The Village Mod (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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.
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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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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.
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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?]
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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It's just old habit. That's where the concern chips fall.
The not understanding keeps coming home to roost apace, though. Aziraphale has all his gears turning, full-tilt, trying to contextualize. Might get where he needs to be on it, in a bit. He thinks that tracking down the Antichrist with a day's work and a book of prophecy might have been outright simpler to parse than Crowley's current upset.
Well, no, being upset at not being able to find him after something happened, that's actually very easy to parse. What he's saying technically holds together as an explanation on its own. It just doesn't add up with where Aziraphale was at in a lot of ways, which he would've thought it would have to be able to hold up as a unit. ]
I'm sorry.
[ Possibly mostly for apparently not being able to be found. Scratch the possibly. That's exactly it. A little bit, though, for just plain not understanding. ]
Last I remember, there wasn't-- there wasn't anyone looking to come for us at all. Nothing too out of the ordinary. [ Nothing that wasn't better than the last 6,000 years of ordinary.
He peers at Crowley, searching but not sure exactly what he's looking for yet. He can't figure how they got onto such different pages, unless this fog is involved in it somehow. ]
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And then there's how he actually is, which only rarely comes out for Aziraphale to see.
That's what's on display now. The twitchy, rough movements, how he stumbles over words and can't seem to decide what expression should be on his face, rapidly vacillating between them.]
The — the apocalypse! The end times! The fact we lost the blasted Antichrist!
[He's gesticulating a bit wildly, pacing back and forth.]
Did you miss the memo?
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Strange how something can make sense and still not make sense. Because it does add up-- the tension, the irritability, the emotional fraying, the you were gone, I couldn't find you. That's very much on brand with the apocalypse. And if Aziraphale had woken up here in the middle of all that, of course he'd be just as upset. That much puts a lot in order.
It's just that how things wound up was hardly forgettable.
The fog maybe, again, that's all he can think. Full of wandering lost souls, starting to put a dull ache behind his eyes, a turn in his stomach, maybe for Crowley it's... it's done something to muddle his memory. Which might be easier to try to figure out once they get out of the fog, which Aziraphale isn't inclined to up and walk off to do with some broad hope that Crowley will follow and keep up.
If he's not bringing Crowley with him, there's not much point in doing it. He couldn't risk losing him out here any more than he was willing to give up on Earth. ]
No, I didn't 'miss the memo,' Crowley. [ The scrap of familiar offense that he finds burns out instantly. He's got bigger problems, and they're all related to being worried. ] That was days ago.
[ Like two whole days. Even Aziraphale couldn't mess up his timeline on it too badly. ]
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Crowley's anger fades as though he's a puppet who's strings were suddenly cut, the anxious tension draining from him to be replaced by a different sort of fear. It's obvious the wheels are turning, while he tries to figure out why he's missing a few days.
He can't help glancing around him at the fog; it had already disoriented him, has made him feel physically unwell. What's to say it couldn't do this, too?]
I don't remember.
[It sounds like I'm sorry.]
There was a fire, at the bookshop. S'the last thing I can remember.
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The concern is justified and not going anywhere, and as an anxious consideration of possibilities, of wondering if he's lost anything else, not ideal. Days gone, just like that? Important ones?
Between that and the context of what Crowley last remembers, exactly, Aziraphale hits mid-mark between stricken and sympathetic. ]
Well, you can... you can ask me anything about what you've missed. Obviously. I'll just have to catch you up. [ He glances in the direction they were heading, clasping his hands again. Swallows.
If he wants to put time into feeling any particular way about the loss, if it doesn't come back, he's choosing to pack that away for later. There are bigger priorities here. ]
But I think we do need to get inside. So you'd be doing me a favor if you got back over here and we started walking again, really.
[ Ah, the oldest and wiliest maneuver in his arsenal. Literally just asking Crowley to do something because it generally means Crowley will do it. ]
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Does that mean it went well? For them, at least.
He clenches his jaw, huffs a breath out through his nose, but nods and slinks back towards Aziraphale. Metaphorical tail between his legs.]
You better be ready for a bloody long list of questions.
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He starts walking again, in a bit closer proximity than he started at last time. ]
For once, I think I'm fully qualified to take them.
[ Shit got wild, but he was there for most of it, so. ]
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[It isn't sarcasm; despite his overall terrible mood and knowing that Aziraphale can sometimes be a bit... absent, he has faith in him to have a good understanding of a situation. He's cleverer than Crowley by half.
While still dizzy and rattled, he's more confident that Aziraphale is real, now, and doesn't feel the need to retake his hand.
But he sticks close, enough to occasional bump elbows. It's enough to be reassuring, when nothing else here makes sense.]
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