singillatim | nature offers a violence

nature offers a violence

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Louis blew in like other latecomers who tried to hunker down by themselves, disheveled, nearly frozen, and hungry. Louis needs to hunt, but he has nothing to hunt, all creatures having retreated to hide from the storm. He cannot reveal his nature here. He would be killed. Lynched like so many other innocents, and he isn't even innocent. He's a murderer and a liar and all the rest.

It's evening, and Louis wakes because of the hunger. Edward Little keeps rechecking the provisions unnecessarily. Louis knows this because he already slipped away into the basement, trying to scout out somewhere he could curl up in private. If anyone took a close look at him as he slept during the day, they would inevitably find out his nature. (He might also have better luck finding rats here.)

The thirst sharpens the edges around everything. Even the drab storm colors and naked lightbulbs have their facets. His bright green eyes catch light, the only thing moving as he sits huddled in a blanket, very still, lost in it. It's almost exquisite. He remembers the time he and his little vampire family starved themselves for days so that one gorging feast of blood would be that much sweeter.

Finally he can't stand the stiffness of not moving. "If you goin' just sit there for hours, Mr. Little, you should know you have company," he murmurs dreamily, leaning just a little to eye him from behind a large crate.

It's down in the basement that Edward is most reminded of being on the ships, damp and dark, and with the sounds of the blizzard outside muffled a bit, like ghosts wailing and scraping, but unable to get closer than that.

He's come to enjoy his little basement guard sessions, the particular solitude and safety. In the evenings, he carries a little oil lamp he'd found in a shed in his preparations for the storm, and sets it upon the table, its light flickering softly.

But there are times when the darkness seems endless, and to be alone with his thoughts is a cage. When there is little peace — when the ghosts outside cannot reach him, but the ones within himself scratch the underside of his skin with cold wispy hands, crying, desperate, upset. He is here in confinement with the men he'd once known, and it is... difficult. His nightmares of Thomas Jopson now continue into the waking world, and sometimes when he looks at the man, he can only imagine his corpse.

Someone speaks, and Edward is jerked out of his mournful solitude, eyes snapping wide with a sharp exhale of startled breath. He grabs for the lamp, turns it towards the source of the sound, heart pounding so quickly that it makes him feel ill. Part of him might know that it recognises the distinctive voice, but in this moment, the figure creeping from behind a crate seems like a thing more than a man.

His free hand is against his breast, gloved fingertips digging into the wool of his clothing as though to squeeze his own pounding heart.

"God—! I hadn't realised anyone was there." It's a man. A man, not a thing, though alarm keeps his adrenaline high, blood buzzing hotly behind his eyes, a little dizzying.

"Are you quite all right?"

If he were sated with blood and books, perhaps Louis would be able to pass his time better. He had at least those during that depression era when he did nothing but hole up with books and newspapers as the house turned into something more fit for racoons than people.

The flicker of the oil lamp creates moving shadows where there are none, lending Louis a water-like quality like a moving statue. He's used to people being startled at his presence, but only when he does it on purpose. This is quite by accident, and he didn't mean to scare him (much).

"I should be askin' you that. Goin' die of a stopped heart if you're not careful. Welcome to my abode," he adds with a trace of humor. "There's a bottle of somethin' somewhere..."

He has no idea where, all food tasting like ash to him, so he quickly gives up the search. Louis rises stiffly, and he tells himself it's just from sleeping. He pads over in flannel pajamas, slippers, and sweater, all draped in a blanket around his shoulders. He forgets to apologize. He curls his pointy-nailed fingers around the chair opposite Edward and sits uninvited.

His exhaustion demands it. Edward should know it well, the drawn look of a man doing his best to go without food. But the state of things isn't so dire as that; most people in the Hall are eating regularly. Something else is "eating" Louis.

This close to Edward, his eyes search out any veins in a routine manner.

