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

He doesn't answer immediately. There is no hint of alcohol smell on him, so it couldn't be that, but he seems slow to respond anyway. As Tim invades his space, his eyes begin to dilate until the green is nearly swallowed up. They're the only part of him that moves.

"Oh really? I didn't notice... Like a bird..." he murmurs quietly.

Of course he noticed Tim's obvious injury the first time they met. He remembers sniffing out weaknesses in humans when learning to hunt them. He's got an eye for it now. He turns his eyes on Tim too quickly.

"Powder... mix with water... It gets hot." Eloquent advice from a businessman who sometimes oversaw repairs to plaster. Then he backtracks, "You need a doctor to set it for you, little bird."

("Because you are built like a bird," Lestat said, and Claudia's eyes burned defiantly.)

Louis closes his eyes as if against a slow tide of pain and chews his lip again.

Everything is wrong.

"Yeah," he tells the bucket. "Because I broke it after th-- after meeting you. And before meeting your Anubis."

His blood is cold and slow, tar sludging through his veins. Tim grips the lid of the unmarked bucket, either steeling himself to pry it off somehow or bracing to chuck it at an assailant. Whatever has been stored in the plastic is now solid and weighty at the bottom. Definitely not what he's after.

Little bird.

His hand trembling, Tim wonders about crying out for Conner. For a rescue. He's so not ready to

Get your head out of your ass, Drake.

The bucket is left alone and Tim thinks I have a gun and then the alarm sounds in his head again and Tim thinks, again, oh c'mon.

(Grapple gun.)

He swallows thickly, hopes the adrenalized agitation of a runaway shiver goes unnoticed or unmentioned due to Louis being so damn out of it.

Total space cadet.

Tim kneels close, face stony and eyes panicked. He's trying. He drawls, "I'm just going to say it: if you got into the good and white powdery stuff, there's going to be a lot of people ticked off that you didn't share. Mister de Pointe du Lac, you can hear just fine me, right?"

He looks at a dusty box of wigs and thinks of Mardi Gras and dancing with Lestat. Then his eyes are riveted at the moving collection of bone, flesh, and blood in front of him, and the thing is a person, one Tim Drake. With all the sharpness of vile hunger cutting through the languidness, he notices Tim shuddering at the edges.

Louis wills his inertia to hold. He feels drawn too tight and stiff, pallid and wan, crackling like a husk in the shape of a man.

"Good thing I didn't; and yes, I can," he whispers softly, following Tim's drawl with a lilt. Inside his blanket, his fingers curl. If "Anubis" showed up here, Louis wouldn't hesitate to suck then gut that fool.

"How you holdin' up after bein' chained to a chair?" Normal conversation. "Was that the source of your current misfortune?" Broken arm, guilty face, there are layers.

Something shifts under the blanket. Tim springs to grab hold of the hand that's holding the blade that's going to

there is no knife about to dig into his guts, and Tim is left there with his left arm raised, his body having shifted away before he could call himself to his feet. The anxiety has bled clear out of his eyes and the thin line of his lips; if he's going to die then he's going to die and no amount of worrying will save him.

Not that he's particularly worried about dying, but there's things to do. Work to get done.

"We're not talking about that," he spits-- a spooked cat. Whether his glare is for the chains or his current blunder with miscalculations is up in the air.

Breathe.

There's an awkward and painful silence before Tim does, actually, breathe. Louis de Pointe du Lac isn't drunk, but he's not-- right. With everything still wrong

(He should retire, Tim thinks. This is proof.)

he tries again. Never let it be said he always takes the easy way out. "How long ago were brought in?" he asks. And, accusingly, "I know you tried to tough it out on your own. I'm not going to tell you how stupid that was. But be serious for once. Do you feel like you have a fever?"

And,

"I'm going to feel for a fever. Theresnotrmometers around here..."

Tim makes a sudden move. Louis has to fight with himself not to hiss and take a swipe at him. This leaves his eyes too wide and piercing, and Louis thumps against the wall in his attempt to move back.

