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

His particular diet isn't sustainable when all creatures, including people, hide from the storm where he can't reach. Louis has been starving, and a starving vampire is ravenous. Louis's logic tells him not to put himself in a position where he could kill the residents of Milton. He imagines something like a witch hunt, them finding his resting place in retaliation and incinerating him, coffin and all.

Killing so freely leaves a bad taste in Louis's mouth. The last shreds of his humanity.

Finally Louis had to give in and admit he couldn't survive on his own. He trekked from his home to the Hall--and nearly died in the process. He's huddled here in a blanket and keeping to himself. His eyes are too bright, too watchful, too hungry.

Louis is thankful for a distraction from his thirst. He waits until the song finishes.

"Chopin," is all he says dreamily with melancholy. There's a distinctive plaintiveness to Chopin that resonates with Louis.

It would seem Louis was in relatively good company, by far not the only one suffering their own demons as the environment around them conspired daily to see them dead or worse. There was so much to learn yet, about this world and how to survive it. While their day to day lives were spent moving from one space to another, always keeping busy, it was in the moments like now when there was nothing left to do but simply idle.

He is thankful for the piano. It is grossly out of tune and some of the keys stick when he plays them, but it's certainly better than having only his thoughts and memories to keep him company.

As he finishes the song, flexing his fingers idly, he glances over to Louis. For a moment it seems he isn't going to respond, but surprising himself, he does.

"Do you have a favorite?"

He thinks of Lestat, thinking he would shudder at the thought of one of the greats being played on a worn, out-of-tune piano, garrote the pianist with one of the wires, and drain him of blood. Louis is not the musical tyrant he is. Louis only thinks it a shame the piano isn't in good condition.

"Kinda hard when a guy don't name his songs anything other than Opus 28, Prelude Number... 15. Hope I got the number right."

Memory is a monster. Louis approaches the piano. It's technically everyone's piano, but he still feels a little trepidatious about entering a strange man's space to poke experimentally at a few keys until he finds the opening notes. His hands are slim and uncalloused. Then he steps smoothly back, and his hand returns to his blanket.

"It's nice. People think it's about rain. He wrote it during a storm while he was havin' a breakdown."

Cheery.

Knives is silent as he listens, watching Louis approach with a slight turn of his head and a careful eye. He expected the worst from every person inside this building, stress and fear a fine seasoning for unpredictable behavior. Still, if he were truly worried he simply wouldn't be sitting here now, playing where others might dare to approach him. Knives was antisocial first, but he was also curious. What sort of person could he attract through the temptation of music?

His reasons are layered and down at the very bottom of it all, Knives simply wanted to play something. His fingers itched to move across familiar keys, the flurry of noise inside his head drowned out by scores he'd played hundreds of times by now.

As Louis plays the first few notes, Knives simply hums as he picks up the notes after Louis steps back again. "I see. This song has another name, too." He says as he continues to play and despite the state of the piano, his movement over the notes is near perfect. "'Raindrop' is a fitting, but simple name."

Louis smiles. Good music deserves an audience. It almost makes him forget his growing hunger, more potent than any agitation the humans must be feeling. Louis wonders if he will crack first.

"Keepin' it simple is best."

And then he's silent again, eyes half lidded as he listens. It's not a long song, but in his opinion it's just as long as it needs to be. A deceptively soft beginning, a dramatic shift to minor key, and a sublime return to calm. The passing of a storm.

"In all this snow, I miss the rain. Never thought I'd say that. You know, when it storms hard enough, we get rain sideways down in New Orleans."

New Orleans, he recalls, was a city back on Earth. Vague memories of studying geography, maps of old countries and how they had changed over the last few centuries. No more than a dot on a map and nothing more. He had learned so much about Earth in his studies, but the smaller details had slipped through the cracks.

"I've never experienced rain." While the song has ended, Knives continues to play a smaller tune, something that would keep his fingers busy even as they spoke. "Nor snow, before arriving here. Precipitation of any sort falling freely from the skies would be quite the spectacle where I came from."

His fingers still over the keys, turning his head to study Louis.

"New Orleans... Is it French?"