"Mr. Pointe du Lac," he finally realises, fully, with a soft exhale. Edward never used to startle quite so easily; he'd always been a very grounded man, sensible, and well-trained in how to remain so. It doesn't do to lose one's self so quickly, to flinch and fluster in public.

But after what he's seen and known, it takes on a life of its own in moments like this one. He's shaken more than he'd ever care to admit, though attempts to recover quickly, settling himself with all of his will as he sits there and watches the other man slink forth towards him, settling in across from his position. He looks like a spectre, if Edward believed in such things (and these days, he just might), but there is a quiet relief upon realising he does indeed recognise the person.

"I'm all right— you only startled me," he manages a thin smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Just what is he doing down here...? Sleeping? Perhaps this is where he's sought to find rest for the night.

He stares across the dim lighting, taking in the sight of him. He looks... unwell, a bit. Something to it elicits a particular uneasiness with Little, a familiarity — but there's another uneasiness to quickly come in with the way the other man is watching him in return. He shifts, adjusts his posture a bit to sit up straighter, moving his gloved hands down into his lap. Concern leaks through, even despite everything else that's strange or unnerving.

"Are you feeling unwell?" A beat. Just how long has Louis been down here? Does he recall even seeing him earlier in the day, upstairs in the main room? It conjures up an immediate question—

"Have you had enough to eat?"

Edited 2023-11-19 04:39 (UTC)

Louis used to be human. He's good at playing one. He draws the blanket tightly around himself. He does all the little usual shifts humans do instead of sitting like a statue. It's easy; he's sore and cold in a very mundane way.

He waits for Little to collect himself. He thinks he's very proper, very English. Such a contrast to the very Continental Lestat. And those muttonchops. Very impressive, very ridiculous. Like something out of last century. Louis has opinions on fashion, despite feeling very frumpy at the moment.

He probably shouldn't stare too much.

He chews his lip. "I have... a sensitive stomach," he lies easily. "Special diet. It's been hell here."

Ah — that makes a very logical sort of sense, and one can practically see something within Edward settle, relax itself. In the midst of all the unknowns and strangeness and startles... he holds so steadfast to anything that makes sense, no matter how trivial it may seem.

Not that a man's discomfort with food is trivial, of course. Edward's quickly falling to his typical role of problem-solver (although he solves problems best when he is being directed exactly what to do.) Well, there is no Captain here, at the moment (Crozier is not.... at his best, these days), and Edward will manage things in his absence.

Including taking care of these men (gender neutral, these days.)

"I see. You have my sympathies, sir." He looks like he means it, because he does, brow knit for a moment. "There is much food stocked down here, however. Perhaps I can help you to find something that suits your tastes?"

At first Louis thought they were all just travelers from all over, that the strangeness just meant they were foreign. Then the timeline discrepancies started to appear, and Louis had to accept that it wasn't just him who had time traveled, like some science fiction book.

When Louis speaks of food, he only tastes ash. He can't share in the expressions of bliss when the other Interlopers recall their favorite dishes from back home or sit down to a meal after a long day. When Louis feeds, it's furtive, violent, and shameful.

"I've looked. But thank you kindly. You tryin' to take care of everybody?" Louis looks faintly surprised, as if he isn't used to or even avoids being shown this kindness. He pauses before asking, "Got any kids?"

The question almost makes him smile a little, though he simultaneously looks a bit awkward to it, all the same. The subject of children is... a strange one, for him. Not in any negative sense, more that it's never quite been much of a factor in his life.

"Ah — no children, no." He's typically a man of few words about his own past, but after a moment, he offers a bit more. "I enlisted when I was a much younger man of twenty-one, and I have been a lieutenant since I was twenty-five. I suppose it has been.... my existence."

Which isn't to say that other men of his position could not have families and children, but.... he has been quite married to his work.

"But taking care of the men of Terror was one such diligence, and I suppose it comes naturally now." A beat of his own, something needling. "....Especially with how harrowing our circumstances are. Order is... needed. I hope I may seem a figure that people can rely on."

