villagememes | test drive

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test drive — autumn

test drive — autumn
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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.

Since not all setting details have been made available yet, you are welcome to invent your own general locations for this test drive. There are no living souls in Mathias Township beyond the player characters. In fact, there are no signs of life at all... We hope you enjoy your visit.

( Recommended listening: ♫ )

— the fog —

It moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. The fog is not a soft blanket enveloping the town, but a heavy weight pressing down, threatening to suffocate the sky is blotted out and you can see no further than your outstretched hand.

Those outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, stumbling toward shelter as you're unable to even see your feet beneath you, let alone any obstacles in your path. Perhaps you call out for help, hoping for another voice to guide you toward shelter or simply another living soul. Or perhaps you were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in. Can you hear those voices crying out? You recognize some, but the others... Are they really there at all, or are you alone here and simply beginning to finally lose your mind?

And perhaps the most important question: Do you answer?

— portents —

You wake up with an ache in your head and a cloudiness to your thoughts, your body sprawled on the ground in a location you don't remember going to. As you sit up, the world spins and start to clutch your head — to realize there's something on your hand. A symbol, a word, a streak of wet paint or ink. You don't recognize it or have any memory of how it got there...

Or how the much larger depiction came to be on the wall or the floor around them. You can see it shining wet in the glow of whatever light source is nearest, but something instinctual urges you not to touch it. If you defy that urge, it burns, a searing pain that radiates from the matching mark on your hand.

Did you do this? Or was it done to you? The person approaching may have answers — or accusations.

— past deeds —

The Town Hall stands at the center of Mathias Township, a modest two-story building that would be welcoming if not for the faded sign, chipped paint, and deafening silence. 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 your attention is a large bulletin board on the main wall, once meant to hold flyers or announcements for the community.

What it holds now is decidedly different. Tacked onto the board is a torn scrap of paper with words scrawled almost illegibly in dark red ink.

why did this happen

Upon close examination, a keen eye will realize that the ink is actually blood, though whether it is human is unknown. And beside that scrap, a symbol has been drawn in dark black marker — it resembles a feather or a branch, but you've never seen anything like it before. It scares you even as you know it is perhaps the most important thing you have ever seen in your life.

On the floor below the bulletin board are more scraps of paper scattered amongst grime and dust, most blank but some with other strange symbols scrawled in a variety of inks, perhaps matching the pens and markers scattered near the baseboard. Some are small enough that they might have once been part of the same page, creating something larger. And to the far side, a pristine stack of crisp white copy paper and an unopened box of ballpoint pens.

What do you do?

code bases by tricklet

Threaded | Flat

Use this space to ask general questions about the TDM. Please direct more broad game questions to the FAQ.

Use this space to ping a mod to weigh in on your thread, such as if your character is searching quite specifically in a location or interacting with something that requires feedback.

I. the fog

[ Rey had been scouting in the nearby forest, slowly circling bigger and bigger loops around the town, looking for signs of any other life or perhaps even easy to prey to hunt to supplement whatever provisions were stored in the abandoned buildings.

Survival and loneliness had a tendency to go hand-in-hand for Rey, so despite the change in setting, she takes a practiced approach here. Finding food was a practical problem with a straight-forward solution. Almost a nice change of pace from what she had been dealing with, even if her inability to have found any animals so far unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

The fog rolls in so quickly that she hadn't any time to prepare. She turns to head back to town, or... was it that way? She's lost her bearings, and can't orient herself, but she thinks she hears something.

She calls out into the thick fog-- ]

Hello?

[ Pressing forward closer to the voice, she stumbles over thick tree roots, and a sharp branch scrapes against her forehead. ]

Ouch--!

[ It stings, and when she reaches up to press her palm over her forehead, she feels sticky drips of blood pooling on her skin. With her slightly bloodied hand she reaches up, snapping the branch as she moves past it as a marker for her path. ]

II. portents

[ Maybe Rey was getting soft, because in addition to her head throbing her neck and back are also killing her as she rolls to her side on the creaky wood floor.

A primitive light flickers as her eyes blearily focus on the wet streaks of paint that decorate this... cabin? She sits up, alert, but feels a sense of dread as she unfurls her own palm and hears the stirring of another person in this space.

She holds her palm open, bearing the mark drawn in wet ink across it. ]

Wait-- Do you also have one?

III. past deeds

[ The town is small enough that it's easy to explore all of the buildings, and of course Rey isn't going to skip the one at the center. Although none of the architecture here is what she's used to, this one is perhaps the most obvious that it was some sort of communal spot.

