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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.

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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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"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?"

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."

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.

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.

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.

Edited 2020-11-21 23:48 (UTC)

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."

"Maybe once more with feeling," he says, turning his head back as he trudges through the snow.

While Sam may survey the place first, Dean heads straight to the bar. He is too sober for whatever the hell is going on. And if he's dead, then it doesn't matter how sober or drunk he gets, does it. But, if he's dead then why is Sam here. Sam circa -- no, he won't do it. He's thinking again.

Popping open the nearest bottle, he lifts it.

"What the hell." He shakes the empty bottle, setting it back down and tries another. Tips his fingers along the well as the empty bottles clank together. Facing the shelves, he tries another, before peering close.

"Who restocks empty bottles."

Point 1 for: This is Dean's Hell.

"Raptured towns don't rapture the alcohol," he whines, turning back to face his brother. And then to himself he can't hold back a, "Son of a bitch."

That sure hits different when you never thought you'd hear it said again.

Man this is wrong. Everything about it. The bar, the symbolism, the familiarity.

"There might be a cellar?" He supplies, trailing along, back kept to the nearest wall. Sam looks for a bat or a fire axe but doesn't see anything useful and as stupid as directing the (possible?) devil into a cellar may sound.. what has he got to lose. You want him to play your game? Fine. He's playing. Screw you.

"Or something in the back. Maybe a kitchen?"

Dead men don't eat, Sam. Is the fire in your veins eating your brain? C'mon. Tick, tock, tick tock, he can hear Lucifer sing just behind his ear. C'mon Sammy, this isn't a long burn. Do the work. Jump the hoops. Play with me.

Edited 2020-11-22 00:26 (UTC)

"This is why I drive straight through dry counties," he says, looking back at his brother, holding the empty bottles. He drops them down with a start, collecting himself before coming back around the bar. He's aware of how hungry he is, which isn't something he thought he'd be able to feel.

"With our luck, the food'll be maggot-covered," he says under his breath, grumbling. At least that would indicate a friggin witch. Or, just poorly stored food.

"Kitchen, first," he says, looking around them. Cellar if they don't find anything or need to take cover. He clocks the stairs up, too.

"Maybe there's another bar in this place," he says, leaving Sam to inspect the kitchen as Dean leaps several stairs at a time upstairs. There's not. There is only disappointment. Empty chairs at empty tables. Dean stomps back down, taking each stair this time.

"Sam?"

"In here," he calls, though it isn't very loud. He looked for food and found it, amazingly fresh and ready for anyone to help themselves to but more than looking he took the time to breathe and gather his thoughts.

Which really.. was a bad idea to be honest.

"I um," when Dean appears in the door. "There's bread here.. some cheese. I think this stove works." you know what he's thinking.

Edited 2020-11-22 01:36 (UTC)

"Grilled cheese?" he asks, wrinkling his nose.

He steps into the kitchen letting the door close behind him. Beggars can't be choosers in a town like this. As much as he'd want a steak or even a sandwich (with more than cheese), food is food right now.

Check: Avoid starving.

"Nothing upstairs," he says. "Just tables and chairs. Looks like this town was cleared out." Or, cleared out. "Looks like people haven't been here in weeks with all the dust caked everywhere."

Don't mind him as he moves to the sink and washes his hands. So. Much. Dust.

"How's the cheese look?" He pumps soap into his hands. Round two. This place is gnarly, Sam.

Well that's what you get for touching everything, you savage.

"Cheese is good. The fridge is full and get this, it's all fresh," he says as he goes into sandwich making autopilot. Gas stove on with a whoosh, pan down, mayo on bread and in. Sizzle.

He doesn't know why he's bothering. Just.. playing the game. Same sets out enough for two though he has no intention of eating. Blissfully, this is one recipe from his small repertoire, that he is very, very good at.

"But I guess why not, right? None of this is real."

He didn't know if there was alcohol under a table, Sam. Also, he barely touched everything. Have you seen him touch anything with this much grime on it. He's your germaphobe brother. It doesn't matter that he's a slob.

Dean was always better at cooking than Sam was, at that age, anyway. Sam's repertoire expanded the healthier he started eating. He remembers Sam like this. Bonier and stressed, hardly sleeping. He's all skin, nerves, and guilt.

"Fresh?" he asks, looking around for - nothing that he can find so his pants will do. He wipes the front and back of his hands on them. His hands are now dirty, again, depending on -- what happened before and how much that affects his state now.

He looks up then, hands frozen in front of his thighs, cocking an eyebrow.

"That so?"

"Why not," he says again. It's almost blasé as he flips the bread and lays the cheese down.

"Or am I not supposed to have put that together yet?"

A pointed question while very pointedly not looking over.

"Put it together?" he asks, bringing his chin up. "It's not me who's putting it together? Going along with the fog, the snow, the new scenery and, what, are there shapeshifters in purgatory now?" Is this is mind. Is he being tortured? "Or, is this Hell?"

He waits for an answer.

"What am I not putting together?"

"Oh cut the shit, Lucifer!" Sam snaps, shoving the pan off the heat and finally looking up.

"I get it! I'm stuck here with you. And you know what? I'm glad! Because you're in here with me and that's the end of it! And-" He laughs. It isn't funny. None of this is funny-

"Michael!" Sam calls to the general nothing. "You can come out too, I get it!"

"But you-" back to Dean and giving an angry one handed once over gesture. "The least you can do is take that off. What's next, huh? My mom? Jess? Or is that too passé for you these days?!"

"Passé," he scoffs, voice hitting his lower register. "Maybe cut back on the Clueless reruns, cause you are. I'm not Jess, I'm not mom, and I'm not Lucifer. Lucifer's --"

Dead. Again. For good? Never for good.

"Is that what you think this is? You think you're in the pit?" Ten years ago? He doesn't say that. "Sammy, you came and went, you got the soulless t-shirt. Now, either something brought you here or, I was brought back, but, this isn't Hell. There are no trees in Hell. Just, darkness and torches and a big cage you're not in."

Is that enough?

"Michael's also gone. Again." This is giving him a headache. "Now, this isn't your hell and I don't think it's mine. If it was, it's reductive. Very ten years ago. Now, put that pan back on heat because I'm starving. And that shouldn't happen in Hell, right?"

If it doesn't, they don't get food. But, there is it, in front of them. And, according to Sam, in the fridge, too.

Edited 2020-11-22 02:28 (UTC)

"No that's bullshit, that is bullshit!" It's not exactly a roar but may as well be.

He's all hopped up on go juice and has nowhere to send it but out with his anger and confusion. The force of which sends the pan crashing against the commercial stove's backsplash and the ingredients off the counter. In fact everything in a four foot radius gets shoved back. Hard.

And Sam doesn't care.

"Don't lie to me, it's over!"

Dean's shoved back into the sink, hit lower back hitting with a thud, reminding him too closely of something else. Maybe this is his hell. He seethes, sucking through his teeth, gripping the edge behind him.

"Sammy," he says, placating.

He doesn't know what to say, how to convince Sam he's ten years older, how he's not Lucifer, this is not Sam's pit. Will it even work if his hell is an off his rocker Sam not believing him? Attacking him?

"It's me."

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test drive — winter

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