Edited 2023-11-28 01:50 (UTC)

"I had thought... Well, you bein' like a mother hen and all. But military life means you're away. Friend of mine enlisted. I haven't seen him in a long time," he says with a sigh. He neglects to mention that part of that reason is because he lived longer and didn't age. He eventually had to cut all ties to his past. People in New Orleans were starting to get suspicious that a man in 1940 looks the same as he did in 1911.

"I have a... sister. Wanted to give her the world," he says sadly with an achingly sweet regret.

It's awkward. He adopted her, but she was made a vampire too young. She was dying, everything happened so fast... As she grew in mind and not in body, she began to resent it and insisted he call her sister. As a young woman coming into her own, trapped in the body of a waif, she carried an uncanny darkness. She deserves the world.

Her Majesty's Royal Navy. "Wait," he interrupts himself, "is Terror the name of your ship? Little too on the mark, ain't it?"

There's a soft sound of quiet mirth at that — a mother hen.... It's not something he's been called before, or really thought of himself as, but... it is true that a large portion of his role involves taking care of others, in his way. Keeping up with them, hearing their complaints, guiding the other officers, serving as the captain's right arm. It wasn't always easy work. Often, he wondered if the men enjoyed or appreciated his presence at all. But looking back... he misses those days, the earlier ones. He did feel at home.

But Edward's fixing the other man with his attention, hearing out pieces of his story, now. Small but meaningful things — a friend in service, a sister. People to miss, and mourn. Being here is a strange loss, and Little's brow pinches with empathy as he leans forwards a bit across the table. Closer to his man who'd come creeping out of the dark; he has no reason to fear him. None that he knows, anyway.

"Ah, yes. The HMS Terror." At that, Edward does actually allow a laugh, though only just. He isn't used to laughing out loud, keeps the gesture quiet. "She was a warship before I served aboard her. Quite the formidable one." There's a brief pause, something aching and wistful. He will never see that ship again, and though he'd served aboard a few others in his time, Terror was.... something special.

"Erebus was our sister ship for the voyage. I suppose it all sounds very foreboding." A somewhat grim smile, and his gloved hands tighten against one another.

"Is she younger? Your sister."

When Louis became a vampire, he was able to observe a host of little tells in humans he never picked up on before. Certain smells, looks, and things they did with their hands. Now, with just the memory of them guiding him, he wonders why Little's hands tighten. Erebus, Greek for darkness.

Did he see a particularly bad storm? Watch his little chicks fall into the night waters? He's even got the muttonchops, so like a collar of feathers, Louis thinks. But he's probably just being silly. Middle management is never glamorous, but there are people who are good at it. Louis thinks of Bricktop fondly, mainly because she never hesitated to tell him when he was full of shit.

It's a closeness, now, to share the people of back home. Louis keeps the most sensitive stories to his chest, but they escape his eyes, always. His eyes are too bright.

"Yes. Quite a bit younger, actually." His smile is tired and fond. "Time plays tricks on me. One day she's wearing little dresses, the next she wants the latest ladies' fashions, doin' her hair different, chasin' boys..." He waves a confused hand. "It's a lot for an old man like me to keep up with."

He does not look old. He and Little might be of an age.

"You see any action in your time?"

Edward watches the other man's smile, and his own grim one shifts — softens at the edges, warms. There's something sad to it, maybe seen mostly in the deep browns of his eyes, warm and wet.

"Time passes by quickly, doesn't it." More of a statement than a question; he knows he need not ask, Louis will surely understand, given what he's said. A moment before he adds on some more of his own information, an exchange; it's rare he's spoken about his personal life, his family. Although it's a deep, strange ache, there's something nice to it, as well. To this sort of conversation. Something else besides sitting alone with his thoughts in the darkness, with the howl and scream of a storm raging outside. "I have several sisters. Some older, some younger. I can imagine how protective one would be, of one's only sister."

