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villagememes2021-03-08 05:08 pm
villagemod) wrote in villagememes2021-03-08 05:08 pm
Entry tags:
test drive — spring
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.
aziraphale | good omens (tv)
[ Nothing says "things are probably going to be fine" like waking up who-knows-where (nevermind the fact that he doesn't sleep), outdoors even though there are buildings well within range, and also there's extremely thick fog everywhere and it's filled with wandering ghosts. To say nothing for what he'd call a notable lack of the usual extent of his angelic power.
Aziraphale is quietly, tidily, weighing the pros and cons of losing his whole mind.
He was looking forward to opening his shop and hopefully not getting any customers, and certainly not selling anything if at all possible. Lunch with Crowley. That sort of thing. Home things. So this was already a less than ideal situation. And then there's... all the rest of this.
Aziraphale can't sense ghosts, per se. This is mostly to do with the fact that last he checked, ghosts weren't real. Souls, the spirit, absolutely. Angels, demons, yes, got a decent handle on picking up on those. Some certain entities, he saw the proof himself, very extant.
None of those descriptors apply.
Human-but-not. Here-but-gone. Very purgatorial. The first one that he encounters up close and personal instead of as a vague distant shape, it feels like getting punched. ]
Oh. Oh, you poor thing. [ He's required by law as a big sap to feel awful about it. There could not be more sympathy packed into his tone if he tried.
His next requirement by law is to feel guilty about the fact that he can't do anything to help them, after he probably spends more time than he should trying to do just that. ]
exploration.
[ Exploration is a bold word to use for "enters buildings out of necessity because the fog is starting to do a number on him physically, which he's never had happen in his life." Still, why not. It technically counts. He gets more familiar as he goes along, after all.
He doesn't tend to stick around places longer than it takes him to get his momentum back, mostly in the spirit of all the familiarizing he's trying to do. Clothing shop here, halfway house there, distillery that way, etc. The toy store, he actually takes more of a breather at despite the upped creepiness factor. The thing about very quaint, handmade items that speak of devotion to craft is that they tend to feel well-loved whether they're sold or not. That's always a vibe he's into.
Ultimately he settles himself in for a longer haul at Benedict Books, where he just plain feels the most comfortable. Doesn't even compare to his shop and collection, frankly, but he supposes he wasn't expecting it to. He's had the benefit of a very, very long time to put things together by comparison, surely.
And it isn't... it isn't completely awful, as long as he refuses to think about anything about it that may or may not be awful. Which out of every skill he's ever learned is probably the one he's best at.
Foreboding and vaguely supernatural, is all. He'll get used to it.
This is where he can mostly be found, for hours on end, basically puttering around looking at everything on the shelves. Maybe trying to clean up a bit, where he can.
Pretty much no matter where he's at on his dumbass walking holiday, Aziraphale is pretty given to polite greetings and amenable to conversation, if a little distracted. ]
to see and be seen.
[ Aziraphale is no stranger to the anxiety and paranoia that naturally go hand in hand with feeling watched. In fact, after 6,000 years of definitive authority to answer to, it might be safe to say that he knows those feelings better than he knows any others.
(There's love to consider, of course, seeing as he was very definitely made for that, but love often feels like less of a thing that he knows and more like a thing he happens to do.)
Even knowing he's officially been cut loose, as it were, and it's not something he would've had to necessarily worry about going forward, it's a very old habit to break. He hardly even notices. Until, you know. He does notice, while he's distractedly scanning over notecards and the map and whatnot, because it's not his usual self-generated Brand of watched-ness.
Sourcing it out takes a minute, despite the fact that he was literally looking at the board. Aziraphale looks up towards the ceiling for a long few moments first, then down at the floor, frowning. And that doesn't get him anywhere, obviously. It's practically an accident that he sees the whole "sigil painted in human blood" situation, which he notes with: an offended gasp.
