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's got to hand it to Tim, he's a smart guy. Weird as hell, and probably a little Touched, but a smart kid. It's not a bad idea. Tim's showing initiative, showing organization, leadership. Moxie. There's a teeny, tiny part of March that's a little annoyed about it, but it's buried whenever he reminds himself that getting miffed at a kid for trying to help is probably the stupidest thing in the universe.

So he tries to catch Tim when there's a moment he's alone, sidling up fairly easily. Holland's great with sidling. Not so great with things like manners.

"Hey. Nice rallying the troops, kid."

He feels like a horse doing that sleep-while-standing thing. There's the fireplace lit and roaring, in a contest against the howling wind outside the building. The chairs gathered around it in the center of the Hall are all mostly taken- doesn't matter, Tim's halfway reclined against a wall. He's shed the heavy jacket, the scarf. He's just a kid in a frumpy yellow hoodie killing time by idling by the fire.

It feels great, like he's asleep on his feet.

He isn't, naturally, and March's approach has Tim angling his body away, just a fraction.

If this is sarcasm, he's not about to indulge. Tim finds a smile to bring up though: mild, quiet. "Tough crowd," he agrees, because Hickey is an asshole. "But Russia was worse. There's at least one more person than I expected on the project now, so that's a win."

It's surprisingly not sarcasm, at least not intentionally--but it's not the first or last time someone is unsure about Holland March's tone. Tim looks a bit like Kieren Walker; shuffling through the motions a bit too well and practiced. Exhausted, even. March feels a bit of something, a weird little thump in his chest that might even be parental concern. Been a while since he felt that. Kind of shitty considering he has a kid and should be feeling that more often, but the fact still stands.

"Two. I wanna help." He's sincere about it, too, but he plows on almost immediately, barely giving Tim room to answer or respond.

"How much sleep you been getting, kid?" Forget the weird Russia remark, he's gotta ask about Tim's well being first.

Edited 2023-11-16 19:34 (UTC)

Hell, Tim remembers hearing that tone of voice from Bruce. Maybe even from his dad, once upon a time.

He's seventeen, there's stubborn, stupid babyfat still clinging to his cheeks, and he can't grow a beard to save his life. Seriously. He just ends up looking stupid until a razor meets his skin.

Anyway. Facial hair. So not the issue here.

Tim's smile keeps put, the rehearsed air keeps put. "I need to remind you," he points out, soft and stern, "that I've made it this far without you assigning me a bedtime."

Kid. Maybe. Not usually, though. Tim dares to look apologetic. "Don't worry about it, Mr. March. I'm getting enough sleep. There isn't a whole lot else to do in here."

Tim's sternness doesn't bother March whatsoever, the blonde staring calmly--deadpan, even--at the other. Holly's all but screamed she hated him before so a little attitude is practically nothing. It's usually deserved, anyway.

"Please just call me March or Holland, you're doing serious damage to my ego. I'm still in my prime. Appreciate the politeness, though." He does, and offers a soft smile.

"I'm just saying. Take care of yourself before you decide to fix the world, huh?" From what he's seen, Tim's drive is honestly impressive. Impressive enough for March to give unasked for advice he probably wouldn't even follow himself. "At least sit down. Tell me about Russia. I gotta know, I'm a sucker for a good story."

"Fix the world, huh," he repeats, and the smallest sliver of mask breaks down. If the man says sit then Tim will sit-- sliding down the wall until his tush meets hardwood floor.

(The reason being,)

With the space between them having grown, Tim speaks up. He's not loud for the sake of it, he's not betting on inquisitive ears listening in to private conversation

(but if they do,)

"Listen, I just don't want to go hungry. I know nobody does. I don't know when, or if, we'll reach sustainability.

"I do know... it's always a good idea to have someone to point to when things don't work out."

March's 'sit' is less a word and more a motion with his chin, and he follows a little while after, sliding down in the same fashion but keeping appropriate distance. Enough to talk (enough to talk as privately as this place can afford), but not enough to crowd. Crowding teens never worked, and March doesn't like people too in his shit either, so a little squat a ways away it is.

"Motivations don't matter. You're still doing better than some of the grown men here," the blonde points out, absolutely including himself. He fishes for his lighter and roots around in his jacket pocket, realizes he doesn't have any cigarettes on him, and sighs heavily. Old habits really do die hard.