With the size of his own family, dynamics were different and changing; he was the youngest of several children for a time, then the oldest of a new group. But always, he was in the middle of it: Edward Little, the ultimate middle child...

The question has him pausing, tilting his head a little, as though uncertain.

"Action?" It could mean different things (and especially to people from different places in time, something he's come to painstakingly learn....) so he means to clarify.

Edited 2023-12-09 15:54 (UTC)

Speaking of the fond things keeps the darkness and the monsters at bay, even the monsters within them. Edward's eyes are like warm candles.

"She, uh, had the brunt of my attention. I thought I could protect her, and... I couldn't." His voice drops suddenly in strength, almost breathless. His eyes unfocus. He bites the inside of his lip. "She was never goin' to be just a little girl forever."

She, who he thought would be his salvation, was instead the child of his guilt. What was he thinking, begging Lestat to make her a vampire? What was the point of saving her life only to doom her to an eternity trapped in her too-young body?

"--Sorry, I don't mean cards. Or the other thing." Sex, says the brief upward turn of one corner of his mouth. "Military action. Fightin' and such."

Ah. It's a snippet of personal information, one without much detail or nuance, and yet it's.... telling. Edward's heart tightens as though a fist has squeezed it; his tendency towards empathy is something that has been a detriment at times — he absorbs the feelings and emotions of those around him, becomes weighted by them, reflects them, and it has often led to inaction or the inability to see past those weights. He is so easily wounded by the wounds of others around him.

....But in this moment, there is no action needed, and he can simply feel that weight within him. He can sit with it. He frowns, deeply, and with his eyes just as much as anything. Was it a death? Something else? A loss no matter what, certainly.

"I am sorry."

Simple words, but dripping with ache.

(Fortunately(?) he doesn't know what 'the other thing' means, but moves past any inquiry straight into answering. ...Although it's with that lingering heaviness, the frown staying on his face.)

"My service has been more... stationary. And then exploratory." He'd learned how to handle firearms, of course, but never was it really with the thought that they would be used. ...None of them thought it would become a necessity on Sir Franklin's expedition. The men turned things into a battlefield. Into a war amongst themselves.

"....But I suppose I have seen some... brutality." That's the word for it, for him. He winces softly. "When our ships became trapped out in the ice, some of the men.... changed, over time. Turned against one another. Even mutinied against our captain."

Louis's eyes have the ability to hold infinite sadness. They tell too much. They can be jewellike, reflecting in each facet the people he looks upon. He tends towards contemplation, yet sometimes his life can be so turbulent, the forces buffeting him like a storm. He has thrown himself into violence thinking it was his lot... and he has also shown tender kindness.

It's a small change, but his shoulders stiffen. He's wary of others perceiving weakness in him. He even hides it from himself. He speaks no more of Claudia. She is not here, and she is something he keeps close and hidden in his heart.

His eyes gaze up at his face again when Edward says brutality. A gaggle of men trapped in impossible icy conditions, ready to mutiny... It sounds too much like everyone trapped in Milton because of this storm. There are also stories of entire frontier towns starving or just disappearing.

He thinks of how easy it was to dupe a roomful of humans into becoming a meal. He helped do it with a vindictive streak, but it did not bring him joy. It was more like lancing a boil or burning off anger with some physical activity. They crossed him. They were cut down.

"The rules of society are fragile, Mr. Little," he murmurs softly, "Even among friends. If you remember that, you might just survive."

It's a particular horror he still isn't sure how to process, deal with. What happened to those men. What they were capable of. And he's only learned more of those capabilities in the time since — here, in Milton, exposed to the stories of some of the others. Horrors the likes of which Edward could never have.... imagined. Men, butchered like animals. Fed upon by their fellow man.

So the other's words affect him, deeply, but not with surprise. No, it's with recognition, familiarity, though none that he wears with ease. His face sags in a frown, as though he has little strength to keep his mouth anything but a deep frown, wounded, saddened. Haunted.

