test drive — spring

[villagemod]

SPRING 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.

Prospective players are welcome to play with any of the established locations within Mathias.

( Recommended listening: ♫ )

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GHOSTS OF THE LIVING
The fog moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. It is not a soft blanket enveloping the town, but a heavy weight pressing down, threatening to suffocate as the sky is blotted out and no one can see more than ten feet in any direction.

Those who are outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, hoping that a randomly chosen direction will lead them to shelter or another living soul. There are perhaps even those who were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in. Wherever they are, the residents of Mathias will soon notice that they are not the only ones in the fog.

Anyone out in the fog is left disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

With all of these elements at play, the first strange apparitions encountered may be assumed to be figments of addled minds, tricks played by psyches struggling to cope with the strange reality they've found themselves in. But before long, there will be no denying that the Others in the fog are real. Appearing almost wraithlike and startlingly recognizable, these figures even feel a bit like ghosts to those who can sense such things, though everyone will feel that there is something wrong about them. Truly, there are many things wrong that residents will begin to notice as they encounter more and more of the spectres that do not acknowledge their presence in any way. They simply exist, silent and subtly terrifying like so many things in this town.

Like misty ghosts of those who have been in the town at one point or another, the Others appear as those who have died or disappeared and even those currently within the town. The likeness is truly uncanny, to the point of being completely terrifying, made even more so when they realize there is no way to communicate with the Others. They do not acknowledge anyone's presence nor anything said to them. At times, they may be only one in an area, or there may be a dozen existing in the same space. There is no limit to how many people can see them — if they are there, they are seen by all.

The Others do not enter buildings and cannot be contained in any way. They can appear at one moment and be gone in the next, or they can exist in one place for hours on end. Whether standing stationary or slowly wandering throughout the town, there is no discernible purpose to them. There is something absent and distant in the way they hold themselves, the way they walk, and their expressions, as if even they cannot grasp what is happening.

A BIT OF EXPLORATION
There are plenty of places in which to get one's bearings and hide from the fog.

There are businesses on the square, nestled around and extending out from the Town Hall. There is a schoolhouse nestled by the southern treeline, not from the rather expansive makeshift cemetery at the end of Jackson Boulevard that is courtesy of a few kind residents in town. To the far north of the square is a sprawling garden, now covered in snow, and a greenhouse that once supplied the botanical shop. And to the east and west, beyond the business square, is are residential districts.

The eastern district sprawls all the way to the beach, with some houses in perfect condition and others beginning to show significant signs of age. The western district, however, is nothing but decay. From the beginnings of rot to completely collapsed and little more than a pile of proverbial bones, none of these homes are anything resembling livable. Well, as far as one can tell, at least. For between the streets of Hill Lane and Stine Road there is a crack in the earth. A dozen feet across and fifty feet down, there is no way across.

TO SEE AND BE SEEN
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. Covering the board are tacked-on 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 painted directly across the center of the board, visible in the gaps between the pieces of paper, is a symbol in dark red. While peering at that obscured symbol, a strange breeze ruffles the papers, revealing a little more, just enough to—

An eye. A strange, ornate eye with three lobes, painted in still-wet red. And upon close examination, a keen eye will realize that the paint is actually blood, perhaps even human.

The longer someone stands there, the more it will feel like they are being watched, even studied, with great interest. It's a sensation that lingers and stays with them even when they exit the building.

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[demonicmiracle]

[On an ideal day, if he really tries, Crowley is able to reach out metaphysically to find the familiar sense of angel that he's been following around for millennia. It's why walking into the burning bookshop had been so terrifying, the realization that there was nothing there for him to find.

There's nothing now, either, except Aziraphale's voice calling out through the fog, and it's better and worse than being alone in here. He doesn't want Aziraphale to be stuck in this wasteland, either.]

I've got plenty of trees, you reckon that'll help at all? Or maybe you ought to sing, there'll be no missing you then.

[He's got jokes, apparently, though they sound flat to his own ears and it's likely rather telling that he didn't answer the question about whether he's fine. He doesn't have it in him to lie, not right now.

The only mercy is that it doesn't take him much longer to spot a roughly human shape in the fog, at which point he picks up the pace, a shock of black materializing from out of the mist, looking a little worse for wear.