Louis inclines his head in thanks for playing the tune. No rain... Louis can't imagine it. Even deserts get rain sometimes. This man has got to be from one of the most inhospitable places on Earth, Louis thinks. The Sahara or something.

Knives speaks while playing something else, so Louis takes the invitation to pick up the conversation. (He much less takes it and more takes off running with it.)

"That, Spanish, and a whole lot of other things. You ain't never heard of it? Louisiana, the South, United States? Used to be called la Nouvelle-Orléans." Despite the American accent that comes with it, the French still springs out easily. "People came there--or were stolen--had kids, and then you get Creole men like me. It might be in the US now, but Paris is the mother of New Orleans. And before that, it belonged to the Native nations--Choctaw, Natchez, Caddo..."

Louis surmises that Knives will have heard of Paris, at least. And, with the typical love of someone from a unique city, he makes the distinction between it and the country it resides in, the various peoples who have shaped it, and his own place in it, regardless of whether Knives understands him or not. They are things he simply must say to keep them alive in this cold wasteland.

"Mhm."

Knives hums in acknowledgment in between Louis' talking, idle fingers teasing the keys until another song begins to slowly bloom. "I am familiar with the country and its states," His playing slows close to a stop as he stares down at the keys, the tips of his fingers dusted pink from the slight chill away from the fireplace. "Such an ugly, bloody history." Built upon the backs of those who couldn't fight back, outnumbered in strength and size.

A familiar story, played out over and over again through the centuries. Humans could pick their weight in victims to fuel their achievements.

He starts to play again, picking up where he had left off a moment ago.

"Can you speak French yourself?"

Where does Knives come from? He says the United States is "familiar," like they have shrunk down to an anecdote instead of the hugely lumbering republic it insisted on becoming. Louis imagines the bones of the dead screaming from underground in the silence before Knives picks up the tune again.

He enjoys Debussy. Not everyone liked his atmospherics, but Louis (in his uncharitable moods) chalks that up to ears refusing to listen to the music of Nature.

"Of course, but since you speak to me in English, that's what I respond with. It's always easier to respond in kind. That's how it is, right?" His jewelike eyes shift with his thoughts, catching the light just slightly differently.

"C'est comme ça, non?" What he just said, and then he continues, knowing that somehow in this world, the Tower of Babel's troubles just don't exist, at least not to his knowledge. He's never tried to test the application of linguistic subterfuge.

"My accent is immediately noticeable to someone from France. Someone I know never tires of pointing that out. But if Parisian French tried to overtake Louisiana French, people would riot."

He smiles a little. Surely it's just a joke... right? The flash of his teeth is a little too sharp.

He swings back to English, making an opening gesture with his fingers. "Are you related to that man with the arm?"

He noticed the resemblance. How could he not, that jawline is indelible. But the way they carry themselves is so completely different--and the hair color--it took a moment before Louis realized they very much resembled each other.

"Les Français étaient connus pour leurs émeutes, n'est-ce pas?"

His accent is stiff, as formal as anyone's would be if they learned purely from textbook teachings and a few old movies to try and pin down proper pronunciations. As a child with a rapidly growing intelligence and a hungering curiosity to match, Knives happily devoured everything he could grab hold of and languages were a small, but satisfying part of that diet. There had been a time where he wanted to connect to humans and through language he could see so much potential and infinite possibilities. French had been one of the first he'd learned, all starting with a simple children's book their caretaker had read to them.

While he wouldn't name what he was feeling now as excitement hearing Louis speaking it, he could certainly consider himself interested.

His playing slows again, only for a moment, when Louis poses the question to him. "Yes. We are brothers." Knives' fingers stop then, a momentary pause between a lull in the notes, and turns his head back to Louis. "Do we look alike?" Past the dry, quiet tone of his question, it almost sounds teasing.

[ ooc; this is so old i'm sorry 🙇‍♂️ ]

His teeth flash again. "Leurs émeutes et leurs révolutions... We have much in common." Regimes born of blood.

He needs to work on his vowels... and everythin' else, Louis thinks to himself. But that comes with time and practice. He guesses Knives might not have native speakers to practice with. Louis himself has an accent, since English is his first language.

