test drive — winter

[villagemod]

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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Comments

Dean Winchester | Supernatural | staying vague re. any spoilers until I decide on a canonpoint!

[cholesterol]

THE ENDLESS

( He wakes on the ground, pushing away the more unpleasant memories. He's not dead. Or, he is and he's back in Purgatory. That's what the towering trees and fog remind him of. Of course he wasn't good enough for Heaven, everything he and his brother did, years of trying to fight the good fight landed him back here.

Maybe Purgatory just missed him.

First thing's first. Arm himself.

All he can find is a jagged enough stick he breaks off, keeping it close and at the ready.

He doesn't go in the right direction first. (When does he ever.) Instead, he pushes through the fog and the trees to reach the ravine. He squints, approaching the edge. Peering downward, he quickly hops back. No, he will not be doing that.

Backing away, he faces the chasm. Something about it, if he turns, he's deathly afraid he'll lose his footing. Once he's gotten far enough, he turns tail and runs back the way he came. He feels with every bone in his body that something is after him, that he could fall, that he could lose his soul along with his life. If he's even dead. )

WITHOUT SOULS

( Still armed with a sharp stick, Dean comes upon the town. It reminds him of a certain town his brother was left in, with all of Yellow Eyes' kids left to battle to the death. It's an unwanted memory, getting there at the very last minute, just in time to see Jake stab his brother.

It was the first time he lost Sam. Maybe this isn't Purgatory.

Passing the bookstore, he thinks he sees the a light in the corner of his eye. Was it the beam from a flashlight? Approaching, carefully, the windows are too dirty and smudged to make out who's inside. But there are people inside.

He doesn't know what to make of it. If wherever he is has lost souls, trapped people, demons. Take your pick on the hunter roulette wheel. The only thing he can do is go inside. What he finds is nothing. Nobody. No flashlights. No people. )

Friggin' haunted bookstore.

( He checks the counter, tries to find a phone in case he's not dead, not in Purgatory, not separated from his brother, from anything he knows. Everything is covered in dirty and dust. Using two fingers, he tries opening a drawer, checking for anything else, a flashlight, another kind of weapon. Something iron, perhaps. Maybe this bookstore has a fireplace for burning books.

Just a giant portrait.

And, what looks like a back office.

How big was this store again? What feels like a journey to the door he has to force his way into, isn't when he looks back. He knows things aren't right.

The safe is his next bet. Setting the stick down on the ground, he crouches by the safe. He runs fingers along the scratches. Leaning forward, he attempts to break into the safe, listening closely for clicks. Clicks ... that never come. He's all too focused on this to hear anybody else. )

THE END

( Everything, everything Dean finds is covered in dirt and grime.

At least the bulletin board's intact. He pulls his phone out, ready to call a John Constantine, but keeps walking along. Getting close, there's no mistaking what some of the words are written in.

Blood.

He knows a Daisy Johnson is missing. Or, was missing at one time.

There's a community here - currently, or there was. He's not Sam, he can't make out how old writing is. Good luck understanding some of the scrawled notes, though, he thinks.

Taking a piece of paper and a pen, because what could it hurt, he himself uses the wall. Pen to paper, he leaves his name, Chris Campbell, a member of the Silver Bullet band in case Winchesters carry a heavy price here, and the number to the phone he has on him. He tacks it up, something that isn't covered in dust and disuse.

Stepping back, he contemplates Constantine's number again. What are the chances this guy brings answers.

What are the chances this guy is alive? )

Without souls

[abrightboy]

[Well. One person. But he was in between a couple of shelves, flipping through a book when he heard the door shut. The stranger was in the office by the time Malcolm tracked him down.

Where he was.... jimmying the safe.]

...What are you doing?

[cholesterol]

( Nobody can blame Dean Winchester for not hearing Malcom flip through a book. Page flipping is a quiet, lonely activity, especially when doing it in a haunted bookstore that should hire a freakin' maid.

Dean doesn't turn.

Malcom sounds more questioning than warning. After a second, Dean confirms there isn't a click. There should be a click. )

What does it look like.

( He sighs, sitting back, eyeing Malcolm. His stick is still close, within grabbing and gutting distance should he need it. )

Your safe's a lost cause.

( He should've known that from the claw marks, but, Dean is stubborn. )

[abrightboy]

It's not my safe. But I'm pretty sure it's also not yours. [A beat and half a wary glance at the Gutting Stick.] When did you arrive?