The board draws her eye immediately, bare except for a cryptic question and another unknown mark. She's unnerved and tempted to remove it, but she can't quite convince herself that everything on this board is important.

So instead, she decides to leave it and add her own message with the nearby paper (stars, she can't believe there's real paper.) in unpracticed handwriting. ]

Went hunting -- no animals in the forest.

[ She leaves it unsigned for now. She'll check back in a few hours to see if there's any response. ]

IV. wildcard

[ Something else? Hit me with a different starter to roll with or shoot me a message colster ]

Edited 2020-09-07 00:54 (UTC)

the fog —

[ To say that moving through the fog was difficult would be putting it extremely lightly. It's maddening is what it is. Daisy had been inside when the impenetrable white had suddenly descended out of nowhere; she'd looked over at a window in time to see the misty blur move in like a wave. Her inability to see beyond the glass had decided her course of action for her — there might be people out there who would be blind in all this and need help. ]

Hello? Anyone out her—

[ Her foot catches on something and sends her stumbling to the ground, hands coming up to protect her in the fall but ending up painfully scraped in the process. Dots of blood are already forming when she lifts them from the concrete and she grimaces at the fiece stinging radiating up her arms. Cool, yeah, this is fine. Totally fine. Not infuriating at all. ]

past deeds —

[ As with all the other buildings she's explored since her unfortunate arrival in this creepy town, Daisy enters the Town Hall with purpose. Her steps are quiet but steady as she focuses first on checking out the rooms on the ground floor, listening for any sign of life within the building. It's unnerving that there's just nothing; even with her powers weakened, she should be able to feel the vibration of someone or something moving within.

Sighing to herself, she chooses an office at random and slips inside, plopping herself in the chair at the desk and immediately beginning to rifle through the drawers. Office supplies, files filled with notes and receipts for catering orders... She shuts the drawer loudly in frustration before moving to the filing cabinet at the wall. One drawer is locked, but the next— Permit requests to hold events at various locations throughout the town. Flipping through the papers, she makes note of a few locations she hasn't happened across yet before stuffing the whole lot back in the drawer. She's about to quake open the lock on the other drawer—

Was that footsteps?

Sprinting out of the room and down the hall, she ends up back in the main entry, seemingly alone but finally noticing the bulletin board with its strange pinned message. And that symbol... She steps closer, her boots disturbing the detritus along the floor, and reaches out to touch one of the edges with her fingertips. ]

What the hell...

wildcard —

Looking for something else? Daisy is all about exploring this weirdness they've been dropped into, so you can run into her just about anywhere.

stomp out this disaster town

[ waking up somewhere very different from where she remembers being previously has been happening to max a lot lately, and she is frankly not a fan of it. her first thought upon waking is that her attempt to escape failed, that she's back behind manticore's walls, but if that were the case she's sure she'd be more restrained than she currently is. as she moves to sit up and her vision adjusts, it becomes evident very, very quickly that this is not only not manticore, this isn't anywhere she's ever been or anything like anywhere she's ever seen.

her head pounds and swims as she pushes herself up, rising unsteadily to her feet, trying to take in her surroundings. it's a second before the mark smeared on her hand is recognized, and then she notices the...substance on the wall.

max wipes it hastily on her cargoes, not wanting whatever it is to be touching her, and moves in to take a closer look at the symbol. it doesn't look like anything she's ever seen before and she can't determine its origins, but she makes a note of it for later. maybe it's a clue as to where she's been brought to.

right now, she wants to get the hell out of wherever this is, but upon hearing footsteps approaching, she freezes, turning and dropping into a fighting stance. she doesn't look like she's in any shape to be taking anyone on, her stance a little unsteady and her face pale and drawn, but there's evident experience and skill based on how she's carrying herself. ]

Who the hell are you?

you're only blinding to keep back what the clouds are hiding

[ stepping outside doesn't provide her with any answers, and what's worse, it's getting harder to see the longer she remains outside. her head's gotten a little clearer since waking, at least, but being down one functioning sense is still extremely disorienting, even if the rest of them are still functioning better than average.

she's just trying to make her way to shelter, any sort of shelter, so she can regain her bearings, but a voice starts to echo in the background and she turns toward it, trying to listen. ]

I can hear you. [ it sounds more confident than she feels, her body tensing and shoulders squaring. ] Whatever you're about to try, get it over with.

wildcard

[ if you've got something else in mind or have any questions, feel free to send me a PM or hit me up on vdova! ]

Edited 2020-09-08 05:09 (UTC)

-The Fog-

Whispered conversations too quiet to fully understand lead him down empty streets. The discord is pierced at irregular intervals by sounds he's absolutely sure are unrelated. A young girl's giggling. A high pitched scream that stabs at his eardrums. Water rushing, but not the waves of the ocean. Concentrating on tracking what he can almost hear means he's failed to recognize what he doesn't hear, the common sounds that filter into the background. Here there is no background. No insects. No animals. No rustling of the trees. No wind assailing him.