"Where'd you learn this shit anyway? Thought you crashed cars and skateboarded around your San Fran home."

Ah, flattery. Oldest trick in the book and though Tim does feel the pleasant spirit in it, he can't tell himself it isn't just the fire making him feel toasty.

"Learn what?" Tim digs.

He gestures vaguely to his own face. "I won't say no to you teaching me where you're finding the-- to shave. I have a disposable razor. I'm scared to even look at it in the mornings."

"Oh, to shave?" Without a single moment of remorse or guilt, he shrugs. "I've been hoarding them. Stop by if you need 'em." Someone's noticed he's keeping his facial hair, though, and that's a nice little ego boost. It rules, after all. Nothing can beat the moustache-soulpatch-combo.

"Anyway--you've got a flare for getting people to listen, that's all I'm saying. Pain in the ass when I've tried. No one's got any respect." Not that he's tried to do anything in Milton at all, but that's neither here nor there.

Tim mouths a silent little wow in what's supposed to be a good-natured tease. His lips turn up as he weighs the pros and cons to divulging his life story as told by the general public.

Fast cars, black ties, funerals, and hill bombing.

His eyes wander off to the fire, because he's seen that happen in, like, those old Westerns when the ranger's about to about to reveal to the barkeep his big plans of revenge. He says, "It's not about respect. It's mostly about being loud."

His father's probably spinning in his grave. Oops? Tim pauses and wonders if he jinxed it all with bringing the name of Wayne along for the ride. He says, "Okay, so, obviously I don't own anything."

--he peers back at March, owlish and studious. "But the moment the judge signed off on my emancipation, a clause was triggered and I took control of Wayne Enterprises. I say 'control' because nothing happens unless I give the go-ahead. Because it's my money. Right? I'm the majority shareholder. And I'm under no illusion that I won't get kicked off that leaderboard soon, but in the meanwhile"

(here he just runs his hand through his hair, and he hates that his hair feels greasy. where is his Lion King moment, where a baboon hits him on the head and tells him all mystically to remember who you are. because, like, god, what the fuck even is this life, what ever happened to him kicking and screaming and hollering no I won't--)

"it's a lot of phone calls and meetings. That's not even touching on the work with the Foundation. So being some shy pushover isn't, uh. Man, I would have been eaten alive. No thanks. Risking someone chucking a chair at me because I dared ask we join forces for good eats? A no brainer."

March hums a little at the loud remark--he doesn't disagree, but he can definitely be loud and no one respects him--and as he listens he starts to stroke at his chin, thoughtful. As thoughtful as March can be.

"That sounds rough," he deadpans, mostly because he's thinking of how much he could do with all of the cash Tim Wayne Drake seems to have if the houses and enterprises and shareholder talk is to be believed. That's a full ride scholarship for Holly when she turns Tim's age. That's also enough scotch for March to drown himself in without hitting up old ladies in the trailer park and squeezing as much cash from them as he can muster. Doesn't sound too bad, the word 'emancipation' disappearing the moment he hears it. Selective hearing and all that.

"Hey. You're free from that now. No money here, just... snow."

He's cheering Tim up. Right? This is what people do?

"A lot of snow," he immediately corrects, and it's with a shine behind his eyes that says he knows he's going to be annoying. But. Well. That's the fat problem in Milton. In Gotham. Europe. In general.

It's a lot. Everything is a lot.

"A lot of snow," March repeats, and then turns his attention to the fire like Tim had before, squinting slightly. That's the thing about this whole business: there's a lot of snow, a lot of bullshit, a lot of feelings he can't drown out with the usual sad sack distractions. He lifts a hand up to scratch absently at his chin, taking his time in the quiet before he speaks again.

"I'm surprised you can grow enough hair to shave."

If he's quiet for too long, he'll sleep. So Tim ponders taking pity on the man with the smoking vice and offering him a stick of gum. He's found and stashed a sleeve of the stuff-- expired before he was even born.

Vintage shit.

Having something to do with your mouth is supposed to help the withdrawals; Tim's only ever heard it, never has directly put it into practice. Though he guesses Talking is also a thing people do with their mouths so... he's helping.

He grunts, brings his knees up and in so he can recline better against the... wall. "You and me both, buddy," he says. Because that's what you say when you spend a lifetime looking twelve.

"My brother... he goes from Human to full-fledged Werewolf in a day. It's ridiculous."