'Even among friends.'

They were his friends, he thinks, even if they'd never quite referred to one another as such. On the ship, men were not necessarily friends as much as they were colleagues and co-workers, and divided further by the differences in rank and duty.

But.... yes, they were his friends. Perhaps during what horrors they'd been through, they became much more than only that. And all of them were his responsibility. He feels the weight of all of them, always.

"Yes... I know now that it is easy for men to turn.... strange, when they need to survive."

He'd clung so hard to those rules of society, but he'd been one of the few. In the end, the last. And what had it done to help anyone? It had only made him weaker; everything slipped through his fingers before he could attempt to catch it.

"...But I mean to make sure that such a thing does not happen here. That is why I'm keeping watch over things. Stock of them." Why he's down here, guarding the food stores. It may seem silly. To him, it's not at all.

"I will not allow anyone here to become hurt. I assure you."

If someone told a younger Louis he would fall in love with someone who liked to play with his food, and that food was human, Louis would have been greatly disturbed. It goes against nature to be so cruel to his fellow man. Louis could never see them as his tasty inferiors. Lestat would hurt people like a cat, for fun. Louis hurts people like a man, with all the messy human emotions it entails.

Louis watches Edward's face lose anything that held it up. It's like a heaviness he knew only in his deepest despair. Louis thinks of the last vestiges of his humanity, as he often does when faced with trials. Here was an instance where not even humans could cling to it. It makes Louis more melancholy than he already is. He debates whether to dance with the savage garden of the world or attempt to balance the scales.

"If I should succumb to the madness of which you speak, I may shut myself away. Do not try to find me, do not allow anyone, including yourself, to be near me. It will pass. All things do."

The other man's words give him an odd pause. Uncomfortable, tense, as he sits there in the flickering lamplight, and in the face of words that are surely not natural to hear.

It isn't natural, to speak of such things. To imagine them at all. It isn't natural to have to prepare men for their doom, to watch a man suffering from poison and ache and confused, fever-dream horror plead to die.

It isn't natural to wonder if he will fall to that same degree of suffering. If someday he, too, might beg for mercy; if this strange place with its strange, impossible effects, might saturate him with it. Draw out what's already there and make it worse (a suiting punishment, of course). He feels what he now knows to be lead poisoning in his joints and in his stomach, in his head, behind his eyes. Not as bad as some of the men got, never as bad as that. But he wonders. He dreams of Morfin, and Commander Fitzjames, and Jopson. All of them, like living corpses. All of them, suffering. So many more men suffered, too. Temperaments made hostile. Minds addled, decisions strange. He forgets things, often.

'It will pass', Louis says, but what Edward had witnessed did not pass. It only grew worse, and worse. There was no relief to that madness. It was a death sentence.

He watches the other man with brows knit, features tight, confused, unsettled. Louis says it with such assurance, as though he can predict how such a thing will go. This, too, feels... unnatural. Strange. He isn't sure how to react, how to respond, mouth open and then closing a little, then opening again.

"I fear it would.... consume you. It consumed them all." He swallows against a fresh tightness. "I do not think any of us survived that madness. My... companions who have arrived here.... and myself.... we are likely all dead men."

Oh, he'd had hope, up until the very end. Hope was what he, perhaps alone, clung to. Up until he'd actually begun that march South, with the still-living corpse of Thomas Jopson behind him, and those scattered tins of food. The hope was gone, then. He walked only because he did not know what else to do. Edward Little — the decent man, the good man, the man loyal to his Captain — had died.

....And so how could Louis hope to survive it? The madness, the degradation of self? The hunger to harm fellow man for one's own survival? That question lingers in Edward's expression, confused and questioning even if he doesn't outright say it.

