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: ♫ )

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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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Comments

[conning]

[ Neal blinks. Okay. An odd one. That was pretty evident already, but he can roll with it. At least the guy is direct. ]

Always in what context? Since people started showing up here, or since it was made? Either way, I haven't been here long enough to be sure. [ He gestures at it. ] What I can tell you is that it's hand-pressed rag paper with a soot-based ink, which among other tells puts the map itself at about two hundred years old. Couldn't tell you anything about the blood though.

[this_ismydesign]

[ Will blinked. Neal's response was above and beyond what he'd expected to receive and the investigator in him approved. Another blink and his focus became more ... grounded in reality, rather than dreamy. ]

Two hundred years old. [It wasn't really a question, more like he was feeling the age through speaking the words. Will gave a look around at the buildings he could see, frowning.] The architecture appears late twentieth century. [ A statement but with a question in the tone. Did Neal have any information to explain the wide discrepancy? ]

[conning]

Yeah, post-Second World War Colonial Revival, popular particularly in the American Northeast. [ Neal shakes his head. ] With some of it decayed at a rate that makes absolutely no sense given how long it's apparently been abandoned. Trust me, the more you try to make sense of this place the crazier you're going to feel.

[ He offers Will a crooked smile. ] Neal Caffrey.

[this_ismydesign]

['...the crazier you're going to feel'] That would be an accomplishment. [Will muttered his expression wry but quickly wiped to neutrality as he responded to the introduction.] Will.

[In his head Will was wracking his brain to place the man's face among the many monsters he'd tangled with over the years but was drawing a blank. Those blue eyes would be memorable.

...

Okay so he didn't know him. What the hell was the man doing in his Hellscape? ] How did you come to be here?

[conning]

Good question. If I knew I'd be half-way home by now. [ He tucks his hands into the pockets of his very crisp suit, rocking back on his heels. ] One minute I'm enjoying New York in the fall, the next...

[ He gestures at their surroundings. ] Woke up here. What about you? How'd the little white rabbit lead you in?

[this_ismydesign]

Plummeting to my death, off a cliff. [His words were matter of fact devoid of even a hint dramatic inflections.] Then, as you say, I woke up here.

[Turning slightly Will motioned towards the forest. ] Well, out there to be precise. [His gaze swung back, eyebrows arching in a silent questions; had Neal woken up in the village or the woods?]

[conning]

[ A lengthy pause. ] Metaphorically, or...?

[ He'll get to the implied question in a moment, all right. ]

[this_ismydesign]

[A pointed look. One that combined, does he look like a man who speaks in cliche metaphors and is that possibility the biggest strain on your credulity?]

[conning]

Suddenly I have no complaints about my morning pre-abduction.

[ He rubs his lips. ] Woke up in the woods, in the snow. No sign of anyone else, and nothing to suggest I'd been drugged.

[ Whoever dumped him there even left him with his lock picks. ]

[this_ismydesign]

[ Neal continues to impress. Part of Will's conscious mind tries to determine if the man is actually real or some sort amalgamation of Price, Zeller and Beverly.

'Interesting choice of a complete stranger to represent three dear colleagues.' The voice in his head sounded like Hannibal complete with nuanced derision that struck down Will's supposition before he could consider it further. Alright if the man wasn't a construct of his own head, then this was reality?

Will took another look around the square his expression dubious, but in way that made him appear more grounded. ]

Does that appear to be a shared experience among those of us who have found ourselves here?

[conning]

Yes and no. Some of us came to out in the woods. Some seem to have woken up on the shoreline. No one I've spoken to remembers the transition between where they were and this place.

[ He eyes Will curiously. ]

You're not a PI. No offense, but you're hardly personable enough. Not a cop--don't strike me as a team player except by necessity. But you are involved in law enforcement of some kind. You ask questions like law enforcement, anyway. So a specialist. What kind of specialist?

[this_ismydesign]

[ It took a minute for Will to catch up with Neal's question. He was busy checking against his own memory between hurtling through the air and waking in the snow.

As Neal said, there was no memory or even a lingering sense of transition. Will touched a spot on his sleeve that hadn't been ruined in the fight with Dolarhyde. The fabric was dry and soft, not stiff from dried salt water.

I didn't hit the water?