Again, he thinks of how Tim shows more stupidity than disrespect, at least in his book, though the boy has both in spades. One more point towards leaving the boy alive, in addition to humanity, ethics, practicality...

Still, his hackles are raised, and the tethers of reason he keeps on himself in this state threaten to break. It would be much easier to simply give in to the hunger than continue rolling this boulder up this hill.

"You'll do no such thing. I have no fever, and you would like to keep the use of your other hand," he breathes acidly.

He's used to phrasing it as a threat instead of the warning it is, but that is fine. That will do.

Head swimming with a highly troubled interpretation of experiences, Tim backs down. As in, he sits back on his heels, still so close to this stranger and infuriatingly far away from being able to draw appropriate conclusions. For the detective he's supposed to be, this is lousy work.

If he pushes, then Tim is complicit in feeding into that hopelessness of finding oneself with their back against the wall.

He shivers.

"I'd like to see you try," he dares, and wonders what the hell ever happened to his brain. It used to actually be fully functional. He spends way too much time hung up on how things used to be.

With no intent to move an inch further and laying his hand palm-flat against his thigh, Tim fucking yammers on. "So then, either you tell me what's going on with you or I'll drag a doctor in to see you. It's okay if you just need some Pepto. Look- it happens to the best of us. But you can't sit there and tell me you're physically fine and expect me to believe it."

He doesn't mind the dare; he knows it's talk. Tim doesn't move towards him, close as he is, so Louis is content to listen and try to ignore how his veins look or how his breath betrays the pace of his heart. Louis feels his mouth water, and he swallows it down.

He thinks of the lies he could tell, has told. They don't hold much water when he doesn't have a home to hide in for the duration of the storm. Damn it, this was why he wanted to avoid coming here...

"I have a condition."

Not being very good at avoiding a doctor. Try again.

"Ain't no doctor can fix it for me. Bein' snowed in without the means to get what I need is the worst thing that could happen to me... but I can't survive on my own. It's why I left my house and came here."

He's not self-sufficient. He can't go into the wilds like Methuselah and get whatever he needs or be impervious to the cold, not without his powers. There, he said it, and for once in his life Louis de Pointe du Lac veers dangerously towards the truth. He doesn't care that he sounds like an addict right now. That would be more believable than vampirism.

The perfect example of getting nowhere fast, of hurting each other in different ways for nothing. Tim's aware his alarm is evolving to something kin to resentment, the heightened tension here helping no one.

He exhales.

It's far less shaky than he feels.

"I can't help you..." he explains, deliberately natural, because they're nothing to each other, not really, but a life is a life. "If I don't know what you need."

Scars hurt in the cold; this little nook is far enough from the central warmth that Tim adds Time to an endless list of things to keep well in mind.

"The mousetraps and..."

But no. Tim runs his hand through sweaty hair-- gross, and the odd snare doesn't help him from feeling dirty.

"Have you been seeing shadows out of the corners of your eyes? Or lights? Like flashing lights?"

"Oh, so you a doctor now?" He has some wit. All is not lost.

He answers his question with a shake of his head anyway, because at his core Louis needs to talk about what's hurting him. It's so exhausting to hide all the time. Will he confess to a good listener, as he sometimes does, is the real question.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with my vision."

He lowers his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Tim's veins. Except things look brighter and sharper, but he knows that's the hunger. Predator vision, ready to hunt or defend. He's spent sleepless nights as a human where he forgot to eat and experienced a similar effect. It's not anything special here now that his vampire senses are dulled.

"You askin' about a general thing happenin' to the folks here, or is this a more specific inquiry?"

Then he leans a little away from the wall so he doesn't feel so trapped again, eyes intently fixed on Tim.

"For your own good, you don't want to help me." His voice is slightly roughened--sincere, pleading.

You a doctor now is met with raised brows of the bitch I might be kind. One slip of a mask is met with another. That's just common courtesy.

Tim schools his expression back to pensive neutrality. When the man moves away from the wall Tim feels the ache in his chest that begs he move back, too. He doesn't. He's not backing down.

"Mister de Pointe du Lac, things are different now. There's been advances in medical care you can't even imagine. Treatment isn't all about medication."

