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.
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"She went to meet with him? I don't... I don't think I'd let my mother do something like that," he said. "Why would I let her do that? I don't think I would."
Put herself in danger just to save Malcolm? He'd never sit idly by.
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Even knowing he hadn't done it, Gil must have thought there was no way out. But if he hadn't done it, wasn't there evidence of that? Couldn't they just work the case and find the evidence?
"But..."
He cast around, but there was no anchor apart from Gil's touch. He didn't feel like he'd just run away and let Gil take the weight of it alone, either.
"I don't understand. I just... left you? I ran away? To where?"
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He leaned forward a little, trying to catch Malcolm's eyes with his own. "Hey. I told you to run. You and I both know that you're the best guy to figure out how to bring Endicott down. You wouldn't be able to do that from inside a prison cell. You didn't 'just leave'. You were working the case."
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"Did I do it? Did I bring him down?"
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"I don't know." The weight of those three words felt like they would bring him to the ground. "I'm sorry, I'm. So sorry. I got angry. Careless. Part of me thinks I went there looking to pick a fight. The guy was trying to put my son behind bars, trying to blackmail the woman I--"
He managed to cut himself off. "The last thing, the very last thing I remember, is Endicott's guy shoving me into a trunk."
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The woman he? Malcolm was going to put that in a box and not open it. But for the rest...
He squeezed Gil's hands back.
"It sounds like he was the kind of guy who made things personal. Like he did that on purpose."
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He smiled, small and bitter. "And I'm still not entirely convinced that I'm not dying right now."
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"Let me see the stab wounds."
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He sighed, hesitated, then lifted the gown enough to show off the mess of bandages secured against his stomach. "I didn't think it was a good idea to mess with them."
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It made him a bit more concerned that he would pop a stitch, if he actually was stitched up under there.
"Listen, Malcolm, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm pretty sure an imaginary friend doesn't count as a credentialed anything."
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Well, if that was the case, he'd deal with it.
And if a friend of Wyatt Earp's really had been living with Malcolm, somehow he'd deal with that too.
"You know what, pants first."
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"They have jeans and khakis and various types of flannel shirts and jackets," he explained.
Malcolm, himself, was wearing a pair of jeans that were too long to the point that he'd rolled the cuffs up, his own leather shoes that were worse for wear and what was actually a woman's winter coat that fit him reasonably well. But all of it was a far cry from his perfectly tailored and fitted wardrobe back in New York.
When they reached the store, Malcolm pulled the door open and held it for him.
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Something about that fact set off alarm bells, but he couldn't put a finger on why yet.
It would come to him. He made his way over to a rack of flannels that looked to be the right size, tugging a couple off of their hangars before heading for the jeans. "How many of us are there? How are people staying fed?"
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He voice trailed off.
"The food replenishes itself somehow but... medicine is another matter," he admitted uncomfortably.
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Which only made Gil think of Endicott. He was about to say as much when the rest of Bright's information clicked. Gil went still.
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"Please tell me you came with some on hand."
It didn't seem likely, given Gil's own state, but. He still prayed for it to be true, with what little cosmic faith he had left.
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“If I had, it would only have delayed what happened anyway. I’ve been here for almost a month. But. I made some friends that have been helping me out when... when it’s bad.”
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