Everything about Louis and his unlife are unnatural, he believes. No matter how many times Lestat insisted Louis simply follow his nature as a vampire, Louis was always at war with himself. He longed to be loved and accepted by his fellow man, while indeed he was not a fellow man.

Louis often wonders if this place is a kind of Purgatory. While Louis did not take his own life, he did ask for death, and Lestat gave it to him. Then Louis the vampire gave it to many others.

"I am already dead." Louis contemplates his hands tipped with pointed nails. "Events transpired and rendered me a dead man walkin'. I am already consumed."

Metaphorical? Perhaps. "I cling to this life and this body because... I'm not sure why. I do not know what else to do. I want to be... loved. I want to have a conversation and feel enriched by it. I want to find the answers to questions of my existence. But that can't happen if I kill."

Louis has never had the pleasure of starving to death as a vampire, but he assumes it starts with an almost pleasant lightheadedness and ravenous hunger and ends in weakness and then death (a second one). He would pass. He would die like a monk, like a saint, and restore what dignity he could to his wretched existence while sparing the lives of those around him.

He thinks it's a nice thought, anyway. Starving to death actually terrifies him.

"I don't know how I would comport myself, but I wish for it to go the way of peace. If no one comes near me, then I will have it."

This man is a mystery. Parts glimpse through, like so many eyes peering out from a darkness, but they shut themselves quickly before Edward can make contact with them.

Some things make sense, are relatable, even: 'I am already dead.' So he, too....? Edward stares at him, that empathy once more leaking from him, mouth a deep frown as he listens.

('I want to be... loved.' Oh, it feels like a knife. He doesn't think "love" is what has ever really driven him, and even now isn't necessarily what he seeks, what he moves forward and keep going for, but the most lonely parts of himself do understand. For a very long time, he has felt a cold aching emptiness. He has felt so alone.)

....But the more Louis continues, once again, Edward finds himself baffled by the mystery to his words. He speaks as though... (again,) this is not a new concept for him. As though he's given it much thought. Has he truly? Through this storm, wondered if he may fall victim to... unruliness, indecency? "Madness", as they both keep referring to it as. The fear of becoming a mutineer of sorts — of losing one's humanity in a harrowing situation... is it a common fear? Edward would never have presumed such, and yet here this man speaks of it as if he has always feared it.

His frown deepens, confused and disturbed and pained by it all, but he's nodding all the same.

"Then.... you have my word. If that should happen here.... I'll make certain you're left alone."

It feels a strange vow to make, unnatural, alien (and yet on the other side of things, so painfully relevant.) Edward is, as he is so often, torn between two places, two states of mind. Two perceptions. But through it all, is the poignant awareness of a man wanting to decide for himself how a thing should go, and it's...been such a rare concept for him and for those he knows. He couldn't imagine denying someone autonomy whenever they're able to have it.

"....But I will do whatever I can to avoid that happening. And.. if you should feel something coming on, any strange... thoughts, or compulsions, I hope that you could come to me. Perhaps I could help you before they became unmanageable."

He.... has no idea the scope of this, of course. Of what this man truly means. Even so, the offer is genuine.

Often Louis feels the need to appear strong and immovable. He wants respect, the good regard of others (and love). On rare occasions, he confides his struggles in another man, and his eyes are green pools of sorrow. He would lament to Lestat that he would never get control over his bloodlust, never prevent himself from killing when the need became great. Lestat didn't understand why a vampire had such human concerns.

Louis places his hand fleetingly over Edward's. Affection is always a gamble with other men, but right now it feels right... even if he doesn't know if he would take him up on his offer. That could reveal his secret and destroy what little trust there is between them. It could even kill him.

"Thank you, Mr. Little. You're a good man."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

nature offers a violence

cw: vampire thirsty boy

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cw: depression

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some mild spoilers for Claudia's whole premise/deal

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cw: mention of cannibalism

going to be unwell: vampire edition (cw: starvation)

cw: mention of lead poisoning / effects

cw: suicide mention

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