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

Edward blinks against the small, biting flakes of snow storm that have caught in his eyelashes, gloved hand feeling along the wall of the ice hut as he fumbles his way in. His voice is muffled through the thick scarf covering his nose and mouth, but he calls loudly.

"I came for you, Captain! To assist you back into town — to the Community Hall!"

He'd been holding onto some hope that maybe Crozier would've realised the severity of the situation and would already be making movement to leave here, head out to the Community Center.... and therefore Little could escort him back there. But the man doesn't appear to have readied himself. There's no belongings packed, and he'd even been lying down. Edward fights through that sinking sensation in his gut, barking out more assured words.

"We must leave now, sir! The storm is only growing worse!"

Oh, goddammit, his face isn't even covered. He grabs Little by the frost-covered great coat in the hopes of yanking him forward, out of the howling wind for a moment.

"You came for me? What are you, mad?" he roars. "The wind's at least 50 knots!"

Little stumbles inside, immensely grateful for the temporary reprieve against the biting winds.

"That's why we need to return at once, sir! While we still can!" Is his earnest reply inbetween sharp gasps of breath, as he struggles to catch his own now that he's not breathing in the storm. But his breathing's painful, throat and lungs stinging, and he's giving a few hoarse coughs as he leans over for a moment, one palm against his chest. Despite this, he's still trying to keep talking...

"You wouldn't make it back on your own."

Yes, he is fully assuming that is The Plan here — that Crozier's coming back with him.

Frederick Hornby. As addled as his mind had been when he was too deep in his cups to feel feelings, he remembered that Frederick Hornby dropped dead on the ice the night he ordered his men to trek through a gale.

The way that Edward Little coughs and gasps now, struggling because of more poor decisions that he made due to entirely selfish reasons --

"Goddammit," he grumbles, starting to pull off his outer layer. "Give me your coat and hat, Edward, you're wearing my parka back."

Edward finds himself startled by the sudden instruction — he's really.... he's really going to come back? For as much as he'd held fast and firm to the concept that it would be the outcome, he's still surprised.

But he doesn't allow that to stagger him for too long. Or the order — and it is how he takes it, as an order — although it won't sit well within him, for the captain to hand over his warmer furs. Still, he does as Crozier says, immediate and obedient. Peeling off his own greatcoat and hat, he hands them to the captain as instructed.

"Is there anything you need to bring with you, sir? We may be trapped inside for some time."

Edited 2023-11-26 07:21 (UTC)

Crozier pulls the hat over his head and shuffles himself into the greatcoat, angling the collar up to try in what meager ways he can to shield himself from the vicious wind. He gathers his possessions - a knife, an oil lamp, the hides from the floor and door - and drapes the blanket he'd been lying on about Little's shoulders as an extra layer of protection.

"Pull up the hood and we'll be off. We'll try to walk with the wind."

Little pulls the parka on, stunned by the immediate warmth of it. Not like the frigid wool of his typical coats, but thick in a different way — insulated, almost. Strapping his shotgun to himself, he lingers, ready to help the captain carry items if he needs extra hands — before he'll tug the thick hood up. It's blissfully warm against his ears and against his hair and head, much more effective than the Welsh wig he'd had back during the Expedition.

But there'll be time to marvel at the clothing of Silence and her people later on. Edward's frigid with worry, squinting out into the whirling white, remembering how men had dropped dead in less than this. And, knowing that it may be difficult to hear one another once they set out, Little turns to Crozier again to offer further assistance.

"Sir, I know exactly where the Community Center is from here! If you'll follow my lead, I'll get you to safety!"

'Exactly' where it is may be a bit of a stretch; trudging that way in this weather may certainly set him a bit off-course, but he has been in this town longer than Crozier and learned distances during his patrols. He's confident (or at least, tells himself that he must be) that he can lead them back in the right direction.

In this Crozier trusts Little emphatically. He reaches out with his still-gloved hand (he doesn't give this up; he can't lose the five fingers he's still in possession of) and takes hold of Little's arm.

It's his signal for him to lead on; Crozier will follow. Hopefully the wind will be at their backs and not trying to push them down, but at the very least Little will be warm. Little will be protected. It's the least he can do.

It certainly isn't lost on him that the last time Francis Crozier put his trust in his first lieutenant, Edward failed him. (That thought is never lost on him; it's haunted him daily, nightly, as so many other things do.) But right now he can't dwell on that, on the looming horror of failing this man again (because if he does, then Crozier could die. They both could.)

There is no other option. He must succeed.

His arm wraps upwards, pressing Crozier's grasp firmly within the crook of it, to keep them secured together. He cannot lose his captain. And so Little marches onwards, slowly but surely, head tucked down. It's impossible to know in this unforgiving white if he's correct about anything, but he has to trust himself. He tries to.