[cholesterol]

Today. An hour ago. Maybe. Between the fog, the snow, and the extending room, take your pick.

( He hasn't thought to check his watch. Time doesn't work the same in purgatory, in Hell, in Heaven even.

This isn't heaven. But, time does work the same in a parallel world. Note to self, check your watch now.

Keeping watch, he leans over and grabs the stick, standing up straight again. )

I thought I could find something in there to defend myself. Not your store is haunted.

[abrightboy]

[Bad news, dude. Time did not work in Mathias. Still, reasonably the same day and his first move was trying to bust into the safe.]

It’s not my store. I got to this town the same way you did. No, we don’t know how. But there aren’t any weapons. I have a friend who had one on him when he was brought here and it’s gone. You’re stuck with your makeshift pointy stick, I’m afraid.

[cholesterol]

It's not makeshift if it does what's advertised.

( Well, the point, maybe. )

I had weapons on me, too. They were stripped?

[abrightboy]

That's what happens here.

[He gestured towards the front of the building.]

You haven't seen any more of town, huh?

➝ without souls.

[hellblaze]

Haunted implies there's souls left in the town to occupy the space, mate.

[ John is sitting against the wall near the office. A cigarette in his mouth that he lights, trenchcoat long and dusty from scrounging around the new area for a bit. He raises a hand and scratches the back of his head before blowing out a puff of smoke. ]

[cholesterol]

( See Dean jump, because sometimes he is the definition of the girl in the horror movie. Jump scares have nothing on Dean Winchester. He may have nerves of steel, but surprise him from the freakin' shadows? He reacts.

Wear a bell.

He tries playing it off, tugging the bottom of his jacket. )

Spirits don't need their soul to haunt your ass. Just makes them more lethal. ( Especially if they're trapped because of an object. Or a person. His eyes narrow. He points the broken stick in Constantine's direction. ) Did you just point a flashlight out the window?

[hellblaze]

[ Don't give John Constantine a bell. He'll ring it just to annoy everyone. ]

Depends on the spirit. Fact of the matter is? No dead people, no angry nature spirits. I haven't crossed off ancient deities or local shaman worship off the list yet. [ He tilts his head back with a half-assed grin. Someone looks like he hasn't slept very well recently. ] Haven't got a flashlight on me. Just my lighter.

[ He glances at the stick. ] I'm going to guess that means you're not happy to see me.

[cholesterol]

( Make it a cowbell, at least it'll be big enough to hit him over the head with it. )

I don't know you. ( So, no, he's not happy to see you, Constantine. ) Shaman could worship the god. One-two punch of why is it always hoodoo. ( This guy is too nonchalant, too haggard for Dean to see him as a threat right now, so he reaches behind himself and slides the stick into his waistband. ) If a god's involved, it's only a matter of time before they show themselves.

[hellblaze]

[ He'd like To See You Try To Hit Him!! ]

And now you've met me. [ Oh, is he enjoying this? Yeah. A bit. ] Not sure about the hoodoo, but it's definitely not Voodoo. That leaves a distinctive mark on the place.

[ Then, a shrug. Oh, he figures its some deity of some sort that has gotten their knickers in a bunch. Question is trying to figure out which one. Usually they're not so secretive.

He pulls the cigarette from his mouth to give a long exhale. ]

Been here over two weeks and haven't found a lick of anything that would explain what god is what.

[cholesterol]

( He tilts his head, zeroing in on him. 'Leaves a distinctive mark,' means he must be a witch, or, magically inclined. Or, what brought him here. )

You're a born witch.

( He knows how it works. Born witches, witches who can be taught, and anyone who comes across a spell and wants to wreak a little havoc. Maybe accidentally curse themselves. )

Two weeks? No wonder you're taking a cat nap down there. Is it just you?

[hellblaze]

Witch implies a hat and cauldron. Nah, mate. Home taught mage. [ John gives a half-assed salute to that. ] Not to mention I'm more of an occult detective than someone who brews potions and whatnot.

[ He pushes himself to stand then. A pat goes down the trenchcoat to shake off the dust he's accumulated. ]

About fifteen or so of us that have shown up over the last two weeks. The, ah, first group? We showed up on the beach. Everyone else just filters in at different places.

[ John gestures to the rest of the room, as if he means the whole town. ] Welcome to Mathias Township.