Canes aren't fashionable in the early 21st century. This is a man Tim would be shaking hands and trading plastic smiles with at a gala clear across the country: Louis would know what's fashionable.

His eyes are so vibrant green that Tim fights to stay present, to meet them with the defiance they deserve and not get transported back to the moment of broken bones (hah) and his own blood staining the walls.

"We might be able to help your condition. Whatever it is."

He remembers being alone

how can he not, when his blood's run lonely out of gashes more often than not, when what he recalls first about a home is the blunt echo of lifeless, empty winding halls

nobody had believed him-- Tim still doesn't know, exactly, what he had done so, so wrong to not deserve a

loneliness is not something Tim will give this man.

Not when that bastard Harkness will die with Tim looking on as the rightful audience.

Bullish, Tim goes on. "One of your priorities was the mousetraps, setting bait in them. I've seen you go down to the basement. That's where we're storing the food. Is that it? The food? You need- fresh. Maybe raw. Something living, not- not something you can get here, around... so many people."

Is this why... Louis had called the Anubis a clown, had been expecting company and had maybe the keen senses to... Tim's lips part slightly; he exhales.

Jesus Christ.

"Or maybe I just wanted to clear the place of vermin," he says in that soft deliberate voice that anyone who has had more than one conversation with him should know means danger. He can't believe this kid is trying to figure it out.

He's goin' figure it out, and then where will I be, burned in an incinerator just like all the rest--

"You know what rat poison does to the local wildlife? Kills hawks and any other predator that might go after them. Yet so many people use it, then wonder why their walls smell when things die in them. Do you use it, Tim?"

He doesn't have to ask this question, as his particular problem can be solved simply by vetting caged rats, but he does it anyway. He doesn't have to enunciate Tim's name like a single discordant piano note in an empty room. Even when faced with something he can't easily defend against, like the Anubis's kidnapping or Tim's incessant questioning, Louis thrashes like an animal caught in a trap.

"I think most people would touch on the part about eating raw meat, first."

And then they'd bring up the environmentalism. Maybe call out the unhinged notion of a nosy, know-it-all kid implying that human flesh is off (or on) the menu. Tim's stuck with the full body awareness that then makes him have to make his chest rise and fall mechanically. Makes him have to blink on command. He would freeze otherwise. Would get stuck on more than the keen, searing run of blood through his veins.

He shakes his head. Barely.

He wants to say, because he's never said, that he threw out all the rat poison when he saw his dad reach for it one morning. Jack Drake was a-- moody man, back when his wife died and he'd regained use of most of his body. Tim had been a kid then and back then he'd thought his dad was just a mess in the early mornings and that he'd meant to reach for an old cereal box instead. Years later, when Jack was drinking and mourning again and giving even his new wife the cold shoulder, Tim had put together that, well, his old man probably struggled with depression.

There's choice few moments in his life where Tim can honestly say a lightbulb goes off in his head, when something clicks.

Oh, Tim thinks, and even the voice in his head is subdued because, that makes sense.

"I have this... idea," he says. The storm howls, rattles the walls. Tim tilts his head back, glancing up, as if he's waiting for the ceiling to come down. And if he just happens to expose that vulnerable part of prey--

"So I was thinking," he repeats. If anyone is going to lead this dance, it's him and his big mouth. And the creaking roof is a better to talk at. "About getting some people together and building a, uh, what do you call them? A hutch. A rabbit hutch. I mean, how hard can it be? It's got to be easier than hunting. Trapping. The next time this happens... we won't all be at the mercy of whatever is left in the basement. Right? The food can be better, more... filling. No poisons. You can... survive with the animals. Right? It won't be a problem. Sir?"

Edited (WHY DO I KEEP FORGETTING SHIT) 2023-11-19 01:41 (UTC)

Maybe it's a raw meat diet. A special fad. They have a lot of those. Louis can't quite bring himself to flounder so obviously, nor completely deny everything.

Louis closes his eyes at idea because he can't bear to look at someone's neck. Louis retreats into himself, outside himself, dances backwards, because, Oh Lord, here it comes.