It's a slow process. It takes a long time, and he has to pause several times when the wind whips more fiercely, but it mostly does stay at their backs as Crozier pointed out.

When he sees something up ahead, something solid and dark, he shouts out to the captain and guides him that way. They end up at one of the center's walls, not the door, but Little starts inching his way along it, using his free hand to feel against the wood. Eventually — the entrance. He scrambles for Crozier's hand now, holding it tightly, leading him. Just a little further...!

Death has been so close and on so many occasions that it's started to feel more like an old friend than an enemy. Perhaps that's why he's been so nonchalant about his new situation and everything in it: death is always just around the corner, waiting for him and ready to welcome him into its cold embrace.

It's a cold embrace that surrounds him the moment they step out into the wild winds. He holds on tightly to Edward and pushes forward, the ice numbing his limbs and turning him sluggish. It's hardly the worst it's been for either of them though, and with the wind urging them on they finally stumble onto some form of shelter.

He holds Little's hand tightly and stumbles along, foot hitting the first step and then the second.

( ooc — And real quick, I was thinking that since they'll probably both be ushered off to Go Defrost / Recover.... if you like, we could skip ahead to a few hours later, maybe that night? Little's had some meaningful talks with Jopson in the inbetween, and would want to check in on Crozier and also chat with him about a few things. If you'd be up for it, I could skip ahead in my next reply! )

He hopes it's the right building, although any would at least be a source of safety out of the winds. Little knows they can't be out in this for too long; both of them have seen so many men lose parts of themselves, things blackened and crumbling away. Crozier's already lost part of a limb..... (and exactly how, Little hasn't dared to ask him, after finding out it wasn't the work of that horror of a man, Hickey.)

So he holds firm to the hand that his captain has left, stumbling forwards. It's when he feels a flat wall in front of him give way that he realises they've reached a door, and then it's opening wide for them, people rushing to help usher them in. He's sure Jopson won't be far away, Goodsir likely as well; Little keeps close to Crozier, reaching to quickly try and brush snow from the greatcoat, aware that it's much less of a protection than the furs Crozier had swapped with him. He's fretful, a little dazed, vision still stunned by the brilliant, unforgiving white.

"Are you all right, sir?"

(Absolutely! I'll skip us ahead so we can continue on. c:)

Crozier answers after they've been man-handled into the warmth and relative security offered to them by the community center. He feels so exposed here, and he hates it. There's no way to hide when one's sitting out in the open being fussed after by some well-meaning people.

He holds a mug of something hot when Little joins him, not drinking but enjoying the hot hot heat of the tin against his skin. His digits are too frostbitten to truly feel anything but extremes.

"Mn," he answers in the affirmative. "You put yourself at risk chasing after me."

After some time passes, and Little's been warmed up a bit — by Kate Marsh, attentive as ever to him — he's finding the captain again, restless to check up on his state. He's sure that he's been taken care of, seen to, but he's fretful to see it for himself.

He moves to sit, and he's a rare sight of being seen in the jumper that he wears beneath his typical clothing. The waistcoat that goes atop it has been discarded for some comfort, though he's a little self-conscious, feeling dressed down more than he should be.... It's all right, though. He can let the greatcoat dry for one (1) day before hiding away in it again.

"I couldn't leave you to face it alone." He's giving his head a severe shake, somber. He's still rattled by the whole affair; it could have gone.... so much worse. They're lucky to be alive. His own fingers are red and aching as well, but hopefully they were seen to in time...

Edward hesitates. There's more he wants to say, to ask. But he won't rush, and he's painfully aware of an odd thing there between them, between all of them who survived to come to this place. As though they're strangers as much as they're familiar to one another.

"....The ice house you made. You learned it from the Inuit?" He doesn't know Crozier had been living with them just before coming here, but he's well-aware of the captain's prior experience.

He's dressed from head-to-toe in Inuit garb, lovingly-made just for him. Just another member of their community, even though he'd been such a burden to them. One-handed, half-dead really, useless completely aside from the ability to watch over the children (and even then he hadn't trusted himself at first, he couldn't even care for grown men). He'd learned what he could, but he's thankful that they'd been so patient with him.

"Mhm."

Crozier brings the cup up to his lips but pauses just before drinking. He doesn't have the stomach for it yet.

"Edward, next time you must leave me behind."

Those words catch hold of him, like a hand's clamped at once over his heart, squeezing, stopping his breath. Little freezes, body tensing. It feels as though he's been hit.

Next time, Crozier says, like there will be a next. Like it's a certainty. (He's solved nothing by going out to collect him, he realises. And — what was he even hoping to solve at all?)

