her and for a second she thinks she sees Willa, dancing in her white dress.

Earp...Earp! A voice comes floating through the chaos. She half-turns, stumbling, trying to see through the storm. Her eyes water from the wind, her lashes frozen in the cold. ]

Dolls?

[ She's seeing things – again – and this time she can't blame the prairie winds, but is that Xavier Dolls shouldering his way toward her, through the whipping clouds of snow and ice? Hopes rises, sharp. ]

Dolls!

[ Except then he comes closer, catching up to her now that she's stopped, the snow already piling against her boots, and it isn't Dolls. Nor is it a demon; nor is it Willa, come to whisper how disappointed she is in her baby sister into her ear as she freezes to death.

And, really, she should have guessed it from the voice; she's only heard it a few times, but it's absolutely fucking distinctive. Christ. Wynonna folds her arms over her chest, shivering ceaselessly in the freezing wind. The only spots of color on her are the flashes of red where Jopson mended her jeans; the rest of her is a tangle of dark hair amid the smudges of dark jacket and pale face. Like Little, she has to yell to be heard over the screaming of the blizzard. ]

I still don't need a chaperone, man. And I'm not coming back to apologize, if you came out here for that instead.

[fidior]

[ He thinks he hears her shout something, but it's hard to discern, the wind a howling beast. One knows that something like this isn't truly alive, but in the midst of it, it's too easy for the mind to think otherwise. To picture the storm as a raging animal, a thing with a mind and will of its own. It attacks.

...Or perhaps the true horror of it is that it isn't intentional. It's more unfeeling than that, empty even of cruelty. The stark whiteness only exists. A person was never meant to be out in it.

She's stopped, he realises, as the distance between them lessens, and it's with a frantic, relieved jolt of his heart that he sees it really is her. Edward trudges closer, gasping against the ache of chill, trying not to think of the men he's seen fall apart from it later on. Things turning black and rotting off. He lifts the large lapels of his greatcoat higher against his ears, shuddering.

'not coming back to apologise' — His eyes widen at that, though immediately squint again as they're met with an assault of tiny, biting frost, but he's stunned to hear the reply. Is that what she's concerned of? That he's come to force her back to the confrontation? No, he's much more worried for the woman's life itself, shaking his head earnestly, voice still raised to a shout. It may be more difficult to tell, but desperation still leaks through, making his words a plea. ]

It's much too dangerous out here! You need to come back with me — please!

[ A hesitation, a dark and dreadful thing he doesn't want to say aloud, but in this moment he must. ]

You could die out here!

[pacificator]

[ She's not going to die out here. She can't die out here, because if she dies, the curse passes to Waverly, and Waverly wouldn't even have Peacemaker to protect herself against the revs. Doc won't be enough to protect her. Dolls won't be enough to protect her. She'd get killed in about two seconds and that can't happen. Like hell is she going to be the reason another Earp dies. Not again.

Not ever again.

So she's not going to die out here, because like hell is she going to disappoint Waverly like that. Never mind how she can't feel her feet or fingers, how she's starting to feel like she'll never be able to get warm again. Never mind how her frozen hair lashes at her neck and face, leaving tiny cuts that sting for a second before they too freeze, raw and red against her pale skin. But now Little's out here with her, and if he dies from the cold, the storm, then it'll be her fault, and if she doesn't want to shoulder the death of another Earp, neither does she want to carry the guilt of being the reason he was out here to begin with. The guy survived for years in the Arctic; there's some sort of sick irony that it could take only a few days of knowing her to kill him.

All this passes through her head in a matter of seconds; still, it feels like an eternity before she nods, a stiff, difficult motion with her frozen muscles and joints. ]

Come on.

[ Reaching out, she grabs hold of his arm – zero chance they won't lose each other in the snow, it's a miracle he found her to begin with – and looks around for any sign of the Community Hall. There's nothing, not even their own footsteps, but she thinks she sees a dark blur off to the side. It might be a building; it might be a rock, or the treeline. She's got no idea, but he's right about one thing: if they stay here, they'll die.

It's harder than she'd expected to trudge through the snow, but she stubbornly starts walking anyway. There's nothing else to do. ]

[fidior]

[ If she won't come back with him, he doesn't know what he'll do. He can't possibly leave her to go back and make a return with more people — he'll never be able to locate her again. But he certainly can't force her....

