villagememes | test drive

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: ♫ )

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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[ Billy doesn't come here seeking out the bulletin board. He comes here because he's been in enough small, damaged towns to know that when a building's still standing in the middle of it all, that's probably where whoever lives here still meets.

But he doesn't go to the town hall right away. By the time he pulls himself out of the woods and into town, he stumbles into the first home he found. It's seemingly unoccupied, and even it isn't, Billy wouldn't care. He passes out almost as soon as he got in, making it to the couch, and he's been out for God knows how long. He forces himself through the pain of getting up, he'd washes his face - well. Sort of. The blood had dried and the wounds were still too fresh to scrub everything away. At least it's enough to see himself now.

He decides he doesn't want to see himself very much.

So that's when he goes out to find out what the hell is going on. His clothes are still filthy, his shirt and bullet proof vest stained with his own blood and Frank Castle's blood as he shambles through the town. Some part of him is pretty pleased that his instincts were right. There's someone at the town hall, and there's a bulletin board behind him. Billy's gonna open his mouth to say something when the man turns, and Billy's mouth clamps up tight. ]

The hell kinda shit is this?

[ There's that ever present feeling, the one of being watched--he can't shake it, like Sankt Ilya himself is judging, still in chains, an ever watchful gaze boring into him from an unknown location. He's expecting someone else--someone young, perhaps, also new, or one of the people who have been here for a while to tell him something that's occurred recently. A problem. More fog. Calamity. What the Darkling is not expecting, however, is his own self reflected back into him.

He straightens. Stiffens, almost, his posture neat and composed, though there's a flicker of something across his face for just a fraction of a second. His hands clasp in front of him, giving the other a good, long look. Judging. Deciding.

It certainly looks like him. A creature, perhaps--his hair is a little different, his demanour far from his own, but him. The way he speaks is harsh and grating, and the Darkling wonders if that carries over to his personality as well.

He's interesting, though, and that's why the Darkling replies. ]

Who are you?

[ Billy keeps his eyes on the doppelganger. The voice that comes out of him is too posh, and he thinks, for a moment, that Frank would get a real kick out of hearing Billy put on airs like that. The thought turns sour just as quickly as it comes. Billy just presses his lips together.

His eyes narrow, just a touch, enough to show that he's sizing up whoever - or whatever - is standing in front of him. ]

I'm not really sure I need to answer that.

[ 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. ]

[ He wonders if this is some sort of shitty afterlife thing, being faced with some metaphorical version of himself that's all in black and high-and-mighty but still looking worn down. Figures the universe would try to teach him something after death.

Still, Billy considers for a moment, rolling his shoulder and neck a little before answering with his own name. ]

Billy.

[ He notes the way the man is taking in his appearance. Honestly, if the guy's looking at the blood, that's fine. It means he's not staring at the state of Billy's face. ]

So what the hell are you, then?

[ The Darkling's lips quirk up into a small smile, though it's far from a happy one. He doesn't bother to hide his annoyance, though it's not at Billy: it's about the entire situation, the way the other's hair on the side is shaved, the way he speaks in such a rough, strange accent. He's tired of words grating on him. He's tired of this village.

Billy, at least, is interesting. ]

Someone who dislikes not understanding things. [ At the moment, Billy is that thing, and the Darkling's eyes narrow as he takes a few steps towards the other, hands still clasped in front of him. ]

What happened to you before you arrived? [ He'd like an answer for the blood, at least, to sate his curiousity. ]

Had a date with an old friend at the park.

[ He doesn't really owe this Kirigan a full explanation, and Billy can already see that they're both dancing around the edge of the conversation. The guy doesn't wanna give up too much of himself, either. Billy can respect that, even if he can feel some sort of anger simmering inside him by looking at what should be his own face. ]

Turns out he was a little upset with me.

[ It's a mutual thought, it appears: this is strange and they're both careful men, circling each other. He can't shake the feeling of some sort of cruel joke being played. Would he look like that, had he arrived in this place only a moment after? Torn completely apart, instead of beginning to be? The sea had washed off his black blood, cleaning him as if readying him to be reborn.

And then this. This man, with scars on his face, looking at him just as evenly. The Darkling's eyes glint, before flicking over to the cuts.

Upset, indeed. ]

And you...lost.

[ Billy grits his teeth a bit.

Lost.

He doesn't lose, he doesn't let himself lose, and he sure as hell doesn't let people tell him that he did.

But even Billy Russo can't lie his way out of this one. The evidence of his failure is as plain as the scarring on his face. He rolls his neck a bit and exhales out of his nose. ]

Losing the battle doesn't mean you're gonna lose the war.

test drive — spring

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