But of course, even more than that, the reason for the reaction is.... the guilt and horror and shame that chronically live in his stomach. He feels sick from it, features paling as he looks up and over to the other, unable to hide the wounded look in his eyes.

"Captain, I..." Little struggles to find the words. And then he says it, though it's drenched with misery and self-loathing, voice quiet but shuddering with ache. "Haven't I already done that, once before? Left— left you behind."

I forgive him. I forgive all of them...

He didn't know at the time, couldn't possibly fathom just how broken they all were, how fractured the expedition, how little hope there remained. When he'd spoken those words he'd wanted so badly to believe that Little and the others would come, or that he'd somehow escape the mutineers with Goodsir and Manson and Hodgson.

God. He'd been such a fool.

Crozier sets down his cup and once more pulls Edward Little into a very firm embrace. "You didn't let me down, Edward. You didn't. I never begrudged any of you for trying to survive, you must know that."

He doesn't expect the embrace, finds himself shocked by it, eyes wide and mouth slightly tipped open as he stares over the other man's shoulder. By now, he knows that Crozier must know what he'd done.... that he'd been waiting for a rescue that would never come. He hasn't been able to directly speak of it, though his heart has ached and ached with the need to confess his sins to this man, to plead for his forgiveness. He's been too much of a coward to even do that much.

And now here his captain is, giving him mercy he does not deserve, assuring him that he hadn't let him down. Edward gives a soft sound, heart thudding, throat tight. Even if Crozier gives him mercy, Little can't let himself simply accept it, the words spilling up and out.

"I— I tried. I tried to come for you. I tried."

It wasn't enough. None of his trying was enough. But he won't speak ill of Lieutenant Le Vesconte, or the other men, will not tell Crozier that they voted against a rescue of the man who'd done everything in his power to keep them safe, and had sworn to never leave them behind. They had their reasons, he knows, but— he won't hurt Crozier more than he already has been. He just needs him to know that he did try.

"I am sorry that I failed you, sir. I— I wish I were stronger."

"No, Edward, no."

He pulls back - wishing he had more than one goddamned hand for this - and grips Little by the shoulder.

The guilt never should have fallen on the shoulders of anyone but himself, Sir John, or the goddamned Admiralty itself. Edward Little had been inexperienced in the polar region, as so many of those poor bastards had been, but he wasn't useless, and he certainly didn't fail him.

"And what would you have done, mn? Half of you too ill to walk, the other half starving and hounded by a demon creature. I thought you would come, yes, but there was no saving us."

Little's eyes stay down, unable to meet the other man's gaze for the immediate moment, shoulders drooping miserably. For so long now he's yearned to apologise to this man, while knowing that he never truly could offer any words grand enough to do so. And now he has the chance, Crozier is here, but his misery only grows in the face of him.

He doesn't know what he could have done, but it only feels like ever more of a lacking within himself. A failing, a weakness.

"I— I could have tried harder, Sir." There was nothing left to give, in the end, but that's his weakness. A stronger man would have had more to give.

...There's more, though. More weights pressing down on his heart. He closes his eyes for a moment, swallows against the lump in his throat, the shuddering of his breath.

"I betrayed you. We left men behind. We left— ....We left Mr. Jopson."

Of course he knows the captain and his steward had a closeness, a particular bond. Of course he thought of that moment when Jopson was so horrified by the prospect of the ill being abandoned, and Crozier made it clear that his orders were for no man to be left behind. The last shred of Edward's hope and belief in himself was lost as they'd slowly trudged away from those dying men.

And he has to confess this, to the captain. Has to be held accountable.

Even if he hadn't heard it from Thomas Jopson's own lips, his frozen corpse and the dilapidated camp he'd stumbled upon had told the entirety of the story. Even if Little had fought to follow his orders, his good, soft heart would have been overwhelmed by the wave of opinion of the others.

Survival had made them desperate. They weren't unkind or immoral, but simply men. They'd never anticipated what the cold would do to them all.

"I know. I've known for a while, Edward."

If he believed Edward Little was at all culpable, if he thought that he deserved punishment for abandoning the ill or failing to rescue them, then his penance would have been paid. Being the last to die in that god-forsaken place was torture enough, let alone what he must have experienced.

Chains pulling at his frozen face. Carved up legs and marrow sucked out of bones.

Close.

"If you wish for me to chastise you I won't do it," he adds softly. "What command do I have over you? What punishment could I give you that would be worse than the guilt you already bear? I see your burden, Edward, because I carry it as well."

Perhaps it's no surprise that Crozier already knows. Jopson is here, after all, and surely such truths would be revealed in the course of things — or maybe Crozier had returned and seen it for himself. Edward can only imagine (and truly, cannot even imagine the scope of the true horror), but he knows it would have been... unspeakably and achingly macabre. The sick men were at Death's door, most of them on the verge of it. They likely would have lasted mere days, and some only hours. Some seemed to be dead already.

