The Village Mod (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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villagememes2020-11-19 10:10 pm
villagemod) wrote in villagememes2020-11-19 10:10 pm
Entry tags:
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 wordshe 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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"Or am I not supposed to have put that together yet?"
A pointed question while very pointedly not looking over.
no subject
He waits for an answer.
"What am I not putting together?"
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"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?!"
cw vague spoilers
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.
no subject
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!"
no subject
"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."