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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
Aziraphale's gotten very good at squirreling those moments away like a secret hoard.
It's not a long or especially eventful walk, occasional ghost aside. Getting onto paved road was most of the battle, given how small a town Mathias is in practice. A careful squint here, an off-turn there, and lo and behold, from the mist materializes...
A very grimy-looking greenhouse. Why not fit sort of a garden into this day? He doesn't know what he expected. ]
It's a start. [ He can only put so much work into trying to sound optimistic when he's also putting work into steady walking at this point. There are times when an out-and-out house would be a little nicer as an option, okay.
The door is unlocked already, pulls open without any resistance. Admittedly very handy.
Aziraphale supposes it doesn't sound very sensible to lock up a greenhouse. In his opinion.
He makes an 'after you' gesture, because it takes more than haunted fog to de-courtesy this individual. ]
no subject
There are far too many thoughts swirling in his head right now for him to attempt small talk, so he's quiet for the walk, sticking close by and hoping Aziraphale doesn't notice when he stumbles once or twice.
He sighs with relief when the greenhouse comes into view, no matter how run down it is.]
Sad state of affairs.
[A mild complaint, all things considered.
Crowley makes his way inside, noting the overgrown benches, the broken pots. As soon as he finds a relatively clear spot, he immediately sinks to the ground, head tipped back against the wall.
He can't remember the last time he was this exhausted.]
no subject
Crowley is sitting down. Also good. Seemed like he needs the rest. Doesn't seem like his corporation's physically injured even though he's clearly not at his best. No one's immediately burst in to try to... he doesn't even know, apprehend them or something.
Look at that, they have good things positively piling up. ]
That's already a bit better. I think.
[ Aziraphale stays standing and paces, for his part. He sticks to Crowley's vicinity, wanting to be sure to keep him in plain sight, but life today in general has him a touch too jittery to take a seat. So much to fruitlessly overthink, so little time. ]
no subject
For a second, all he can do is breathe, before finally working up to asking what he needs to ask.]
What happened, at the bookshop?
[There may be other, more important questions, such as how the whole apocalypse thing went. But this is the most important one to Crowley.]
no subject
Bad luck, mostly. Afraid I made a bit of a mess of things. [ "I made a bit of a mess of things." Story of their whole anti-Armageddon campaign.
Aziraphale takes a moment of his own to try and get events in order. Or the relevant ones. His pacing kicks down a few notches into more of a vague, distracted ambling. ]
For starters, I worked out where the Antichrist was. [ Which is relevant. ] And I thought-- well, I thought, if I've got the information, why not try to go up the ladder about it? Stop that war nonsense officially. Keep it all above-board. Save everyone. So I put in that call to the Almighty that I was talking about, because surely nobody actually wanted...
[ Surely nobody wanted a war to end all wars, or to destroy all of humanity and Earth in the process, because surely they all cared about a world made to be loved, even just as a little bit more than a battleground. He and Crowley were already found out, no undoing that, but it's not like that was Earth's fault or something.
Aziraphale can't make himself finish the statement.
Everything worked out, but it doesn't take much away from how much some parts of the whole affair hurt. What is... a nice way to put it. ]
Well. Let's just say you were right about how that would go over. [ Poorly. Everybody else, as it turned out, wanted rather badly, and the Almighty was out of office. ] That was when I tried to reach you instead, if you remember. And you really ought to work on your phone etiquette, my dear, as an aside.
[ Okay, that last part is not relevant. He's chosen to take the long walk to contextualizing, and it just gets folded in without really thinking about it. Not offended or upset about it after the fact as much as an absentminded verbal note stuck to a fridge with a novelty magnet.
This would have been a great time to have a powerpoint presentation. ]
no subject
Overall -5/10 for the explanation. Raised more questions while insulting him at the same time. Peak Aziraphale.]
Yeah, sorry was a bit busy with the puddle of Ligur goo and Hastur trying to drag me down to Hell.
[Breaking news: he doesn't actually sound all that sorry.]
Can we speed the story up a bit?
no subject
Yes, yes, full steam ahead. [ Forget the powerpoint presentation. He wishes he had wine. ]
Now, Upstairs had left the line open for me to pop up and join in. Which I had no intention of doing if I could help it, obviously. Perfectly happy to leave it there for a bit and take care of things ourselves. Only some human burst in and started trying to exorcise me. Must have overheard something. Absolutely ridiculous. [ He's actually still offended enough about that after the fact that he stops pacing.
The fucking audacity, honestly. ] I wound up stepping into the transportation circle trying to keep him from stepping into the blasted thing. And, well.
[ Vague wiggly-fingered one-handed gesture?? Yes. The physical equivalent of one of Crowley's Wordless Sounds. ]
Upstairs I went. Gets you discorporated, when you haven't made the preparations to do it beforehand. So.. so there was nothing on Earth for you to find when you came looking for me. I couldn't even tell you what got the fire started in the first place. It happened sometime after.