He pulls up short in front of Aziraphale, a hand twitching with the urge to reach out, but he isn't quite sure what to do next.]

Are you real?

[oldbookshop]

Just-- oh, just keep walking, please. [ Another reason not to be a fan of this fog, to the much lesser degree: he couldn't make a face at Crowley for sassing him during a serious situation. All he can do is hope that that energy carried through in his tone.

The concern does not, in fact, die down when he lays eyes on Crowley properly. If anything, it becomes all the more apparent.

Aziraphale digs deep, deep down. He accesses all of his reserves. He looks down at himself like he expects to find something out of place that he'd somehow missed, that would merit the question, and finds no such something. He manages to find the dumbass strength to look mildly affronted despite everything. ]

Of course I'm real, you idiot, I'm talking to you. [ Idiot (fond). ] How long have you been out here? You look a mess.

[ Not once since they got out of it has Aziraphale missed the fourteenth-century aesthetic. And he stands by that.

If he half-distractedly brushes a dead leaf off of Crowley's jacket, that's between him and his constructed intricate rituals. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[There's no mistaking the way that Crowley flinches when Aziraphale reaches out to touch him, though he isn't even sure why it happens, immediately looking apologetic. It's a lingering tension, evidence of how rattled he is by everything that's happened and everything that is happening.

The bookshop fire. This place.

He shakes his head before glancing back the way he came, unsure how to answer.]

Dunno, I — it was —

[A few unintelligible sounds come out instead of words, before he grits his teeth in frustration, trying to push down the wave of dizziness.]

Something's wrong.

[No shit.]

[walkingtrigger]

[ Tim wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of someone being able to get a good read on him. There was a natural reserve, secrets he had and tried to keep carefully crated up and he did not need someone peeking under the lids.

But he decided to let that be an internal warning, rather than cause it to dictate his behavior with Russo. At least for the time being. ]

Honestly, we don't really know. [ He explained. ] I'm a fairly recent arrival, you'd want to talk to Raylan Givens, or Doc Holiday for details. From what I've been told, this place has a habit of killing a person, in gruesome fashion, and then haunting your dreams until you feel very messed with indeed.

The killing thing? It also appears to bring people back from those deaths; sometimes. Not all the time and there is no rhyme or reason as to who comes back from what and who doesn't.

[oldbookshop]

[ Oh, dear. That's more than a little not good. To vastly understate things.

Aziraphale nods, once, as if to say no hard feelings; still reels himself back in to a more familiar hand-wringing posture, nearby but not touching. ]

Seems like. [ No shit, indeed.

No time to waste, probably. Crowley's in a bad way, but he's here and he's talking and he's present, and that makes him first priority. Not that he'd have to do all that much work to be a top priority anymore. ]

There was a building, back the way I came. It looked empty. You know I've never found trespassing very keen, but-- but given the circumstances. Might help us get this sorted out. I can help you walk if you need it.

[ Weird things to have to say to supernatural entities older than time: that last bit.

Getting inside will give Crowley somewhere to sit down, if nothing else. If an owner shows up, he'll just explain the situation.

Aziraphale's eyes catch on motion a little ways off, track the telltale aimless shuffle of another lost spirit in silhouette. He makes himself look away with a near-silent sort of punched-out exhale, jaw tensing.

Hell was at least straightforward about itself. ]

Stay close?

[ If he loses Crowley in this fog ten seconds after he's found him, he can't be held accountable for losing his whole mind about it. ]

[skladka]

It's a lot of words he doesn't understand, and he ignores the slight sting of annoyance as the other goes on. It's not his fault--the Darkling is used to a world where things simply make sense by virtue of being around for so long. The other may as well be speaking gibberish, though he's sure it's relevant in his world.

A perfect example: he asks what Grisha is. The Darkling's lips quirk upwards into a half-smile, though it's hard to tell what he's amused at, exactly. When his tone speaks, he sounds genial enough.

"One who can channel matter into something else. Though I've not seen fire and lightning and ice done by just onw person." It's fascinating.