Sir? His eyes drag open. Tim's neck is still there. Necks exist. Louis hates everything.

"...They do better than chickens in the cold," is his eventual answer. Could this be approval? But it doesn't mean much from a man who can't farm. (He's not even sure he's right.)

A farm. Of course. And Louis would be the fox in the henhouse--or hutch. Not so different than Louis being a wolf sheltering among sheep, and the sheep are people. He preys on the edges, and hasn't it always been that way, even when he was a human purveyor of the demi-monde?

It isn't as though he's salivating at the thought of rabbit. A human would probably enjoy a well-seasoned rabbit stew more. But it's survival of a sort, and he can distract himself with the practicals.

"Not practical to compete for food, seeing as I need a lot of it." He can only have the blood, but he's reluctant to say that. "I don't enjoy rat. But everyone else isn't down to eating them just yet."

Necks exist. His has been cut twice, which is one more time than Tim deems strictly necessary. They're one of his faintest scars because being a Wayne is enough of a pain in the butt without having the tabloids clamoring over kids with cut necks.

Tim, satisfied that the Hall can hold out another twenty minutes of ferocious wind, rolls his head to peer over at Louis. He sits, finally. Instead of balancing on his feet in his awkward kneel.

"We're already competing," he explains. He thinks he sounds far more comfortable than he has any right to: which is such a neat trick. "There's polar bears out there."

There are not. --right? Right?

"My friend is-- he lives on a farm. He's from Kansas. He says rats show up anyway. Can't get rid of 'em."

It's cold in this place, hidden and dark and away from the life of the community. But it figures Louis wouldn't mind it so much. Tim nods. "It's a good idea, huh. Glad to have your endorsement, de Pointe du Lac."

Then continues.

"Is there anything that I can do to... help you get by? Until the storm blows over?"

Scars. Strange life for a rich boy. Jury's out on the polar bears.

"My endorsement as a businessman, not a farmer. But I can advise you in my areas of expertise where applicable."

He'd wish for Bricktop to be here, a strong management right hand, but he wouldn't want to subject her to a hard life in the snow after she had gotten her first taste of an easier one in New Orleans. Managing the club, counting money, and not getting called names... it was more than many people in her position could have dared to hope.

"There is something you can do. You don't want to do it, though. I will have to manage," he forces himself to say while he can almost taste human blood from memory. He likes light and warmth; that didn't change when he became a vampire. But he's isolated himself and his particular problem.

Tim nods.

"Okay."

And that's that, isn't it? He thinks about it, and a frown is now well etched on him. There's nothing but more wasted time in store if he lets himself bristle and dare Louis to enjoy being told what he'll do or not. With his breath coming as if he's run a 5k (what, do you think Tim has any idea of what running a marathon is like oh hell no), it's best to call it quits while he's ahead.

And make no mistake, he is well ahead.

He even stumbles over his words, "Is there anyone else who has the cond... actually-- no. You don't have to say it. I can keep a secret. So don't worry about that. Not even Anubis can get it out of me."

And then he's standing, and he misses standing, and he even wants to stretch his arms over his head like a lanky and old tom. But he can't. Because Anubis. Tim kicks lightly at the white bucket that started this... conversation, and he looks at the blanket over Louis more so than at the man himself. (It's always weird to be looked down on, literally having someone over you. Tim can't do it to someone else, not if he's not beating the absolute crap outta them.)

"Hey. If you find... plaster, PlayDoh, or bubble wrap," he says, "holler for me. Cool?"

He's relieved Tim doesn't press him more. He's disappointed Tim doesn't press him more. Maybe Louis wants an excuse to bite him, because he can't just commit to being a killer, a vampire. Maybe Louis wants to protect him.

Louis would rather die (again) than be told what to do by some nervous white kid. Maybe this is why Lestat calls him a library of confusion. Lestat never had to pretend to be someone's valet just to be allowed in the opera house uptown. Tim's actual sentiments have nothing to do with Louis chewing his lip again. Louis knows this, but it doesn't stop the need to cross his arms and wrap himself tighter in the blanket.