The fog engulfs him from behind, a prickly sensation that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand immediately on end. He pivots, startled by the suddenness of it, and is greeted by white. An unending sea of clouds that reaches around and through him, having no respect for boundaries or the physicality of matter. What should be wonderous is instead a cage without bars. He squints and turns, disoriented, trying to find his path. Any path.

"DADDYYYYYYYY!"

His daughter's frightened cry is neither ahead nor behind, everywhere present all at once. His eyes fly wide but his feet take him nowhere. Which direction does he travel?

"Joanna!" he calls back. Only to receive no answer.

I.Portents

The fog had arrived so suddenly, and from the very start he knew it wasn't natural. There were sounds in it, whispers here and there, and those were unnatural, too. In times past, he would have been fearful.

In times past he had not faced the forces of the undead. But then there are the voices, whispering. He draws himself up, huffing slowly. He reaches into a pocket, pulling out a crucifix. His faith is strong, and he is certain - belief as strong as granite - that it will see him through.

"Whatever you are, whoever you are - make yourself known!"

III.Past Deeds

He stared down that the papers, stroking his chin, biting the corner of his lip in thought. It had to mean something. He crouched down, beginning to arrange pieces of paper, gently cleaning them as best he could with gloved hands.

"What secret do you hold..." he said, to himself. He lifted a hand to scratch his forehead, then moved for a pen and some blank paper. Perhaps he could complete the picture...

THE FOG

Ellie is rifling through an abandoned house, looking for anything useful, when the fog hits. She's been through so many types of weather. It gets foggy in the Wyoming mountains, so she's used to that, but this fog is thick. It blocks some of the light coming in through the dusty windows, limiting visibility.

"Damnit," she says to herself, out loud without realising it. She goes back to the kitchen where she left a candle earlier. There aren't many matches so she knows she'll have to be careful, but she's used to making due with barely any resources. Jackson was much different than wandering around in the wild, sure, and they had tons of resources. This abandoned place seems more like countless other abandoned towns across the country that she's seen back home. Only here, there are (so far) no sign of infected.

She takes the unlit candle back to the living room. It's then that she hears a voice calling out. It's not just one, though. It sounds like several. More than several? It bothers her, makes her feel trapped, cornered.

But one voice stands out above the rest. Maybe she's imagining it. She's not sure. But as wary as she can be of other people, she doesn't want to leave someone out there, defenseless against whatever may be there.

So she opens the window, lights the candle with surprisingly steady hands, and calls out into the thick blanket of fog.

"Hey! Can you hear me? Can you see this light? Come this way. You can get inside here!"

She thinks, Please, let there actually be someone there. Let them hear me.

PAST DEEDS

Ellie finds herself standing at the bulletin board, a look of disgust on her face as she reads the only paper there.

"Your guess is as good as mine," she says in answer to the note. She's pretty sure that's blood; she's definitely seen enough of it before. She's seen it smeared on paper, too, both in old towns and because she got careless with her journal and bled on it once or twice. Where she comes from, it's easy to get cut up or bloody, so it's inevitable.

But who wrote this? Where did they go? She can't even begin to guess, since there's no trace of anyone else other than folks who apparently just woke up here. She's not entirely convinced this is real, but the best she can do is keep moving forward, like always.

She's about to turn to go when she notices the symbol. Something else is there, and for some reason, that's a lot scarier than the bloody note.

"What the fuck."

She leans closer to get a better look. She feels compelled to draw it, to keep it close. Something about that symbol just feels like it means something. That's completely goddamn crazy, but so is this whole situation.

Her gaze drops long enough to notice the other papers, other symbols. She pulls her journal out of her mostly-empty backpack, flips it open, and draws her best approximation of that feather-like symbol. You can find her doing this.

Or find her crouched on the ground, going through the other symbols. She doesn't take any of the blank papers or pens (she may not even have noticed them yet), instead choosing to draw replications of the symbols she finds on the ground in her journal. Whatever these are, she wants to write them down before they get blown away or rained on or whatever.