[skladka]

[ He recognizes when the other's eyes narrow, solely because he knows for a fact he makes that same face when he's trying to assess a threat. It's uncanny, really: the other is just on edge as he is, the only difference is that the Darkling counters by tilting his chin upwards, face impassive. A Tailor, perhaps, sculpting a stranger to have his face. It wouldn't be unheard of. He has half a mind to wonder if Genya Safin is around here, roaming the village, though the other option being simpler: that they both merely look alike. He finds that worse.

Either way, it doesn't sit well with him, although he does have to admit the similarities. While the Darkling's kefta is scuffed and battered, he's doing a fair bit better than how his 'twin' seemed to be doing. ]

A stalemate I'm more than willing to break. Kirigan. [ His introduction is simple, smooth, though he doesn't extend a hand. He looks pointedly at the blood on the other's clothes, his brow raised. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[How can you tell? he wants to ask. He's not even certain which direction he came from anymore, all the trees in the fog have the same menacing outline, although perhaps that has more to do with the fact everything is all wobbly.

It makes him want to touch, to reassure himself that Aziraphale is real, and to make up for flinching, for the twisting of hands that he knows is his fault. That's always been a line they don't cross, though, or one that Crowley doesn't cross. Better not to touch Aziraphale, when he knows full well what he is. Some of the demon might rub off on him, make him dirty.]

M'fine. Lead the way if you know how to get out of this bloody mess.

[Bitten out, slightly, using anger to cover up the uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability and confusion. He knows it isn't fair to Aziraphale, but he's not exactly a bastion of healthy coping mechanisms.

It's been a long time since he's cried about something, but the crying jag he'd started at the bar is now threatening to come back, confronted as he is by Aziraphale, whether or not he's real.]

[oldbookshop]

[ Hm. Ouch.

Any serpent's second nature to bare the fangs in a poor situation, so to speak. He supposes.

Aziraphale spins on a heel, pinpoint, and leads the way. Keeps dropping a spare glance or two in Crowley's direction just to make sure he's keeping up. He's starting to feel-- nauseous, he thinks? He's never been that before, so it's anybody's guess.

But he's got his wits about him, more or less. Head a certain ways, there's a road, somewhere along the road, there's a building. That much, he knows.

He tries not to consider the idea that maybe Crowley's been out here for a very long time, somehow, that winding up as a half-gone specter is just what happens eventually. He fails at that. ]

Haven't really missed walking about in the damp.

[ God herself could not stop him from mostly talking for the sake of talking. If he's talking, he's rarely thinking. ]

[nottevintersoldier]

"I take it, that is what you are?" He's making a guess just off of what he'd said prior that it was 'difficult for one to use their gifts' which sounded more like a shared experience.

"And if so, I am curious to see what you are capable of. I have yet to meet someone who has similar abilities."

[demonicmiracle]

[Part of him is furious that Aziraphale is standing here, acting like the main problem here is the damned fog, when there's a bigger question looming over both of them. It helps fuel his anger, keeps him from feeling as if he's about to burst into exhausted, terrified tears.

It only helps so much, though.

He can see those worried glances, can hear the thread of anxiety in Aziraphale's voice, and he can't — can't really stop himself.

The next time Aziraphale looks back at him, Crowley closes the small distance between them to take the angel's hand, hoping he'll ignore that his palm is clammy and too-cold.]

Not a word. [He glances away, jaw tight, and adds:] Please.

[He just needs some kind of connection, the reassurance that Aziraphale isn't a hallucination, that he won't disappear into mist.]

[darkestlights]

[ The idea of this guy also being an orphan doesn't phase her, her movements not missing a beat. ] North of Shu Han, east of the Fold.

[ She says it like it's common knowledge, Alina not quite worldly enough to fully understand the idea of someone not knowing. Even in a strange world. It was starting to sink in, though -- especially now that it's calmed a bit and he still hasn't shoved her away for being half Shu. She's still a bit on guard, however, just in case.

Lifting herself up, she checks his back to see if the stab wound went all the way through or if there's anything else that needs immediate attention. ​]

Never heard your accent before, where are you from anyway? [ And because it felt rude to talk to a stranger's back, she shifts back around to get a good look at his face -- assessing to see if anything else needed tending to. ]

[abrightboy]

Malcolm slides the record out of the sleeve, places it on the turntable and carefully drops the needle.