He hates himself when he's like this.

"Careful what you say. Faux Anubis might kill you, and then your little bunnies would be down a father."

It might be a little superstitious of Louis to tell someone not to jinx themselves, but there are things in this world and his last that are beyond even his understanding. And, think of the bunnies.

"I'll have a look," he says, looking like a man who should be in bed. But if he naps in his coffin, he feels like he won't want to get out, he's that tired. He wants to be able to shuffle around the floor and rifle through supplies for plaster of Paris before he lies down.

Faux Anubis has a connection to the barn which has a connection to the slaughter which is connected to lies, the idea of Crying Wolf comes to mind because Tim saw the paw prints in the snow of large dogs, and of course there's the whole werewolf situation, but he thinks over alarmism and the natural hold it has over the Church, and he figures the churchyard is all buried under snow again and that sucks but it's inevitable and when Louis brings up fatherless bunny rabbits, Tim is supposed to quip something witty about the tragedy.

Instead he face falls and he freezes in place just long enough to say, "Oh."

Sheepish, he explains, "You know, I never had any pets. Then I got a tank, and, uh. I had some fish at home. I'm not always there, so I automated a feeding system, got them a great filter and all that. But they're probably all dead now."

Tim thinks about temperature regulations and salt in the water, nitrogen, and other stuff he had to cram into his head before buying the first fish. He'd figured it would make the apartment less lonely, and he could totally keep the fish alive.

But he's been gone, he left no instructions for their care, and even automated--

he sighs, tired and impressively fed up with the fucking fish he just mourned, and it's not even really about the fucking fish, because they were cute and a pain in the ass but they were confined to their neat little space-- but nobody has gone to knock on his door to check if he's even still alive, huh? Tim carves out his space the way a castle does a moat, but he's not even a damn castle he's like the garbage heap by Robinson that is always the last one to get swept up by the trash collector and just accumulating trash and that means that corner is just always a stink.

He wonders how long it'll take them to wonder is something is wrong with Red Robin, for having not reported to duty in so long.

And it hasn't even been that long!

And Tim, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, yammers on because he might as fucking well.

"I probably shouldn't tell anyone I haven't had a pet, huh? What do you think? How hard can taking care of rabbits even be? There's a podium up on the stage, and-- you know, I'll bet you anything that I can get at least five people in on the Rabbit Ranch just by standing behind that podium. Because obviously anyone who stands behind a podium has t'know what they're talking about."

The cold is making his arm hurt, but, newsflash: water is wet. Louis gives him the heebie jeebies. And Tim can't shut the fuck up to save his life

and he still goes through life effortlessly disregarded.

Fuck.

Louis has no great love for animals. He couldn't have any, didn't want any, and regularly sucks fresh blood from them, inferior though it is to human. Louis's qualms involve humans.

He cares about the effect animals have on humans, though. The look on Tim's face unbalances him and lances through his chest. It's like Claudia's face whenever she found something that threw the life she couldn't have in her face. A dress she could never grow into, a boy she could never have, an unhappy family she couldn't leave. They've been isolated by vampirism for so long, Louis forgets about concerned friends and neighbors who might come to call, and he doesn't think of this possibility for Tim either.

"Some of them dyin' is part of the reality of farm animals. Pets too. We're supposed to outlive them," he says quietly.

Good job, Louis, very uplifting, not at all relevant to being unable to return home... He takes a breath and rises, and he feels like a creaky old house. Damn this cold. He just wants to reach out and touch Tim's good arm, and it's a hesitant attempt at a gesture. Humans are his weakness, they always have been.

"I'm sorry about your fish. I think your rabbits will appreciate the warm shelter. Their environment's changed with the disaster, and food's hard to come by."

"God, I bet vampires think everyone's a pet," he whines, apropos of nothing.

Okay, apropos of the remark of outliving. He's trying hard to keep Ra's out of this; you're just going to have to believe it's true.

Tim's immersing himself in a plastic storage container, bent at the waist, fiddling with useless crap and welp, it looks like he found the Christmas decorations. He tosses some shimmering silver tinsel that outlived the last person who dared hang it on a tree.

