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test drive — winter

WINTER TEST DRIVE
Welcome to the test drive and thank you for your interest in The Village. This test drive is not game canon but will allow players the opportunity to experiment with game mechanics, the setting, and the flexibility of choice allowed by this game. The following prompts are examples of typical situations characters might face in the game. At least one thread from the TDM is required as part of the game's application process.

The setting details and locations are still being unveiled in the game, so prospective players are welcome to play with established locations or create their own within the general setting of Mathias.

( Recommended listening: ♫ )

INTO THE ENDLESS
Winter has arrived in Mathias. Snow falls steadily, big puffy flakes that pile up quickly in drifts as the wind blows them around town. The trees in the forest are covered in it, the branches bending under the weight and shaking when the piles fall from them to the forest floor. The roofs of buildings become solid white and drifts form in doorways as the wind tries to rush inside anywhere it can.

New arrivals wake in the forest, with its winding paths twisting back on themselves as they branch in either direction. It isn't safe to stray from the path, there is a menacing fog that waits just a few yards inward in any direction, but for now, there is nothing impeding movement along those snow-covered paths that cut through the trees. Continue stumbling in one direction and you'll reach the small town, coming out near the mishmash of quaint houses that nestle beside crumbling ruins that used to be homes. But choose the other and you'll seem to stumble on forever, huddling against the wind until there seems to be a clearing up ahead—

And then nothing. The earth opens up before you in a ravine so deep that the bottom cannot be seen. The other side can be seen, tantalizingly out of reach, and there is the sense that safety is just beyond, if only you could get there. But with that sensation is also the knowledge that if you stay here, you will die. The edge seems unsteady, like getting too close would set it crumbling and send you tumbling into that dark endless nothing that waits below...

BODIES WITHOUT SOULS
Benedict Books is nestled quaintly on the square surrounding Mathias's Town Hall, a thick layer of dirt covering the front windows. Looking through those windows provides a much different view than looking directly into the shop through the doorway — vague shapes and forms of figures seem to be inside, though no details can be determined through the streaks of grime. Flickers that resemble flashlights can be seen passing along the windows from time to time, and on occasion there is even a muffled tapping sound that comes from behind the glass, as if someone is trying to get your attention. The same distorted figures can be seen looking through the windows from the inside outward, but moving from one side or the other reveals... nothing. There is nothing there, and perhaps it is all in your imagination.

A portrait hangs at the front of the store to illustrate the namesake of the little shop... that may, in fact, not be so little. Dust covers everything in sight and detritus litters the wooden floor, as if someone left the door open and allowed half the forest inside.

The books are mostly familiar titles from the 1990s and earlier, but close examination will reveal that key details seem to have been changed. They fill shelves in neat lines along the walls and rows in between, the building almost seeming to stretch on forever until, finally, a small office can be seen tucked away in the back. A glance back toward the front door gives the impression that the room isn't that big, after all. Strange that you previously thought so.

Prying the door open is the only way to get inside the small office; the hinges have rusted and are caked with dirt and grime. Search as you might, there are no interesting bits of information to be found here beyond a few inventory lists on the little desk. There is, however, a green and gold safe in the corner that, no matter how many times one turns the dial, simply clicks and clicks. Scratches around the safe indicate that someone tried to get in at one point, though there's no indication as to whether they succeeded.

THE END APPROACHES
Standing at the center of Mathias, the town hall is a modest two-story building that would be welcoming if not for the faded sign, chipped paint, and deafening silence within its empty halls. It's a typical government building, with a reception desk at the front and rows of identical offices within, the names half faded from each door. But what catches the attention is a large bulletin board on the main wall beside the reception desk, once meant to hold flyers or announcements for the community.

What it holds now is decidedly different. Tacked onto the board are scraps of paper covered in an assortment of handwriting styles — requests for supplies should anyone find them, pieces of information shared in the hopes of someone understanding the strange symbols and mathematical equations, notes about those missing or recently deceased. And over the center of the board, tacked on top of other papers, is a map discolored with age. Mathias Township can be read in the corner, a stretch of forest displayed beneath it, but everything else has been smeared to illegibility with red... ink? Upon close examination, a keen eye will realize that the ink is actually blood, though whether it is human is unknown. And scrawled across that forest, nearly covering the illustration of a clearing and a large house within, are the words

he is coming
A number of tarnished metal pushpins are scattered around the edges of the board, waiting for future messages to be shared, and a stack of pristine white paper and pile of cheap ballpoint pens rest on one of three chairs beside the board. The chairs are clearly meant for those waiting for meetings and are covered in the same layer of grime as everything else in the building — everything except the pens, paper, and bulletin board.