The End

[family_remains]

"I always thought you looked like a Chris," Sam says as he appears over his brother's shoulder. He chose to take perimeter check once they entered the building. There's nothing else of note, just more filth, and Dean's found the only interesting thing in the place. In the whole friggin town, it looks like.

It's freezing and the place feels like a post apocalyptic morgue. They hadn't woken up together but had the fortune to run into one another not long after. Which in the grand scheme of things and considering they have no idea where they are and why they're there (not that that's new) it's a mercy.

There's something in Sam that wishes this was an unfamiliar situation. Another voice in his head is ready to throw a hissy fit because he is just so god damn tired of this shit. Third voice- the voice of reason- says to put another cork in his impending mental breakdown and get on with it. Treat it like any other job.

"That blood's been there for months judging by the color and fade."

There's no use in pretending it's anything but. Red ink? As if.

"But this is what, a week? Maybe two," he notes with a gesture to one of the letters. Looping cursive asking for medicine. Which.. doesn't bode well for that guy. Or them.

[cholesterol]

"Makes you Teegarden, or Reed, Frost. Take your pick," he says, pressing the tack in.

Sam can deal with the filth and the logic. Dean's not working through it. Because that would mean he's working through it, working through one of his deaths. He's not about to climb Jacob's Ladder, not in the fogged out ghost town.

Just like he doesn't want to explain how he's aged since Sam last saw him, which, according to Sam, was just last night.

Dean's just going with it. Sam's learned to.

"Think they provided the pens after defacing the bulletin board?" Dean asks dryly in response, dropping the pen back in the little pen holster.

"Don't know. That's why I have you. The paper's not aged or weathered. And all that dust hasn't risen like bread. Someone's maintaining this thing," he admits.

"This town remind you of anywhere?" he asks, remembering all too well what happened the last time they were somewhere like this - the last time Sam was kidnapped to somewhere like this. It's sooner for Sam than for Dean, but it's no less etched in his mind.

"Find anything or anyone else?"

[family_remains]

That's a lot of questions, man. Every time Sam opens his mouth to answer Dean is asking something else and so he just listens, knowing Dean will give him the opening when he's good and ready and half of what he's saying is rhetorical anyway. Of course he remembers, of course he knows.

"Jack," is the eventual, empty reply. He's got nothing. Which is both deeply unsettling and disappointing. More nothing. Everything is nothing.

What's he supposed to do with nothing?

Is it there and he's just blind? Is this, like everything else lately, just slipping through his fingers?

A breath. A step back. Sam acts as though he's getting a better view of the board but more than that he's trying to get a better view of his brother. He's different. The weight on his shoulders is more visceral than usual. The light in his eyes that touch less bright. The little wire of pain in Dean's smile like he's talking with glass under his tongue and doing his best not to choke on the blood.

Sam has so many questions and they're all stacked in his throat, clashing for pride of place up against his palette so that none actually make it through.

"We should keep moving. Copy down what's here and get out."

[cholesterol]

Dean needs to slow his mind down, let him and Sam take point. He gives Sam the in, finally, letting the onslaught of answers that he's waiting for, come. He even gives an apologetic shrug. He's off his game, in a fog, in a town he doesn't trust, with his younger, younger brother.

Dean's filled out a bit more, muscle replacing lean, nervous sinew. Unlike his brother, his hair-line is mostly intact. But, his jaw clips sharply, broad shoulders holding forty-one years of weight.

"Find a place to warm up," he agrees. Hopefully something to eat. Retrieving two pens and two pieces of paper, he holds then out to his younger brother.

With a pen and a piece of paper each, Dean copies from the right and Sam, the left.

"Our best bet's a house, hopefully abandoned, with working power," he says, scribbling.

[family_remains]

Quick, concise strokes of ink to paper before they fold and tuck it away into their respective jackets.

That's something to think about as well. their clothes just aren't going to cut it with a storm like this rolling in. The fog is damp with the kind of cold that cuts straight through fabric and into the bone where it refuses to leave.

Whatever happens, the last thing they can afford is getting sick. Not here, not in the place like this.

Sam looks at the board again. The bloody note asking for mercy. He thinks the only mercy they got was death.

And this, what, mystery trap? No. This isn't going to be his swan song. No way in Hell.