He waits with bated breath, trembling uncontrollably against the cold. Then she's reaching for him, agreeing, and Edward breathes a sigh of relief — one lost to the whirl and scream of the storm. He can't hear much of anything, see much of anything; as they turn and start moving (he moves with her as one, stays close, grasping for her with his other arm too, winding them both securely around hers), he realises he isn't sure which direction to go. It's an odd panic, a buzzing thrum in the hollow of his throat.

But he sees it too, that blur, that darkness. A shape, even if that's all it can be claimed to be. It could be nothing, it could be where they need to go, but it's all they have. The other end of a tether; he has to reach it. So he trudges with her, keeps his head dipped down, the wide top of his cap helping to cut through some of the screaming wind, stopping it from reaching his face. He's aware she won't have that protection, meager though it is, but he doesn't think he could manage to remove his cap and give it to her; it would fly out of his hands.

It's slow. It seems to take forever, their marching towards that shape. And as it grows closer, it begins to expand, widen — big and brown, a structure made of wood. He can't yet tell if it's the Community Center, but it's something, and he's pulling her with him, closer, closer. He almost slams into a porch railing, and removes one of his hands from Wynonna's arm so he can grab for it, pulling them up a small stair; it's as they're reaching the front door that he realises this isn't the Community Center, the porch is different, the door is smaller; it's a residential home. Hopefully one not locked; he doesn't know if either of them have the strength to break in if needed.

It's not locked. He's fumbling for the door, gloved hands numb and trembling, manages to open it as the storm sweeps them into the sudden opening, wind pushing hard against their backs. ]

[pacificator]

[ The door opens and they nearly go sprawling, Wynonna still shoved up against his side, one hand fisted in the back of his greatcoat, where she'd latched on when he hauled her up the stairs and onto the porch. It takes what feels like the last of her strength to lift one booted foot and kick at the door, shoving it closed again and cutting the howling wind off mid-scream. She forces herself to let go of his coat, painfully uncurling each frozen finger, one knuckle at a time, and stumbles back to press her shoulder against the door, shivering against it as she tries to work the latch. She scrabbles at it with numbed, pale fingers until the iron bolt shoots home and she can collapse, breathing hard, back against the wood, eyes closing.

The house they've found isn't one that's been claimed, she thinks, when she opens her eyes again. The fireplace is cold and the few pieces of furniture are dusty and broken. She's got no idea if there's food or fuel anywhere in the place, but that's a question for later; right now, they could still freeze to death.

She doesn't know where she finds the strength to push off the door and come further, steps shuffling as she shivers, into the room, but she manages it. Makes her way to one of the chairs and leans down to grab hold of the back before gritting her teeth and bringing her boot down hard on a leg as she tugs up with her hand, snapping the thing into even more pieces. It gives her something to do, breaking down the chair; something that isn't looking at everything she's feeling right now, or even over at him: this guy she barely knows, who nevertheless risked his own life to try and save hers.

She doesn't even know what to say to him. Although she supposes she should start with that apology she swore she wouldn't be making. Crack goes her boot through another chair leg. ]

Why?

[ Finally. One word, accompanied by a look, wary and and uncertain. Despite the way she shivers, constant, racking her whole body, she holds herself with the tension of a wild animal caught in a trap. ]

I'm not your crew. We're not friends. Why the hell'd you risk yourself, Little?

[fidior]

[ He's dizzy, dazed, but still managing to look around the space to take it in, working on instinct and adrenaline combined. Searching, for what exactly he's not sure, maybe the same things she is — sources of warmth, signs of life. He's panting for breath still, lungs working painfully against those cold intakes of air that feel like claws down his throat, as though leaving scratches that ache with each breath. There's nothing. No one lives here, and the fireplace hasn't been used in a long time.

They're alive, and they're out of that wind, and Edward knows that's a mercy that they're fortunate to have, given how easily they could have ended up lost forever out there in the swirling white. They could've stumbled blindly right into the woods. They'd be dead. But he can't quite find the sensation of relief, not yet. The wind may not be screaming against them anymore, but this place isn't warmer, and there may already be damage done to both of them. He tries not to focus on that fear, on the memory of men having things cut off of them, of what rot and infection look like.