Jopson was.... close to it. He'd seemed to fade so quickly, crumbling away, leaving only those two striking eyes. Even now, with Jopson here and safe and healing, those eyes haunt Edward's nightmares.

He stares at Crozier, searching his face. Waiting to see the shift in it — anger, disappointment, horror. He might even shun him now. But none of those things come. Instead, it's... a refusal to.

But those words wound him in their own way, touching upon the rawest parts of his heart, and Edward's blinking against tears. 'I see your burden, Edward, because I carry it as well.'

It makes sense, really. As Crozier's second, as Terror's first lieutenant, he had more authority than most of the other officers, more responsibility, more weight (more guilt, guilt that he deserves.) ....But of course Crozier would feel it too, as the captain. How deeply he must be suffering now. Perhaps in the end, the two of them understand something that only the two of them could know, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"What do we do, Captain? What do we... do, with all of this? How do we continue?"

His voice is a quaking whisper, wet, drenched in a sadness that he has tried to keep contained for all of this time. In front of Crozier, it crumbles.

He wishes deeply that he had an answer for Edward, and not just a quiet, despondent shake of the head. He's been trying to answer that question for years now. How does a man go on when living is just penance paid for surviving?

"If I knew..." His throat feels tight, crushing slowly by the weight of unshed tears. "Ah, Edward, if only I knew."

Every day he's not dead takes a toll on his soul. He doesn't wish that for these men though; if they're alive then they're his purpose.

"I can't continue as a captain. Old habits die hard, I know, but you mustn't see me as anything but Francis Crozier. We must learn to survive together.

Crozier doesn't know, either. They truly are in the same place with this — but rather than be relieved by this reveal, Edward finds himself disturbed, wounded. Perhaps it's selfish of him, or weak, but he needs the captain to be the strongest, the leader, the great man that Edward Little knows he himself is not.

But then what comes.... Ah. It's something Jopson had spoken of as well, and perhaps Edward knew it was coming. Perhaps it's no surprise, given how Crozier has made it very clear he doesn't want to lead here. (Little was waiting for him all this time, he thinks, hoping he might. Jopson was angry with him for it.) To hear it confirmed hurts, and he's closing his eyes for a moment, pressing them tightly shut, as though he can't bear to even see what's in front of him. The world feels as though it's caving inwards. He cannot do this. He can't.... give up seeing Francis Crozier as his captain. How can he? If he does....

Then what is he? What is Edward Little?

Shakily, he opens his eyes again, giving a ragged exhale.

"We can still.... We can still be who we were." The words sound hollow even to him. He tries not to sound pleading, not wanting to burden Crozier, remembering Jopson's anger, how he didn't want to be referred to as 'lieutenant' anymore. Now Crozier wants to shed his position as well. Edward feels his heart racing. "We can— come together, as before. I am still loyal to you, I... do not wish to burden you, but I trust your command. I trust you."

He trusts his command! Why, why, Christ, why. But he doesn't know, does he? He doesn't know how terribly he'd failed them all, or why each time he's called Captain or be looked to for leadership would feel like some kind of cruel joke. He hasn't told him, and promised he wouldn't.

"We will come together on this," he agrees quietly, because it's the most he can muster. "And we can remain the men we were, underneath the uniform and away from the Admiralty."

Crozier gestures softly out towards the rest of the Community Center, the people within, bustling about just trying to keep themselves warm and the storm at bay. "Civilians, all. They don't need officers or rank."

Slowly, Edward's eyes open again, but only so that he may stare mournfully at the wooden floors beneath his boots. It feels as though the ground is crumbling beneath him. Something he has feared, dreaded, finally come to light. He is the only one still holding onto what he once was. (And isn't it familiar? Hadn't he been one of the last, before? Had it helped anyone, truly...? All he knows is regret.)

But.... he'd thought this place could be something else. Not a second chance, exactly, but a way for him to... do better. Be better.

Of course he will not go against Crozier, but there have been times he has presented question to his captain when he didn't understand an order. Not that Crozier is ordering him to do anything now, but a certain degree of respect and hierarchy can't be shed by him; he doesn't want to offend the other man, and so is careful, body language submissive as he speaks.

"Forgive me for speaking so freely. But I thought perhaps.... that the people of this place seeing us, with our rank... our uniforms... it might be helpful to them. Give them stability, make them feel... secure. That we could do good that way. That I could do good... I..." A pause, and he's uncomfortable voicing this, but it comes, miserably.

"I do not know what else to do."

nature offers a violence

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cw: cannibalism, body horror

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