[ feel free to wildcard at me if you like as well! PM me if you want to hash something out. also I'm happy to avoid TLOU2 spoilers, just lmk. ]

Blue eyes flashed open with a gasp. She scrambled up as far as a seated position before the pain struck her head and she clutched at it, groaning. She shook it, trying to clear it, blinking rapidly as her vision swam back into focus.

She pushed herself up against a nearby wall, getting to her feet, one arm braced in front of her. It was then that she noticed the sign. A gasp escaped her, for she knew full well what magic and witchcraft looked like. But the power of the Nightsisters wouldn't have surprised her - but finding a sort so alien did.

She tried to brush it off, an angry sound escaping from her lips. And then she noticed the larger version on the wall opposite - case in a sickly glow by the sole, flickering candlelight dangling from the ceiling. She knew well enough not to touch it. Not to connect things of power.

She looked around, furtively, as if hunted - there was a presence, but the place, whatever it was, was disorienting. Alone, vulnerable, and afraid - she responded with gritted teeth and some of her unrelenting hostility.

"Who's there?!" She called out, hands moving towards her twin lightsabers.

i → portents

[ it's fair, peter thinks, to say that this is weird. like, objectively speaking, because he knows weird, capital-W. he and it are intimately acquainted, but the question is: where does this sit on the list of 'top five strange and unusual situations peter parker has found himself in'? he's tempted to say it's just shy of top five, because there's a veritable list of Weird^TM that peter's lived (quote-unquote) through and would really rather not experience again.

(this is not the turn he'd really planned on his life taking. the plan had been to get his act together.)

there's a fogginess to his thoughts that he can't quite shake, and his body aches like he's — well, mostly like he's just been fighting for his life, which he has, but it's accompanied by a deeper ache that's a little bit more unsettling and he settles with telling himself that he's just coming down with the flu.

(it's been a tough couple of weeks—) but he's alive and that's something. he has his webshooters, so that's a second something and it could always be worse (is what he's telling himself), which is basically a third something. there's only the minor questions of where he is and how he got here, with a side of who did this (question mark) left to answer.

(the latter is his favourite question.)

if he's honest, despite that, there had been a few names, more suggestions than definitives, that had bounced around his thoughts when he'd first-first arrived — mysterio, arcade, even hypno-hustler, but to this point, there's been no evidence that it's anyone he can point a finger at, possibly punch, get a little bit sticky with, and go you! I knew it—!' and honestly, honestly that'd be more preferable to this entire—

everything.

but then there's that familiar tingling, a twist of his head, and— ]

—gh! [ is what he manages, eloquently, when he does exactly the opposite of what he thought he should do and touches the strange mark on his hand.

(yeah, excellent idea, parker. real good. it's almost like you've got a precognitive sense of danger that you like to routinely ignore because finding out what lays in the direction of the giant neon sign of pain yelling 'BAD (we're family friendly here) IDEA'—

yeah, no, shut up. stop thinking.)

at least he's not alone, right? ("at least.") ]

I feel like this is the part where I should be calling you Toto and pointing out the obvious about Kansas, but I think it's overplayed. [ beat. ] But I have seen enough slasher films to know that we're probably going to find a shady looking, shady acting gas station mechanic who's terrifying but only wants to help. No judging, y'know? [ second beat, slightly lingering. (god, his head—) ]

—You okay?

ii → past deeds

[ it's written in the sort of handwriting that says "at one point, I had to write a reasonable amount for a living, but legibility wasn't really something that was of Great Importance But I Do Try—

—which is to say, it's not handwritten doctor's prescription bad, just high school teacher level of questionable legibility. ]

Skipping past the 'why' because that's a can of worms I really don't want to open right now--

(Anyone else hoping the guy who wrote that ⇡ just had a nasty papercut and no bandaids? The creepy Blair Witch scribble is all but screaming 'first year art student'.)

But they've got one thing right: the important questions first.

So I'll go first: how sure are we that this isn't Jersey?