He turns back to Wynonna, watching her break apart pieces of wood, realises what she's doing. Hands still trembling, Edward reaches up to remove his officer's cap, knows he needs to let his hair dry, sets the thing down on a nearby wooden stand in front of a dusty lamp. Then he moves to help her, reaching for another chair and holding it by one leg while his boot slams against another with a resonating crack. He knows they need to hurry. They need warmth, a fire, fast, and he works as quickly as he can with stiff, burning fingers and almost convulsive attempts to breathe.

The question visibly startles him. 'Why?'

He takes a moment to answer, to try and find the words. There was no hesitation with the decision, no second thought at all, which was maybe foolish in retrospect, but he can't imagine making any other decision. It wasn't an act of bravery so much as desperation.

The answer hurts as he says it. ]

I'm meant to protect people.

[ It could seem silly, or cocky, or delusional coming from anyone else, but his expression is earnest, eyes wide, wet, serious. He swallows against the numb frost coating his own throat, the words stuttering a little as his mouth struggles to move, lips shaking. ]

You're part of my community — I wouldn't let you be harmed without doing what I could to stop it.

[ He shudders again, but manages to use his hands to break apart a smaller piece of wood, tossing them towards the fireplace in a little pile. ]

What happened— why did you leave? Did someone upset you?

[pacificator]

[ Difficult which makes it harder for her to breathe: the cold, still slicing razors into her lungs with each inhalation, or the words he manages in answer to her question. I'm meant to protect people.

He's absolutely earnest, but that's not what's so devastating; she stares at him, his dark eyes and wild, storm-whipped hair at the edges of the cap he'd somehow managed to keep on his head, and hears Willa's voice overlaid with his.

( Daddy couldn't save us...How the hell will you? )

She stands there for a long moment, shivering with this cold that seems to have sunk fully into her bones; another curse to carry, another death sentence to shoulder. When she moves again, her hands are trembling so hard she can barely get a grip on the chair she's trying to break apart, seeking refuge from his sincerity and her own confused feelings through action. She's slamming her boot through another leg, tossing the shattered wood into the fireplace along with his, and she still doesn't know what to say to that first part — me, too, her own voice whispers in her head; I'm supposed to protect people, too, which is true, even if she's shit at it —

So she latches onto the last part, instead. ]

I don't know if you've noticed, but usually I'm the one who upsets people. Not the other way around.

[ There's a reasonable pile of kindling in the fireplace now; not enough to keep them warm for long, but enough to get them warm enough to find more fuel. Wynonna goes digging in her pockets and draws out a box of matches, which rattles with every tremble of her fingers once she pulls off her gloves.

It takes try after try to strike a flame. Her fingers, ghost-pale and numb, are awkward, every motion blunted and strange. ]

Crap. Work, you stupid — please.

[ She keeps working at it, her whole body shaking, her gaze stubborn on the wood even as she addresses him. ]

You risked your ass out here, I'm not gonna be the reason you freeze to death. Some 'thank you' that would be.

[fidior]

[ So she'd upset someone.....? (It's not too far-fetched a thought; he's witnessed her... demeanour for himself, of course. It isn't difficult to imagine Wynonna rubbing someone the wrong way... and perhaps even intentionally.)

...But she'd left. Left instead of stayed and kept fighting. Suppose she was the cause of discord and upset, and someone reacted to it, to her. Why did she end up being the one to leave....?

He looks over at her as he shudders, mind churning with thought, and then — brows lifting, eyes widening at the sight of the matches. With them, a leap of his heart, of hope.

But she's shaking hard, even harder than him. Colder than him, no doubt; she's smaller-framed, and his garments are thicker, longer. She's in much more danger than himself with all of it, and he's letting go of the chair in his own hands to cross the room to her, shrugging out of his greatcoat. It's cold and wet on the surface from the relentless frost clinging to it; it'll need to properly dry, but for the immediate moment, it will help. It's padded inside, and has his body warmth. He holds it out to her with one hand while his other extends for the match her trembling pair are struggling with. ]

Please— allow me. [ She may, of course, refuse both things, but Little can be stubborn, too. He lifts his brows at her — purposeful more than stern. ]

It's all right, I'll get this going.