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[He smiles back, shaking that hand.]

Malcolm Bright. You work with the FBI? I used to be an FBI agent. [He was actually well known throughout the FBI; he specialized in the weirdest and most twisted murders and was sent all over the country to solve them. He was also dismissed from the agency under a cloud. True Crime fans are well aware of his work, too. Some of his profiles are famously accurate.] Left about seven months ago. Creative differences. But, um. [He glances around.] Nobody belongs here. This is... nowhere. We've all been kidnapped. If I could figure out the way, I'd bring you to town.

I do. I'm with the White Collar unit out of Manhattan. [ It gets more natural every time he says it, and he's not sure how to feel about that.

Neal gives Malcolm a more careful examination. Creative differences could mean absolutely anything, and after having an FBI agent go rogue and try to blow him sky high he's not inclined to overlook the statement. ] Nice shoes for a former FBI agent.

[ Neal glances over his shoulder, gesturing to the way he came. ] It's definitely not that direction. That direction is a cliff. And can you clarify 'all'? How many people are there?

I was attached to the DC office, but I've moved back to New York since I left the Agency. I grew up there. [He looks down at his shoes.] Not as nice as they used to be, but I'm also a consultant now. I've been working with Major Crimes at the NYPD.

[He looks in the direction Neal said was a cliff. Good to know.] There are about twenty of us now. Slowly trickling in. Just like you did.

[ That's reassuring, if it's the truth. At least if Malcolm's on the side of the supposed angels, he's slightly less likely to throw a wrench into the works of Neal's life.

...Of course, this place has already done a damn good job of that, and--]

Twenty?

[ There's no small amount of shock or horror in the statement. Twenty people, including a US Marshal, an NYPD consultant, and an FBI consultant-slash-criminal. If anything could convince Neal that Vincent Adler wasn't involved in this particular incident, it's all of that. Adler's audacious, sure, but he's not stupid, and kidnapping three or more people involved with state and federal crime is... Well. Stupid. Very.

He exhales softly. ] Ankle monitor or none, my supervisory agent will find us. He caught me. He's the best there is.

[ He starts walking again, mostly for something to do and a way to keep warm. ] Trickling in? Over how long a period? More law enforcement or civilians?

[Malcolm draws alongside him.]

Both. It's a very mixed bag of people from a lot of different.... [He glances over.] Times and places.

[Yes. Times.]

The people who've been here the longest have been here about two and a half weeks, from what I've been able to gather. It's been about a week and a half for me. But unless he also gets kidnapped, your friend won't find you. We're not.... we're well off the grid, let's say.

[ Neal slows down at the times and places, but doesn't let himself stop. It makes about as much sense as anything else that's happening here, and he's nothing if not adaptable. Either this is real, in which case it needs a solution, or it's not, in which case it's a moot point. And as much as he'd like to believe Peter will find him, he's not going to sit around waiting for rescue, either.

Besides, keeping busy will keep his mind off of everything else. ]

How far off the grid? Any guesses?

One I've heard tossed around is 'another dimension'. [He looked at Neal.] But there are a lot of theories out there.

[ Okay, that gets him to misstep, and there's no way to make the move look natural. Just. Give him a second to get his head around that. ]

Great. I've never really been in to string theory, but maybe I should brush up.

[ They come out from under the trees and into town, and Neal starts to relax a little. Buildings, even abandoned ones, are a welcome sight after the endless woods. ] Home-sweet-temporary-home, I'm guessing?

[Malcolm nods, gesturing around.]

You can take any house that isn't occupied, or there are rooms at the boarding house, if you want to be around other people. There are supplies at the General Store and the Grey Gull - a restaurant down on the beach - if you need any. They replenish themselves, and so do the food and things in the houses. And if you check out the Town Hall, the people trapped here leave messages on the bulletin board.

[ Neal whistles under his breath. Whoever brought them here--and there has to be a whoever of some kind--didn't spare any expense on atmosphere. ]

Okay. Colonial Revival architecture, coastal city. Provided we are in some kind of dimension that has the US, we're probably in the northeast.

[ He makes a beeline for Town Hall, only half-caring if Malcolm follows him. A person can tell a lot about a place from the notes its residents leave. ] Anyone stake out the General Store or Grey Gull to see if they can spot who's doing the restocking?

Edited 2020-12-17 20:01 (UTC)

Nobody restocks them.

[He does continue to walk with Neal.]