As he tried to recreate the scenario from the mental puzzle pieces he could recall Will looked back at Neal, the question eventually getting its hooks into his conscious thoughts. It was an insightful question, especially given the way Neal mapped it out and Will found himself studying the other man with greater intensity. ]

Retired. [ He felt off balanced by being so neatly profiled, mentally chastising himself for his distraction. But Neal had earned more than a one word reply, even if it made Will feel cagey. ] I was an instructor at Quantico, teaching forensic psychology.

[conning]

Quantico. [ Neal sounds faintly impressed, which for Neal means very impressed. ] The FBI seems to have all sorts of interesting people on its payroll.

[ A pause. ] Or formerly on its payroll. I'm with the White Collar Division out of Manhattan.

[this_ismydesign]

[Will did not appear phased by the idea that Quantico was or was not impressive. He had a complicated relationship with the FBI. Which was not a conversation he needed to be having with a relative stranger.]

Not many White Collar agents in forensic psychology courses. [He knew about the White Collar division, there was a psychological profiling aspect to working those crimes, but an entirely different type of profile from the monsters Will had taught baby agents to hunt.

Also the man said with not agent. Blue-green eyes sharpened as they studied Neal, his appearance, his hands and his own ability to profile a stranger. He bumped these observations up against what he knew of White Collar agents and support staff, extrapolated ... and went fishing. ]

How many years off your sentence did your cooperation buy you?

[conning]

[ Neal's eyebrows go up. ] You don't mince words.

[ He shrugs. ] Remains to be seen. I'm supposed to be in the middle of a commutation hearing, but instead I'm here, so my chances don't seem great at the moment.

[this_ismydesign]

Unless I'm closing a door in your face, you're good. [ Will said in that same dry tone but there was a hint of dark humor to the words. He does not appear concerned about the confirmation of his fishing. If anything he appears pleased.]

What other discrepancies have you noted? Anything to give an idea of who "He" might be?

[conning]

Noted.

[ Neal lifts one shoulder in a shrug, scratching the back of his neck. ] No idea who 'he' is, beyond something from the flap copy of a Steven King novel. As far as discrepancies... take your pick. The general store and the Gray Gull never run out of food or supplies, but there's no indication where they come from. Some of these houses look like they've been collapsing for a hundred years while their neighbors look like the owners walked out yesterday. No one I've spoken to seems to come from even the same time period, never mind-- [ a gesture at the air ] --the same world. Yes, I just said that, and yes, I meant it, and yes I know how crazy it sounds. This place is nothing but discrepancies.

[this_ismydesign]

[Will listened attentively, with his head tilted down, eyes flicking across the buildings within his immediate line of sight. When Neal finished his brief run down the ex-profiler's eyes came back to his face and Will's expression was dubious.]

This sounds like a dream. [ He said softly, lips quirking before he amended.] A nightmare might be more apt, but either description would do. Disjointed images, unending supplies, past and present mingled in no discernable pattern.

I can name at least four textbooks that cite cases like this, all the way down to the [he motioned towards the bulletin board] twisted single point of information that ultimately reveals nothing.

[conning]

Well, if it's a dream I wish I would stop getting hungry. And being able to taste the truly abysmal coffee.

[ More seriously: ] You're not dreaming. Or we all are, but none of us can wake up.

[this_ismydesign]

[ There was a small glimmer of amusement/commiseration in Will's eye at the remark about abysmal coffee. ] A true Hell. [ He deadpanned before shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

He winced as his bruised and torn knuckles brushed against the fabric, noting the presence of pain but still unable to dismiss this as reality. He had experienced pain in his dreams and his hallucinations often enough.

Regardless Will decided that standing here arguing existentialism was probably a waste of his time and Neal's and he turned away from the bulletin board. ]

Could you show me this Gray Gull?

[conning]

Sure. [ Neal shrugs and gestures toward the front door. He can't help it--even after all this time, there's still a little bit of a southern boy in him that tenses up against the expectation of cold when they step outside. Yeah, he prefers the seasons of the northeast to the temperate south, but that doesn't mean he has to like the cold. ] So, morbid curiosity prompts me to ask: did you jump, or were you pushed?

[this_ismydesign]

[ Will moved as directed and if he had any opinion about the weather, it didn't show on his face. Once they are clear of the door and Neal's question hangs between them, Will glances over at the taller man and then out across the snow. ]

The answer is complicated. [ He answered, a breath going by before he shrugged and looked back down at the ground. ] It was a voluntary choice.