prelude

[singmod]

January 1st 2015

Do you remember yesterday? What is tomorrow?
How will you face this quiet apocalypse?
— Raphael van Lierop.

As the old year falls and the new year begins, the skies fill with light. An Aurora comes on the last day of December, and with it the usual signs of it: the ethereal noise, the cracks and pops in the air, the stuttering of electrics as they struggle to power on and then blare and flicker. It is, as Interlopers have come to know, business as usual — in terms of the Auroras within this world. However, something a little different happens this time.

Interlopers will fall asleep all over the town of Milton. Even the ones who fight sleep and try to stay up into the small hours of the night will find themselves drifting off for a short while — as if their eyes just feel too heavy to keep open, and their minds slip into a deep kind of quiet darkness without their realising. And at first, there is nothing — nothing but the quiet dark. Something peaceful, almost.

A dream comes.

The first thing you notice is blood in your mouth, the cold in your bones, the deafening din in your ears — as if you are caught in static and the sound of howling winds through pine trees. You are afraid. At first, you do not know why. You find yourself on your knees in the snow. The skies are filled with green light, the air is thick with smoke. And then the realisation comes:

This is the ending of all things.

You look up, to the sight before you: a huge, shapeless shadow. Towering above you, over you. A head peers down at you: a cluster of three wolf skulls, eye-sockets glowing green and terrible, and their three open maws, dripping with more green. The sound it makes is unnatural, you cannot put it into words. The darkness draws in, you are so cold, so tired.

This is the ending of all things.

It is so hungry. You are so tired. The world falls away, you cannot see the stars, the dark hiding them from view. Were they even there to begin with? Or did they go out? You have forgotten. And you know, you know—

This is the ending of all things.

The skies glimmer, licks of strange, colourful wisps curl above — a voice screams out your name, from the static and winds. Through the noise. A woman’s voice. You have heard this voice before, in the lights and noise. Do you see? What could be? What you could become?

Can you hold on? Please. A hand grips your shoulder, but as you turn — the dream ends.

For some, they snap into waking with a shout or cry. Some will shudder awake to find tears in their eyes. All over Milton, the Interlopers wake: shaken, unsure, afraid. They will awaken to the dark: the Aurora is gone — slowly fading from the night skies into an otherwise calm and clear night.

It is a new year.

Comments

[goingtobeunwell]

"I doubt it was just the two of us, significant as we are," he says, not able to withhold the tiniest bit of snark. "I wonder if the others can fill in our gaps in memory."

[load_aim_shoot]

His lips twitch into a smile, enough to acknowledge the joke, then his expression moves into something thoughtful and unhappy. Delving into that dream again. But he nods. "It's important to be sure. Especially about something like this."

And he has his notes. He was thorough. He won't have to think back too much, only convince others to instead. That much, Raju can do.

"Back to it then, hm?" His smile is tight, one of his hands clenching the glove under it. But the other man — Francis — isn't wrong. It's the right time for it. "Best to do it now, before anyone has time to forget."

[goingtobeunwell]

As much as he's beginning to truly appreciate Raju's company, he has others he'd like to look to, particularly his former steward. Thomas Jopson tends to have a keen eye for detail, he may remember far more from the seemingly prophetic dream.

He's slow to stand, cold still in the joints, and raises his hand in a very quiet, but still friendly, wave of his hand. "We'll compare notes later, mn?"

[load_aim_shoot]

“Of course.” Raju nods, raises his hand back, and watches Francis as he walks away. Strange, he thinks, and doesn’t think too deeply on what he means. He looks down at the mittens again instead, running his fingers one more time over the fur. He wants to put them on. But like many things, it isn’t time for that yet. He’ll have to sew a pocket, later, into that blanket to keep them in; for now, he tucks them into his trouser pockets, gathers up his pen and his journal, and stands up to get to work.