He grunts in agreement as they turn, glancing over his shoulder every so often for prying eyes and wisps of ether. It occurs to him as they walk in a random direction, hand in his jacket pockets, that Dean seems from the stance and the gentle crease in the corner of his eye, about as old as their dad was when he first went missing. It's staggering and they need to talk about it but they can't yet. Probably not for a while. The stress makes his addiction gnaw, but even if he were indulging (which he isn't anymore) there aren't any demons around. Still, it makes his stomach curdle with want and admissions he isn't ready to hash out right now, either.

[cholesterol]

Little does Sam know, Dean believes he can't get sick. Not unless the plot warrants it. Then again, maybe all bets are off here. He's not about to wait to find out, or freeze to death. Or, sneeze and catch something.

Finishing his scribbling, he hands it to Sam, keeper of all things written down here in cowboy ghost town part two.

He wonders what Sam is thinking, but doesn't ask. They have a task in front of them. That's what they should focus on. Sam wants to ask, he can. Dean will tell him what -- he'll decide to tell him. Mostly, that's what he keeps in mind as they go back out into the abandoned down, the chill creeping up the back of his neck. Sam's 27. He's 41. He's lived ten more years than Sam, if not more. Chuck's off the table. No Jack. Cas -- Cas.

A pang of pain hits, one he quickly buries under a shudder he masks with. It's the cold, Sam.

Before they can get to a house, Dean spies another building, one that's named.

"Sam," he says. "The Grey Gull." He hasn't eaten in hours. He can feel that, now, and knows he should. Knows they should find a place to hole up for the night. What better place than a bar.

[family_remains]

Sam looks and smirks, stopping in his tracks. Some things never change.

It makes his heart ache. He keeps telling himself that this is just another mystery, but underneath it all and through the absence of Lucifer under his skin (he thinks?) he's sure this is his cage. And he's sure this is just some.. interesting little puzzle dreamed up for him to wind his way through like a mouse in a lab for the entertainment of everyone else.

Michael wearing Adam's skin might be around any corner. Dean is an illusion or, worse, maybe Lucifer himself taking a particularly painful position on the field.

Maybe, if they're all going to be locked in a cage, it may as well be interesting.

It's all gonna be okay, Dean. I promise. A helluva thing to say with his fist in his brother's face and the bones giving way like they're nothing.

Jesus Christ, he can't.. his stomach turns again and the thing inside him keenly reminds it's vessel that he is, indeed, still full of blood. Like a tick. You're a tick, Sam Winchester, but you did it. You did what you said you were going to do maybe- maybe that's-

"Gulls", Sam says aloud, sharp and to himself, shaking his head and taking a sharp breath to clear his mind from the spiral.

Gulls represent opportunity. Opportunity and the ability to turn a situation to your advantage. Irony, maybe?

"Yeah," though it comes out far too close to a choke for his own liking and clears his throat whilst gesturing. After you.

"Yeah, c'mon."

without souls

[bestfuneralever]

"It's not ghosts, honey, trust me." The lanky man around the corner drawls, eyes sweeping over the newcomer. They really do just show up in droves, don't they? But hey, he's not the newbie any more and that's what's important. "I already tried conjuring them and it didn't work." He doesn't really have a problem discussing it, mostly because half the people here have some power or another, and it isn't like his own had ever truly been a secret, back in his Umbrella Academy days, after all.

Is it just him, or do the people around here get hotter and hotter? Hot damn, boy is fine. "Just showed up here, right? Out of nowhere, totally not where you expected to wake up. We've all been there. There's probably, I dunno, two dozen of us here now, I think? Give or take." He rolls one shoulder in a shrug; he's not the one in this town that keeps tabs on that sort of thing. That's more like Five or John's gig. One of the cowboys, maybe.

[cholesterol]

Dean hears him before he turns, debating whether or not to, but, he is his daddy's son. So, drawl and everything gets Dean casually turning heel to face him, stick still at the ready. He does squint, frowning at what he says next, but he's not able to reply before he's speaking again.

"Let's start with The Conjuring. We talking the original or the sadistic sequels?"

What exactly is he trying to conjure and why is he disappointed he can't?

[bestfuneralever]

He laughs a little. "Neither, but good movies. Well-- the first one, anyway." He shrugs and pushes away from where he's posted up. "We've all been stuck here for awhile, there isn't much in way of answers, but I'm a medium. Figured if I could get a read on something, maybe we could get some kind of clue." He blows out a breath. "No such luck. Just fucked me up real bad for trying." Story of his life, really. His efforts are never appreciated!