The symbol's not familiar to him offhand. But his offense stands. ]
How lovely. [ Aziraphale mainly sounds dry and put out. The things he has to deal with without any forewarning, smh. He helped stop an apocalypse only to end up in this mess. Disastrous. ] The occult.
[ It's just uncalled for. Whatever happened to common decency? ]
exploration
He drops his books and they clatter to the ground.
His father has never, in his life, looked like that - clean shaven, blonde - but it's also exactly his face. A face burned into every crevice in Malcolm's mind. He doesn't say anything. He just stares. Maybe it's a trick. Like the ghosts outside.]
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Well, some arts. Okay, not really any particular arts that come to mind.
But he does have some proficiency in the ancient art of "raw capacity to get so into looking through a book that he looks back up when he's done and it's been 2 days," which is mostly the type of skill that gets employed without him really noticing. Case in point: this C.S. Lewis title that, while not the type of early edition that he'd want in his shop, has some very key differences that are too consistent to be a simple print error.
The sound of books hitting the floor startles him. He jumps like it's his professional duty to jump. ]
Oh-- [ And only narrowly avoids dropping his own book. Smooth.
It's only a human, at least. Actual human, not depressing fog purgatory human.
Small mercies. ]
Sorry! [ For... he will figure out what he did that he apologized for, right now. He'll take his best guess. ] Terribly sorry, I- didn't mean to startle you. Must have missed you coming in or I would've, would've said something. Are you alright?
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You reminded me of someone. ...Like the ghosts outside. Like them, but not like them. Did... did you just arrive here?
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Unfortunate turn of luck is all, it seems like. Makes sense, thinking about the poor souls out there, that people would be-- oh, what is it? On edge? On edge.
Some of the nervous tension drains out of his posture, his expression. He keeps at his current distance just in case. Be a shame to remind this young man of something like that too much. Sort of goes against the whole angel gig. ]
I'm afraid so. Not-- not the most pleasant change in scenery, is it? [ What, being disappeared into a ghost town full of ghost fog?? Yes. ] Bit spooky, actually.
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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?
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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?
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How wonderful. You know, I've always thought law enforcement was a very noble pursuit. Getting out there and, and choosing to do good. Keep the peace. Especially for someone so young.
[ Humans do have a way of being brave and clever on their own merit. Taking up difficult paths. Remarkable things, really. ]
Oh! Um. My name is Aziraphale, by the way. Circumstances aside, it's a pleasure to meet you.
[ He gives a very short little wave. ]
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Ohhhhh, yes. Right. Lodging. [ A very important thing that humans do in new places. ] Suppose I can't just live at this shop.
[ Alas. The cruel hand of fate. On the other hand, already knowing that obviously nothing will hold a candle to home makes this a less stressful concept. ]
I haven't had to, to 'house hunt' in quite some time. There aren't going to be too many options to sort through, are there?
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ghosts >:3
The ghosts don't help. The things that feel like ghosts, walking through the fog looking as lost as Crowley feels.
If he weren't what he is, he'd be worried he were in limbo, except there's no such thing for demons. If he was destroyed, there would be nothing left of him, not even a soul to wander hopelessly for... days? Years? His head hurts; dizziness is not a sensation he's particularly familiar with, but he's quickly learning that it's incredibly unpleasant and only adds to the disorientation. He'd very much like to lie down, only a dull sort of fear is telling him that's not a good idea.
So he keeps moving. Lost and confused and clinging to the last remnants of hope that there's a way out of this, back to London, where Aziraphale might be waiting for him.
He isn't expecting to actually hear the angel's voice, and it draws him up short, has him turning in a quick circle trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.]
Aziraphale...?
[Tentative, almost. Expecting nothing but silence and trying anyway, just in case.]
squishes crowleys sad face
Crowley.
[ Aziraphale has patented a lot of ways of saying Crowley's name over the years. The irritated, the long-suffering, the offended, the hinting-at-a-favor, the quietly very pleased. Perhaps none so weirdly specific as the tone he uses when he's in the middle of something that he frankly doesn't care for and Crowley has suddenly appeared.