"Looks aside, you couldn't be more different. But I'm sure you know that. When I met him, I thought he was goin' get himself into trouble one of these days, though not out of a predilection for it." His smile shifts angles a little differently. It's bittersweet. He thinks of his own little brother.

"Man had more kindness than sense. Be a hit with the church ladies. Which of you is the elder?"

Perhaps if a time and place presented itself, Knives might consider seeking Louis out for more nuanced lessons in French. Back in his world, he had learned all that he could have with the resources left behind, but now here even with things the way they were there seemed to be room for improvement yet. Perhaps he could bully Vash into picking up the language again with him.

Knives' hands fall away from the keys, hooded gaze steadying over the top of the piano. "He has found himself in more than his fair share of dangerous predicaments." Some of which, Knives put him in, but that isn't a conversation for today. "There is no end to his stubbornness."

His eyes close for a moment, hands coming together over his lap. Wisely, he'll make no comment on just how kind his brother is and instead fixates Louis with a questioning look.

"You can't guess?"

Louis would be glad to speak it with someone new. Louis is an alright teacher--a great deal more patient than Lestat, who would prattle on about the opera in his fast metropolitan accent. (Funny, Lestat's descriptions of his father and brothers gave the impression they were anything but metropolitan. When did he acquire the affectations of Paris?)

Louis ducks his head with a smile spreading across his face. He believes Knives is being deadpan.

"Didn't want to assume and give offense. It's not polite to assume anythin'. Plenty of people assume things about me, and it gets very tiresome. But speakin' of bad manners, I forgot to introduce myself. Louis de Pointe du Lac."

He offers his hand with the (affected) confidence of an American but none of the bravado.

Deadpan, indeed. Vash would argue Knives had more than a few other expressions, but that remains to be seen.

If he'd been told a year ago he'd be having a decent conversation with (what he assumed was) a human, let alone about to accept the offered handshake with his own, well... it would certainly be a funny joke. He might even laugh and depending on his mood, kill the person who said it.

But so much has changed between then and now, enough to fill a tome, and he feels the weight of that change resting heavily against him. Knives regards Louis' hand with that unchanging expression before lifting his own hand to take it in a firm grip.

"Knives."

Louis de Pointe du Lac. A name he would remember. When he lets go, he goes on to add,

"I'm the elder, between myself and Vash."

If someone told Louis, when he was 20, 30, that he would be killing humans and drinking their blood, he'd loudly protest, calling it cruel, a mortal sin, part of cultish delusions and sensationalist fiction. Then he ceased to be a human and became a vampire.

Knives didn't make fun of his name, so Louis resists the temptation to ask if it's really spelled like knives. Maybe it's Naibs, Knyvs, he doesn't know!

"You act like it. Takes one to know one. I am--was--the eldest." He flicks his eyes downward. "Am," he corrects himself again, looking up composed as if nothing happened. "Situation was in flux for a bit. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Knives."

If his hair were any lighter than it was now, he could have introduced himself by his given name - Millions Knives. But even here there would have been nothing to show for it, cut off from the very source that once struck fear into the hearts of humans across a desolate planet.

Knives' brow raises briefly, curious at the shift in tenses as Louis corrects himself. If there was one thing the interlopers here shared, it was secrets kept close. Perhaps Louis was similar to him, arriving here when death should have greeted him instead. Regardless, it was none of his business to question further.

"Knives is fine." A long drop from when he had been called Master. "How many siblings are you the eldest of?" See, he even kept the present tense, just for you, Louis.

Louis's life is beset by death, undeath, and tenuous relationships. He clings to the present tense like a lifeline. Thank you, Knives.

"Just the one." And even then, there is a slight melancholy sigh to his exhaled words. "So where are you from? What's it like there, besides no rain?"

Louis thinks the two brothers couldn't be more different. It raises the question of whether or not they stayed in the place they were raised.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

nature offers a violence

whiteout

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cw: reference to poor mental health

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lmao fuck i forgot to link the song, i'm so good at rp

jail, jail for a thousand years

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I completely forgot what was happening, Louis so pretentious...

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