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

"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!"

That March makes him feel stupid is no surprise, because March is the kind of guy who makes anyone sticking around feel like they're wearing a gaudy I'm With Stupid tee shirt. Tim doesn't even cringe back at the wail, and through the sea of eyes suddenly turned to the scene of this grown man pitching a tantrum, body shakes and all, Tim is even cautiously awed.

No March isn't an idiot, not any more than Matches is.

Before him is a slime ball who doesn't have any fucks to give.

That's dangerous.

March is the flame. Tim is the moth.

"Oops?" He tentatively offers, still shy in admitting his amusement.

Just like that, singular flail gone, March is completely back to normal: back straight, hands on his hips in something that's less of a power stance and more of a neutral position. He exhales. It's not that big of a deal.

And hey. Tim looks almost like he thought it was amusement. That's an actual emotion that isn't teenage punk-i-tude.

"Is there no one from the goddamn 70s but me?"

"Maybe try the Eighteen-70s?" Offers the teenage punk, but his face falls as he says it. It's just the silly idea that he doesn't want to work more tangles into his hair that keeps Tim from running a hand through it.

(Yes he knows what a comb is, thanks. Yes indeed he does know how to use one. Thanks. But there's only so much energy at the end of a day, and only so much Tim can tolerate of dunking a cut-up, cleaned towel into warmish water to clean himself. Besides, his hair's grown out to longer than he's ever worn it-- maybe he'll scavenge a dead girl's room for a hair tie.)

"I'm sorry," he tries again. "I can't imagine being-"

and he stops, and he sighs, and he can imagine time travel, frankly; but his future starts and ends with him holding a gun to his head, so Tim treads carefully because

because.

"I don't know. I haven't found out how the Aurora makes its picks, or an explanation for what brought us here that isn't... just folklore. The lights don't really care about time."

Edited 2023-12-03 20:56 (UTC)

The hair tug is lost on March. Partially because his is equally shaggy, but mostly? It's the 70s baby. Let that hair fly free. Hippies may have left the San Fran beat but that doesn't mean you can't stick it to the man, man.

"Yeah, well. I was doing something. I was in the middle of things. I had a case, even." Everyone else is doing shit, sure, but March has never made any effort to be anything other than self centered.

"I'm a very busy person. It's rude to drop me here."

"Yeah," Tim says. Says because his lips move and Tim thinks he hears himself but it's such a breathless utterance that he doubts it registers on March's radar.

He thinks the weight of the warmth is getting to him.

Tim, somehow, by practice or sheer luck, tucks into himself further.

Guilt.

Guilt of feeling no guilt.

Guilt of staying idle.

Of finding a use for a PI in a ghost town.

Something.

He can't name it.

He can't dwell on it, either.

Because Harkness needs to die. He would be dead, but Tim-- the impotence of being here and not there threatens to override any other programming of his. So Tim shrugs.

"The best laid plans of mice and men," he recites so very unhelpfully. Then, "I don't know how it goes, I never read the book."

"It's terrible. There's not even any mice, it's just rabbits," March assures with the confidence of someone who is very wrong. He's got shit to do, Tim's got shit to do. March needs a cigarette.

He hates it here. He doesn't even know if there's a toothpick to stave off even a little of his habit. He hates the community hall now, too. At least in this cigarette-less moment. When did the world get so concerned about being smoke free?

"What do you have back home? Homework?"

It's rabbits all the way down.

Tim does allow himself to feel guilt now. It's because he has sticks of gum. He won't offer March any of the spearmint-y goodness. Friends close, enemies closer, but there's merit to having live entertainment on hand.

His face hasn't... which is to say, Tim is still looking just one hair short of irredeemably miserable, which is a pain because of the whiplash, which might be his alibi, actually, on account of the Adolescent thing. Moodiness is to be expected.

Right?

He shakes his head. "I need to start wearing a name tag around here."

Moodiness and me, me, me.

"I'm a dropout. I do outreach with the Wayne Foundation, the Neon Knights specifically. Hopefully push kids so they don't end up like me."

It ties back to Russia. But Tim won't say it. March can have his fun, too, figure that shit out on his own.

The Neon Knights has to be the stupidest name March has ever heard. He keeps that to himself, too, because Tim is looking like he'd rather that fire he's semi-staring at swallows him whole. March likes to think it's not because of him, but the situation.

"Least no one knows you're a fuckup here," he reasons, perfectly blunt and to the point.

"Good way to start over."

Tim tells himself that, 1, this isn't love.

"Wow."

And 2, he won't ever recover if he gets teary-eyed over that spectacularly horrible remark.

"Refreshing."

Lord above, it's not even a joke.

"There was a picture in your wallet. That your kid?"

Honest. March's response before Tim asks his second question is the barest hint of half a smile. He gets it, buddy. Being a fuck up is very hard work, from one schmuck to another.

It's the mention of Holly that gets a full smile despite himself, nose wrinkling with joy.

"Yeah." He seems to remember, though, tamps it down. "Holly. She shows up, she'll figure a way to get out of the dodge and get rescued in five minutes. Max."

There's always that bare jealousy of seeing a parent light up at their kid's name; Tim looks at March's expression like he's studying it. He would have studied it once, now it's just the default label to the burying Tim does inside of all the ugly and unfair things that spring to mind.

He wonders what that must feel like, finding yourself away from family. Family-family. Real family.

"Holly... Holland..."

Tim's connecting the dots there, his drawl unimpressed but eyes playing on the man's energy.

"And I thought that having the middle name Jackson as Jack's son was uncreative."

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nature offers a violence

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cw suicidal thoughts? actions?? inclinations???

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