Superstition starts playing.

At the questions, Malcolm glances around and gives a shrug. "It's very Earth-like here. I don't know that I'd go so far as 'normal'. Is your planet very different? ...Apart from the... people with the... horns?"

[abrightboy]

[Malcolm laughs just a little too sharply.]

Spooky! Yes. It... it sure is that.

[He looks around, possibly avoiding the man's eyes on account of them being so familiar and so not at the same time.]

Where. Um. Where are you from?

[oldbookshop]

[ There's a war to be waged between sharper concern and relief. It helps to have the contact. Serves as a much more concrete way to make sure Crowley stays in tow, that he doesn't somehow fall too far behind and slip out of sight in the space between glances.

It also serves to underscore the way that something is clearly wrong. Crowley is pale, shaken, withdrawn in a way that he never gets. Aziraphale would like to say several words. Get whatever it is turned out. Try to help. He can't figure what could have... well, gone so wrong. Apart from the obvious in waking up in this place.

Probably for the better that there are, in fact, some things he's quite good at restraining himself with. ]

Not a solitary peep. [ It'll be the most un-remarked upon hand holding in history.

He stumbles a little bit when the forest floor gives way to pavement beneath their feet, flash-in-the-pan annoyance over it included free of charge. Probably a good sign to have gotten here, though. If he doesn't try to see anything as a good sign at all, he's not entirely sure what else to do. ]

Right. Shouldn't be far off. [ Aziraphale takes a moment to try to orient himself and make a call on his own left versus right memory debate. The thing that makes them lucky is that, unbeknownst to him, there's some kind of building both ways. ]

[nottevintersoldier]

Dorian watches Malcolm with rapt interest, which piques even more so when the music starts playing. You'll forgive him if he's a little distracted by it, watching the record spin and hearing the crisp sounds coming from the player. He's absolutely fascinated, it's unlike anything he's heard before and he quite likes it.

"How marvelous." He's got a lot of questions, like how that disk can play music? what kind of magic is this? Is it magic? How do they get the sounds onto it?

He pulls himself out of his thoughts to listen to Malcolm answer his questions and considering his own answers.

"Well, as I've yet to really explore this world much, I can't really say to whether it's very different as a whole. The architecture and much of what I've seen seems a bit more advanced and different from what I'm used to, yes. The unsettling fog and spirits wandering about is a bit more par for the course, but that's about all. I'm glad to see there's at least vague similarities." Motioning to the bar, even if it is sadly lacking in spirits (the drinking kind).

"Depending on how much time you have I'm sure I could go on for hours and we could compare notes." This is mostly said as a joke, as he's sure this young man has much better things to do.

[demonicmiracle]

[This is the most physical contact they've ever had, and he can't help but regret that it's under these circumstances, when he's too woozy to really appreciate it, when he's sure Aziraphale is only putting up with it because he's worried about losing him in the fog.

He wonders if this is what Eurydice's felt like, following Orpheus out of the underworld.

Rather than indulge that thought further, he focuses on the relief of feeling pavement under his feet, a reassuring change from the soft forest floor. It doesn't stop him from asking the question that's been on his mind the whole time he's been in the fog.]

Are we dead, angel?

[It should be impossible for beings like them, there's no 'alive' and 'dead', only existence and destruction, but it wouldn't be the first time that God has lied to them.]

[skladka]

The Darkling's smile is soft, barely one at all as he looks at the other, shaking his head. "It takes an immense strain on me, but yes," he says simply, softly. Apologetic. It's a half lie: as much as he'd love to share, he's opting for being very, very careful. He doesn't move from his spot where he'd been watching, fascinating.

"You throw your gifts around like you fight--self defense?"

[oldbookshop]

[ Hm. He's just gonna go left. Left seems like as good a choice as any. ]

Dead? Hardly. We're not even discorporated. [ In the past couple of days, they've accomplished some generally impossible-even-for-celestial-beings things. In the past couple of days, Aziraphale has been in the business of processing a lot of, of disappointment (because disillusionment is too strong a word) that either came fresh or that he finally admitted to having felt already, and some very definite untruths that came out in the wash.