[ A beat; he'd heard what she said, offers a soft tip of his head forward. ]

You don't owe me any thank you, Miss Earp. It is no burden to help you, and I am only pleased... and grateful, that I was able to find you. I thought... [ A pause as he exhales quietly, disturbed by the thought, visibly rattled by it. It would have been a death sentence. ] ....that you might have been lost.

[pacificator]

[ Her hands are trembling so much that she can't even get the match head to line up with the stupidly thin strip of striking paper, and why do they make that strip so tiny? The people who make matchbooks should know that someone might need to use them when they're almost frozen to death and can't keep their hands still. The task has all her focus, which is why she startles at the sound of boots on the floor and fabric whispering against fabric, looking up to see Lieutenant Little holding out his sodden greatcoat to her with one hand, reaching for the matches for the other. Offering to help. Again.

Maybe it's the surprise, maybe it's the fact that he'd come out after her and, against all odds, found her in the snow, but after a moment's hesitation, she sets the matches in his open hand and takes the greatcoat from the other. Settling it around her shoulders, damp and heavy, sets off a wave of sensations – the scent of wet wool surrounds her, along with another, underlying scent that must just be him. The outer shell of wool is soaked through with melting snow, but the inside is warm. He's lending his own body heat to her, to keep her alive, and she has no frame of reference for how to react to it other than to tug the coat a little more closely around herself, shivering.

It's weird to see him without it. Like seeing Doc without his guns, or Dolls without his badge, or Nedley without his khakis. Probably that's why she watches him as he sets to work at the small pile of kindling they've built. ]

It is a burden. You don't have to say it isn't.

[ Perhaps it's the warmth that's starting to catch beneath the borrowed greatcoat that's allowing reality to sink in. Maybe it's the way he looks and sounds, as distressed as if she were someone he actually knew. It's not her, she knows. He said it himself, she's part of this community that he needs to protect. But it still warms some small, closed-off part of herself to think that at least one person here might have been sorry if she'd never come back.

Her voice is low as she says the words, as she watches him working at the matches. ]

And I do owe you.

[ She waits until he looks at her, even as she'd rather look away. Vulnerability is weakness, and weakness gets people killed. But she keeps her gaze steady. ]

I know what it's like. Wanting to protect people. I get it. And I know it's not about getting thanks. But...

[ A small, and slightly shaky breath, before she pushes on, impales herself on these words. ]

Thank you. For not leaving me out there alone. You're a good man. I don't know a lot of those.

[fidior]

[ In truth, he's expecting some push-back — but he's ready to insist, even if may be out of his comfort zone to insist anything to a lady. So it's a (pleasant) surprise when Wynonna accepts his coat, and gives him the matches in exchange; Edward takes them with a little dip of his head, a quiet gratitude, and gets to work. His hands are shaking a bit too, from the lingering, bone-deep chill, but not as much as hers. His clothing was made for extreme cold (....although not as extreme as the actual cold they'd faced in those years on the ice, a harsh reality. Since then, he's worn the furs of Silence's people, thanks to Crozier lending them to him — and discovered how much more effective such clothing would be.)

Still, the greatcoat is meant to be insulating, and his body heat has been trapped within; it should offer her an immediate reprieve, or so he's very much hoping. The clothing he wears beneath it is also very warm: a thick woolen jumper and woolen waistcoat on top of that, a tighter garment that keeps warmth locked in. Beneath it all is an undershirt whose stiff white collar peeks up from his jumper. His uniformed trousers are a bit less warm, but the fire should help matters greatly. Edward keeps trying, only to look up with a fresh wave of surprise when his companion speaks again, and the words have his hands stopping their movements for a moment.

His eyes widen slightly, attention fixed on her, taking in the words. He couldn't have expected any of this and the display of sincerity from Wynonna elicits a soft sound, a quiet exhale. Something within him catches, tightens.

'You're a good man.'

It's... what he's hoped to be, for so long, and words he'd longed to hear, for so long. Through all of the horror and loss, the concept lingered and lived, holding on even when it became foolish. In the end it hadn't mattered at all. To be good. And he'd lost that much of himself; he knows he deserves this unending nightmare now. He isn't a good man.

....But he still wishes he could be, and tries to be, and so to hear those words.... Edward's body is turning to face her, a slow movement. He's stopped finagling with the match, it'll come again, but first...