There's no big mournful side to his words, the fact of the matter being that Dick's just not with him here. Again. Tim's quick to clear up though, that,

"Not an actual werewolf, by the way. He's just-- just... hairy."

This can't be normal, something in him whispers. Quick--

"So, uh. You any good at building?"

"Nope," March says automatically, extremely relieved to hear Tim explain that his brother isn't a creature of the night. This place is nuts, and the people in this place are nuts. There's a girl from the future where space ships are the norm and there's a bunch of Victorian Boat guys running around, it's nice that it's just 'my brother doesn't shave' and not 'my brother is Larry Talbot.'

"Great at finding cheating husbands and runaway daughters. Not exactly a skill I can use here." Hence the crisis he'd had a few weeks ago, but hey. He's over that. March is fine.

"Ghost towns with no answers kinda leave you lacking." He'd said earlier he'd want to help, though, and that hasn't changed.

March's thoughts are shiny little rocks rolling in that head. Tim is the jackdaw.

He looks at the man like he's not entirely sure he heard correctly. He looks at the man like he's not sure he should dismiss what he's just heard. "There's no way," Tim mutters.

Of course the rich bitch runaway knows about cheating husbands and what rich parents and incensed wives do when there's a need for proof.

For clout, mostly. Tim instantly corrects himself, because that's not fair.

"You're not a P.I."

March is usually better at reading facial cues, but he's far too pleased with himself and that reaction to take it as anything other than pleasant surprise. His smile is easy, brows raised. God, he needs a smoke.

"Got an add on me if you wanna see it," he offers.

Now, what on earth is he supposed to do with that information? A lot. The answer is a lot.

"You... you still carry it around with you?"

There isn't a single hint of embarrassment as he nods, reaching into one of his pockets.

"Yeah I still carry it around with me." Mostly, he's glad someone's even remotely interested in him: there's already a bit of a morale boost from the question alone, the corner of his lips pulling up sightly, shoulders and lanky frame a little more square.

He pulls out his wallet: driver's silence, Safeway loyalty card, a business card for something called the Pink Pussycat, a school photo of a blonde girl about 13--it's a very messy wallet--and, finally, a folded piece of newspaper.

March hands it to Tim, clearly proud.

"Groovy, right?"

"Far out," Tim agrees. He hasn't even seen the card, but he sighs that as he's reaching for it and turning it over in his hand. It's too close proximity to have his eyes walk over to the collection of the past life laid out before them. Tim will just have to make do with the memory of the portrait, the Pink card. One is likely family, one is business.

Which is which is up in the fucking air.

He's been too quiet for too long, and though he's been looking at the ad he hasn't been looking at the ad. Tim blinks, refocuses, asks, "Uh, what year is it back in your... home?"

Appropriately befuddled. He thinks.

Edited 2023-11-29 20:13 (UTC)

"1977, and if you say you're from 2010 or onward I'm gonna lose it."

Is he serious? Who knows.

(He's serious.)

"2009," he deadpans because

well

because he can't not.

And March, in turn, stares as he triwa to figure out if Tim is serious or not.

Give him a sec. Let him study Tim's face. His eyes narrow.

Oh.

Hey. He

He ducks his head, some stupid color in his cheeks as Tim struggles (really, truly struggles) to keep the smile from breaking him.

He tugs at the hem of his jeans with his one able hand, and he's never felt so

stupid.

"Man, I-"

It's stupid but he'll die if he looks at March's face, and Tim swallows down the

the

anyway, he holds out the advert for him to take back, and he says, "If you could see my passport- it's 2009 on the stamps. So you don't have to lose it. But I won't tell if you do. It's totally understandable."

Edited 2023-11-29 22:31 (UTC)

Oh alright. March isn't an idiot.

Well. He is an idiot. But he's not a complete and total idiot. The point is that he knows exactly what's happening and the other point is that Tim cutting so close to March's arbitrary cut-off date he does, in fact, lose it.

The result is his whole body tensing and then flailing out and immediately tensing back up again, something that's not quite rage but not not rage, frustration and annoyance and God knows what else, all accumulating into one singular, extremely high pitched slightly effeminate sounding wheezy swear.

"Fuck!"

nature offers a violence

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cw obnoxious wealth & some teen existentialism

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cw suicidal thoughts? actions?? inclinations???

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