He still does not consider 'dead' a viable possibility. Not least because he's sure he would remember the dying, being something that they're really not designed to do.

It's a worrying question to hear, though. He tightens his grip a little. ]

No, I-- I think we should start with "displaced and probably in quite a pickle" and go from there. [ If they're in a pickle, it leaves even the faint possibility that they might be able to find their way back out of it. ] Wouldn't do to give up before we know anything.

[nottevintersoldier]

"No, of course, you don't have to show me unless you ever feel inclined. But since I can do fire, ice, lightning, etc, and the Grisha only know one specialty, then what is yours?" Surely he could mention an element or a type? But if the other declines he won't push.

There's a soft chuckle at the idea he 'throws' the magic around, "Ah, yes, I suppose you could say that. It's far more controlled than it sounds or likely seems at the moment. I'm used to having a staff in my hands to help focus and direct the energy."

[darkestlights]

[ She's too young and inexperienced to fully see and respect the gray resting between the black and white logic she tried to apply to most things. Her entire life has been 'us versus them', feeding into every aspect of her decisions, a refusal to accept anything less than an absolute. She couldn't think 10 years into the future, see the reasons behind why. Not when trust felt broken.

But in the immediate, she knew he was right. From her brief time here so far, the idea of Ravka had apparently been as foreign as the Fold. There was no time to feel the grief at the loss of Mal again, or to stubbornly stand her ground. He didn't have the same level of influence here that he had at home. If there was a time to fight for equal footing between them, this was it. They needed to talk about Novokribirsk before she agreed to anything. There was no Fold here to expand, but that didn't mean he was harmless. She didn't know if he could create another one, or what he was truly capable of right now. ​]

That depends -- are you planning on murdering everyone here, too, if things don't go your way?

[demonicmiracle]

[In an ideal world, what Aziraphale's saying makes sense. They still have physical bodies even if they aren't quite working right, and surely they would know if they died. He sounds very confident about that.

Except he was gone, and the bookshop was up in flames, and Hastur had promised that he'd hurt Aziraphale. And here he is, still acting like he doesn't owe some kind of explanation.]

How long have you been here? Is this where you went?

[Is it why Crowley couldn't find him?]

[oldbookshop]

Where I...?

[ In all his years of existence, never has Aziraphale felt more like there must be something he's just not getting. Some important puzzle piece missing from the box. Which is one thing when it's only him paying for it.

All at once, his tone turns softer, more careful. ]

I've only just gotten here. If I knew how, I'd already be working on getting us back.

[ 'Went' implies an intent he knows he never had. Would've left a note, at least, surely. ]

Were you looking for me already?

[ They just had lunch. They made drinks plans. No threat looming over their shoulders. Nothing to be on edge about.

If Crowley weren't here already, he'd have figured at least a couple of hours before this got noticed. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[Only just could mean hours or days, knowing how Aziraphale can get with time, especially when there's some bloody fog playing tricks on their mind.

The faint thread of his temper finally snaps and he yanks his hand away so he can cross his arms over his chest, defensive and protective all at once.]

'Course I was bloody looking for you! I thought Hastur or Ligur had — had gotten to you before they came for me, and when I — [He groans, caught between wanting to look away and not wanting to take his eyes off Aziraphale lest he disappear.] You were gone. I couldn't find you.

[oldbookshop]

[ Aziraphale, fidgeting with the book in his hands because he doesn't want to put it down exclusively to wring his hands, tries to run the math on figuring out if it's sort of a relief not being the only unsettled one in here. He fails to puzzle out said math. It simply is what it is, and he hopes a little friendliness might... help. Generally.

He tries to swallow back at least the leftover nerves from being startled.

On the bright side, he's certainly had much worse conversations in his lifetime. ]

London. Well, Soho, more specifically. [ He doesn't know what the specificity will accomplish, it's just that he's already said it.

He smiles, nervous and short-lived. ]

I, I actually run a bookshop there. Wouldn't say it's very like this one, but. [ A shrug. ] It's sort of familiar being around a lot of books at all. Suppose I should be grateful for that.

[ Could just as easily have nothing of the sort. ]

I take it you're not from around here, either?