He's tired of outliving people. No wonder Alf never let him keep the cat. Tim woulda likely spontaneously combusted back then, at its demise.

(Sometimes he wonders about the OCD thing and why he can't just stop himself from like

like he knows he won't find plaster. Goodsir already gave a perfectly valid solution to the problem of encasing the broken arm. But it's something to do. And Tim can't stop. And like with so many things, Tim just finds himself sighing again- oh well.)

Oh well, back to talking about rabbits. Tim resurfaces and combs a stray curtain of hair from his face as he nods at Louis, who is probably as confused about Tim as Tim is about Tim. Always keep them guessing. "See, that's the plan."

It's not the worst plan, half-baked as it is.

"Gotta take advantage of the- when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. There's going to be a lot of material thrown around town, too. I don't think my house- number 16? I've been staying there but it's honestly probably all gone by now. Half of the Hall's roof is probably gone by now, jesus, we're going to need... to throw someone up there to patch up the holes. Anyway-"

He's not manic, you're manic.

"Hey, you find any coffee yet? There's some brewing in the kitchen but I swear it's watered down a good... 99 percent. It's gross."

Edited 2023-12-04 19:10 (UTC)

There are two wolves inside him. One goes very still at what Tim says, and the other wants to demand to know what he means by vampires. Or ghouls. He doesn't. Hollowly, he says,

"They feed off blood. I'd think less of pets and more of food."

Louis peers inside the box. Of course the Community Hall would hold Christmas events of some sort, in the times before. Louis does Christmas--which, he's aware, many people don't. He's a lapsed Catholic himself. It's complicated. He likes the sense of warmth in the cold, the lights, and the tree. People in Europe were doing it long before the Christians arrived.

It's a myth that vampires prefer the darkness. Louis is just allergic to the sun. He loves lights. Louis remembers Lestat lighting so many. Really livened up the place. They would have parties...

It's a wonder Louis doesn't buckle under all the baggage he carries, but being confused and confusing is a distraction. On the subject of food,

"I don't drink coffee."

He doesn't drink coffee. Or wine. Or liquor. He does, when he's pretending, and it tastes like nothing. He remembers standing on his balcony watching New Year's revelers, an untouched martini in his hand.

"And I think you should lay off of it. You speedin' through road barriers when you should be restin'."

He doesn't think coffee is the only thing wrong with Tim. Louis has had his manic spells, lashing out at the world that lashed him. Of course it couldn't be just a case of the coffees.

"If you're not riding the waves of A-Fib, are you really living?" He deadpans. In some parallel universe he's on billboards in big cities same as he is back home, except in those unknown worlds he's the face of some Emergency Department or other agency giving pro tips on how not to live.

Youth is wasted on the young.

He doesn't even like coffee; Tim thinks he's circled that train of thought already. Instead he asks, "Was Christmas a thing you did back home?" With all the polite distance of interest befitting the... relationship, with Louis.

He doesn't know what A-Fib is, but if it's a new slang for coffee, he's not using it.

"Yes. That's... next month, isn't it?"

Louis already looks tired, sad, and wistful, so it is a minor miracle he manages to look even more so. His calendar is mismatched, and he has to remind himself what month it is here. When he left home, it was February. Now, according to various written paraphernalia around town, it's winter for him again. One long winter...

His last Christmas was spent enduring Lestat and Claudia's many spats. They had a beautiful tree. It didn't matter.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

nature offers a violence

no subject

cw brief drugs mention

Re: cw brief drugs mention

cw idk suicidal thoughts or something, paranoia

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cw: drug addiction/vampirism metaphor

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cw mentions injuries, abandonment

cw: mention of rat poisoning and burning people alive

cw mentions of depression, cannibalization, animals as food

cw: dissociation, reference to sex work

why are they like this, cw injuries

Re: why are they like this, cw injuries

no subject

cw: reference to racism, vampire biting, and self-hate, the Louis trifecta

cw animal death because of course, some abandonment, unreliable narrative

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cw v mild survivor's guilt, named mental health condition

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