He's awkward in the face of genuine praise, and especially from her, it's a first — a bit flushed at the ears, though it may be difficult to tell, features flushed already from the cold. But he's shy, eyes dropping downwards for a moment, as though nervous to keep eye contact. It returns soon enough; she's been sincere with him and he certainly will be in return, so when Edward's looking back up, it's with complete severity. ]

Thank you. I....— It means... a great deal to me to hear that. I am grateful.

[ Edward isn't used to revealing his feelings, but although he's awkward with the verbal reply, his eyes are softer, warmed, and though perpetually wet, seem to moisten a little with his sincere emotion... Through it all, parts of what she's said stick out, replay themselves in his mind. 'I know what it's like. Wanting to protect people.' ]

But please— it is no burden. I am not burdened by you, by— helping you. I wanted to. It was not a sacrifice.

[ He means that whole-heartedly, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue as he looks back down again for a moment, hands more slowly working the match in his fingers now. Slowly but with an intentional swipe, rough and smooth, and is pleased when a small flame finally blossoms at the tip. He carefully shields it with the palm of one hand and moves to quickly light the fireplace, greatly relieved when it catches onto the broken wood with ease. And he'd noticed a bookshelf or two nearby; there should be plenty of paper they can strip and use for to keep it fed and re-stoked.

Turning back to Wynonna, still a bit flushed, he'll wait for her to move to the fire first, achingly polite. Through it, a concern that he can't help voicing quickly on, eyes dropping down to her hands. ]

How are your hands...? Your fingers. You might warm them first... it can be especially dangerous for them.

[ That might be common knowledge... but it's a relatively new concept for him, who'd never sailed in the cold before Sir John's expedition. ]

[pacificator]

[ When he'd come across her searching through that shed, she'd sized him up as a less than viable threat, and she still thinks she was right, that he wouldn't have gotten in her way if she'd turned out to be exactly as destructive as he seemed afraid she'd be. But this is different. He's braced, and she recognizes that stubborn line to his brows, the set to his jaw. It's not the kind of mulish argument she gets from Doc; it's more like the gently disappointed and oh-so-effective version Waverly turns on her from time to time. In his own quiet, perfectly mannered way, he looks completely ready to stand up to her.

So maybe – maybe – there's a little more to this one good man than quite meets the eye.

But he's flustered by what she says, and looks down, which is nice because it gives her a chance to let her own glance skitter uncomfortably away, relieved to no longer have to be making eye contact. Nothing she's ever said before has ever meant a great deal to anyone, as far as she knows, and she's starting to regret saying anything at all, especially when he looks back at her and she meets his eyes with her own wary ones. Dealing with sadly earnest brown puppy dog eyes and that aggravatingly great voice speaking low and sincerely is absolutely nothing she's prepared to handle right now. Or maybe ever.

She's got no idea what to say in response – so, masochist, huh? comes to the tip of her tongue and gets bitten back – but thankfully there's the gorgeous, glorious red and gold of a match bursting into flame, one he shepherds carefully into the fireplace, where it catches and blooms into lifesaving fire.

She huffs out a small breath of relief, leaning closer to the fireplace until he shifts and speaks again, calling attention to her near-frozen, still trembling hands. ]

Oh. Uh...

[ Her ungloved hands have been numbly gripping the lapels of his loaned greatcoat, keeping it snug around her shoulders even as it drowns the rest of her – she's a pale oval of face, a wild, wet mass of rumpled brown hair, a shapeless bundle, body invisible, beneath the borrowed coat. She's not a big woman; it swamps her like a blanket.

At his glance, at his words, she forces herself to let go of the damp wool, her fingers aching and trembling as she tries to stretch them out. Her hands are pale right up to the pinked tips of her fingers. The black nail polish she'd put on her last day home is chipping at the edges, but still glossy. Her fingertips glow a rude red against the black, irritated by the cold. ]

You know. A little frosty. A little... mostly totally numb. But as long as I don't lose my two favorite fingers and my best hitchhiking thumb, things aren't so bad, am I right?

[ She pushes her hands towards the fire, only to flinch back with a hissed, indrawn breath through her teeth – the heat hurts. As much as she's desperate to warm her fingers, she'll have to start with something less intense. Bringing her hands up to her mouth, she breathes on her numb fingers, trying to ignore the way her breath shakes. She nods to his own hands. ]

C'mon, Little. Let's see 'em.

[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.