Broad-scale relief. Just in general. He can't say he likes their odds of having a magical solution to This Whole Situation, but it's usually better to have Crowley with him than not. Add to that a layer of genuine surprise: not for the fact that Crowley has in fact turned up, because after a few millennia Aziraphale just kind of half-expects it. More because he didn't already notice that Crowley was here.
Then again, he thinks, as the spirit he'd stopped next to straight-up vanishes, could be a bit of interference.
Well. No matter. There's a demon in the fog who actually is aware of the surroundings and speaking to him, and that takes immediate precedence.
He can actually do something about that. Off he goes. Demon hunting but like in a loving way. Perks of having not yet been out here for 84 years. ]
Alright, where have you gotten to?
its a very sad face
Crowley stumbles forward in the direction of the voice, not worried about whether it might be a trap.]
Aziraphale? I can't —
[Find you. He chokes on the words, swallows down the panic and distress to try again.]
Keep talking, angel, I'll come find you.
[It's the only thing Crowley's ever been good at, or at least he thought so until recently.]
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Probably silly of him, thinking it would be as easy as 'where have you gotten to?' He hardly knows where he's gotten to, except for the general direction of where he last saw a building. ]
Do you know, I was actually going to tell you the same thing. Meet you halfway. I'm, I'm afraid I can't give you any landmarks to go by in this weather.
[ Can't pull a little let there be light out of the proverbial hat, either, despite his best efforts. Which is more than a little worrying, which he's more than a little trying to keep tamped down.
Probably only illuminate a lot of very similar-looking trees with it anyway.
He tries to tamp down on sounding outright worried about Crowley, too, but consider: he's bad at that. ]
Are you alright?
[ Crowley sounds off. is all. Not like he's not himself in the literal sense, but like something is wrong. More than somehow being brought here in the first place. ]
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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?
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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ghosts of the living -- or maybe i will just do this now bc it occurred to me
Aziraphale might feel bad for these... whatever-they-ares. Athena is just creeped the hell out. And is dealing with it by swinging a bigass stick through every ghost thing that comes close to her and yelling incoherently at it. ]
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On the other hand, it's a sign of someone swinging a large stick around, when investigated. Aziraphale can't figure out where this lands on the "I don't know what I expected" scale.
Now, he is the practical, sensible sort, he would say. He's cautious, because he gets worried being outside of his favored habitats otherwise. Which is true, if only true part of the time.
But, well, as needs must. There's nothing to like about anything going on out here? Wow.
Aziraphale brings a stick to the stick fight. Less in the sense of doing an actual fight. More in the sense that he steps up and holds it out and tries to block the tail-end of one of her swings.
It's like the world's shittiest, most hesitant baseball player managing to make contact with a pitch. ]
Young lady, if, if, if I could have a word. Moment of your time. Unaccosted, preferably.
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For starters, she actually hit that stick. And also, he looks a lot more like a lost puppy than a creepy bastard in a fog that makes people ill. ]
Um. Sure. Probably inside is better though.
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Probably a bit on the nose to say something like "miracles really do happen," but hey. Aziraphale is by no means unaware of his general levels of luck and competency, so he's gonna take that W. ]
Well, the word was specifically just about asking you to stop assaulting the lost souls. If I'm honest. [ It feels like it would be rude to get inside and then get around to that. She's technically even stopped doing it right now. Also a win. ] But I- I wasn't actually aware that there was an indoors. So if you wouldn't mind the company, I'd be very grateful to get there.
[ Okay, yes, so far so nailing it, uhhh-- oh. ]
I can promise to leave the stick behind.
ghosts
The presence of another one who is not so corporeal explains the comment.]
I don't think they can see us. Or hear us.
[Whether that's fortunate or unfortunate, he really doesn't know. He isn't certain what they are, if they're real, if they feel anything. It would be nice to think they're just some kind of illusion.]