[ Aziraphale doesn't sound like he thinks foul play from above or below factors in. As much as that's worth in the moment.
He's broadly grateful, he thinks, that he didn't see the shop burn. Didn't see it start to catch right before he was taken completely out of reach. After everything settled down later that night, it was hard enough just trying to process the loss hearing about it secondhand.
He can only imagine what it would've been like for Crowley. ]
no subject
Right. [Breathing is an unnecessary affectation but a useful one. He takes a few deep breaths, in and out, trying to center himself, pretending he can't still smell smoke and taste ash on his tongue.] Suppose anything could have started the fire, with all those books.
[Not the most flameproof material, really.]
How'd you get a body again? Can't imagine Heaven would be keen about handing one out.
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[ He needs to figure out some preventative measures for that. Something a little more foolproof than assuming he'd be there to catch it and miracle it away. Add it to the docket. ]
I'm sure they wouldn't have been. Seeing how there were much more important things to be getting on with at the moment, I didn't stay to ask. I just sort of... popped back down to Earth without. Found you, told you where we needed to go. Possessed someone for a little bit so I could meet you there.
[ As one does. ]
I've only got a new body because the Antichrist manifested it. Adam, I mean. His name's Adam. Lives out in Tadfield. Rather nice young man, actually.
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It frustrates Crowley, that he has no memory of what surely should have been an unforgettable few days, from the story that he's been given the spark notes for. The thing that sticks is that they apparently found the Antichrist, maybe even before it was too late, if he gave Aziraphale a new corporation.
The why is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.]
Alright, the Antichrist gave you a body, not exactly what I thought the answer there would be, but I suppose it makes sense. Did he start Armageddon before or after that?
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Aziraphale pulls a face, tips his head to one side. A facial shrug. ]
I'd say before, technically.
[ He pauses. Steps over and levers himself to sit on the ground next to Crowley, with all the graceful ease of someone who hasn't sat on the ground in at least a few centuries, by choice. ]
Of course, considering the world very much didn't end, I'll have more trouble than usual trying to place anything on that timeline.
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Crowley desperately wants to lean into him, or take his hand again, but he tells himself it's better to let Aziraphale decide those sorts of things, and anyway, what comes next is far too distracting.]
It didn't? How the Heaven did we pull that off?
[The question of the century.]
no subject
[ And also a gaggle of children stabbed some Horsemen, but that??? Honestly, Aziraphale is still fucking processing that one. What even was that whole day.
It's possible to sound proud of the two of them for failing so hard that someone else succeeded for them and to sound proud of a kid that he tried to shoot and then only knew for ten minutes or so. It's possible, because Aziraphale is sounding just that. Aziraphale has always been easy. ]
Despite our best incompetent efforts, the real Antichrist turned out to be a delightfully, perfectly imperfect human. [ Which is to say, like most people, capable of quite a lot if given love and half a chance. ] Set the world back to rights overnight.
[ He's trying to embrace those parts, to let himself lean into the real joy left over from them. Because there's an unavoidable ache that comes with relaying everything secondhand to Crowley despite the fact that Crowley was there for it. For all the chaos and terror and relief, the long quiet night after. For Heaven and Hell. All of it.
If the memory's really gone, if Crowley doesn't get it back, it isn't going to be exactly the same. Maybe not unrecognizably different, but still different.
(What else might he lose, he doesn't think. Which is to say that Aziraphale thinks it, very clearly, and then tries extremely hard to repress it for now. Repression is his most utilized life skill.) ]
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The world didn't end.
It's a hard truth to swallow when he'd only recently started to make his peace with the fact it was going to end. Crowley is a stubborn thing, clings to hope even when it's stupid to, the way he's been clinging to the hope that Aziraphale might love him for thousands and thousands of years.
But he'd started to lose hope that they could do anything to stop Armageddon, especially once Aziraphale was gone. In a way, it's sort of funny that Armageddon was apparently stopped without their interference. All that planning, all that stress, all for nothing.
He realises he's been quiet for too long, with his head tipped back against the wall, staring at a crack in the glass ceiling.]
S'good. That the Earth's alright.
[That Aziraphale is alright, apparently. And himself, he has to assume, or Aziraphale would've been shocked to see him.]
Sorry I don't — that I don't remember it. Really not sure how long I've been out there, felt like it's been years.
[He thinks I was looking for you, but isn't brave enough to say it.]
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Blast the apology, Crowley. It's not even your fault. I'm just grateful I wound up here so someone could find you at all.
[ Aziraphale will throw down with an eldritch terror about it all if he must. Can't rule it out. It feels dreadful here.
He goes back to his favorite hand-wringing standby. ]
But I do hope it wasn't that long.
[ That would be a whole second throwdown to schedule with the hypothetical terror. ]