Magic is also apparently a Thing here.

[ Wat. He stops. Shakes his head. Starts walking again. ]

Right. [ He tries not to sound skeptical, but it doesn't quite work. ] Somehow, harder to believe than another dimension.

[ Thank god, the Town Hall is warmer inside. He blows on his hands for a moment, flexing them to get some movement back in his fingers while he inspects the board. ] So what kind of Major Crimes do you look into?

[ He pauses over one of the In Memoriam notes. ] People have died here? Recently?

Murders. I still specialize in weird and/or twisted murders. Just... freelance now.

[He looks at the board when Neal notes the deaths.]

Yeah. But most of them came back.

Ah. You're more than welcome to those, thanks. I prefer art thieves to butchers.

[ Speaking of butchers. He's about to comment on the map when Malcolm says that. Neal turns to look at him, properly speechless for the first time.

It takes a good thirty seconds for him to do anything but stare. ]

They came... Most of them?

Five people died. Four of them came back within a couple of days. One never has. It was the fog.

[He points to his own (but unsigned) message on the bulletin board, warning that the fog acts as a chemical asphyxiant and then at Doc's, warning newcomers to stay out of the fog.]

Stay out of the fog. Can't say it enough. The cowboys and I aren't looking to bury more bodies.

[ Once again, Neal has nothing to say. He's never been at his best around death. But death and resurrection? Other dimensions, magic, sure, whatever, he can deal with those mysteries until he works out the mechanics behind them.

But coming back from the dead? It's pretty goddamn hard to fake that.

Under his breath: ] Jesus.

[ A pause. ] No pun intended.

[ He shivers, this time not because he's cold. Neal rests a fingertip against the map, tracing one of the un-smudged lines. ] Where did this come from?

[Malcolm shakes his head. He doesn't know.]

It was already here.

[ Neal frowns, picking at the ink, feeling the paper, getting up close and personal with the cleaner parts of the map. He carefully avoids touching the blood. ]

It's rag press paper, hand-made, not milled, which means early 1800s. Hand drawn, slight blurring along the outer edges of the lines. The ink is clear, not much fading, little damage to the paper, which rules out iron gall ink. Probably some mix of gum arabic, soot, and water, which is appropriate to the period. [ Neal leans back, frowning. ] I have no idea how to date the blood on it, but the map itself is at least two hundred years old.

Art thefts, you said. [He smiles faintly, then gestures towards himself.] Butchers. I do know how to date the blood, but not without equipment we don't have here. I do know that the technology in the most modern of the houses and in the shops dates to the early nineteen nineties at the latest.

Art thefts and forgeries. [ A crooked grin, one that's not entirely innocent. ] My alleged specialties.

[ He takes another step back, taking in the board as a whole again. ] Nineties. Makes me look forward to the clothing options left behind.

[ Said with utmost irony.

He exhales. ]

Somehow this place manages to well more than top finding a coded song in a stolen Russian music box from the 1940s for weirdness.

[Malcolm grins.] Did the code tell you how to crack the Enigma cypher? [Just teasing.] I have to say it's pretty close on the weirdness scale to a guy I caught who pickled his victims' faces in mason jars and kept them in a tidy row on his shelf.

Told us how to build a fractal antenna leading to a sunken German U-Boat, actually. [ This time his grin is more genuine, because laid out like that it's just... ridiculous. And if he focuses on the ridiculous, it's easier not to worry about the potential violence Vincent Adler is wreaking in his absence.

Neal grimaces at the mention of the murderer's collection. ]

How very Ed Gein of him. [ A pause-- ] So... when are you from? A question I never thought I would need to ask.

The killer grew up in an abattoir, so there was definitely an element of butchery to his work.

[At the question, Malcolm smiled a little. This guy caught on fast.]

Early spring 2020. You?

You've got nine years on me. I don't suppose you remember which teams win the World Series between my time and yours?

[ He's mostly joking. But it would be entertaining to out-bet Peter on Peter's favorite sport.

God, he hopes the other man is okay. ]

I'm not that into baseball, but if my lieutenant shows up, he'll know for sure.

[He gestures around.]

I'll let you figure out where you want to live, but if you need any help, I live at 1306 Philips Drive with the US Marshal - whose name is Raylan - and a doctor called Henry. Raylan and Henry make moonshine on the side, so if you'd kill for a drink, they would be willing to trade you moonshine for not killing, okay?

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conning - 2020-12-17 21:54 (UTC) - Expand

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abrightboy - 2020-12-17 22:57 (UTC) - Expand

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