[ peter lingers in the town hall for a time after writing the note, sifting and rooting through the various scribbles littering the ground and the surfaces. there's not a lot that jumps out at him as IMPORTANT! KEEP ME! but there is a lot that jumps out at him as Really Creepy Not Good.

he circles around the building once, exploring the various offices and taking vague notes of the names on the doors — none are names that he recognises, names of people he knows, which again begs the questions of: where, how, and why, and eventually, he returns to the bulletin board to see if there's been any additions to or beneath his note. ]

iii → wildcard

( come at me, fam, i'm easy. if you want to hash an idea out, feel free to send me a pm or hmu at

ruffians! )

[The Fog]

If Raylan was the kind of drunk to blackout, he might blame that for wherever the hell he'd found himself, but no matter how close he got with Jim Beam, he never got quite that far. Still, he had no idea where he was or how he got here. Next to the sea; he could smell that much but that didn't help. Somewhere north. A quick check on his hip told him he didn't have his gun, but a pat down resulted in his badge, wallet, and his flip phone.

And his hat, of course.

He had barely gotten his phone out and open before the fog started ~~sprinting~~ rolling in and Raylan took a quick mental snapshot of the town he was standing in, arbitrarily heading for one of the buildings that was closest. If later asked, he wouldn't quite be able to say why, but the fog had unsettled some internal gauge and he felt compelled to move away from it, however futile that it might end up being.

Then the voices started. "You runnin' boy?!"

Raylan frowned as he kept moving, slowing down only a fraction as he was envoloped far more quickly than he thought possible, turning his hand this way and that in quiet amazement at the thickness before his senses turned back to the fog.

"Gotta get ahead of him!", a panicked voice sounded.

Despite his better judgement, Raylan called out. "Hello?" He didn't expect an answer; he hadn't seen anyone else on the streets.

Past Deeds

This is right out of a Stephen King novel, Raylan thought to himself as he ambled up to the town hall, thinking it looked more like a haunted courthouse that was repourposed before the entire place was apparently abandoned. He still hadn't figured out why, so in he went with one more eagle eyed look around him, hoping there'd maybe be a clue or records.

The reception desk was a good place to start before he headed towards any lower levels, hoping to find a Records room, but the large bulletin board caught his eye first. The man in the hat stood there, staring at the bloodily scrawled words and the symbol next to it with no naivete about what 'type' of ink was used in the former before squatting down to start picking his way through some random pieces to see if any of them were also written in blood.

"What the hell is this place," he asked no one in particular, soft southern accent carrying in the empty building. "Indiana Jones meets Jonestown with more messed up koolaid?"

the fog: It's comforting in a way he'd never be able to describe, the way the fog rolls over him, presses down on him, sinks into him like the claws of an old lover. How it darkens everything, blackens everything-

It's so much better than where he'd been, so much darker and bleaker and dangerous than Sandherst had been with it's crisp air and wide, open streets and that water, that clear water that wasn't blackened with the sin of ages...

He feels like something might be out here that wants to kill him, or that maybe the world wants to kill him, this place wants to kill him, and it has him almost dancing as he trots along his way, along the street, breathing it all in for that familiar, comforting weight and burn and vice-grip around his lungs.

He hears the voices and he laughs, hoping he bumbles into one of them. Or more! That would be fun. The very idea makes his leather gloves creak in their pockets. After all, even if something in the fog stalks him, hates him, kills him, that's just how it goes. That's just one monster eating another, smaller monster.

He'd just make sure to make it bleed before he goes.

So if anyone happens to bump into him, feel free to be alarmed at the tall handsome man dressed in black with his pale pale face an his bright smile and his dark eyes and the utter comfort of being in a familiar (if dysfunctional) sort of hell.
portents: "Well, then. What good's sorcery if I don't even remember what I did with it?"

And that's really his main complaint. He sees the symbols, though he doesn't know what they are, what they mean. He'd learned all he knew from feel and touch and experimenting. Being what he is helps with experimenting, after all. So it's mostly an indignant expression as he looks at his hand, at the wall, feels around in his veins and his flesh and his bones for what in the hell he'd done.

"...bugger this. I didn't even leave me a note. Fucking inconsiderate."
past scenes: There's a snort as he reads the blood-written note. But he's not going to comment it (mostly because he thinks it's a fucking stupid thing to ask) before he starts gathering up some of the notes. He's sure as fuck not going to be able to figure out anything from all of it and he doesn't even really want to, but he's sure someone will and he'd rather have it all gathered before he gets asked to and some of it's been lost to the wind or a puddle or something. Just saving himself the trouble. So he can offer it to the first person who gets here with a flick of his wrist and a-

"You want any of this?"

— the fog —
[He's not sure how he got here, but he doesn't intend to stay. Searching for a road out of here he wandered, coming to the tree line of the forest. At first he was about to crash on through it, careless and head strong, but then the fog started to roll in...]

[It wasn't normal fog. This didn't smell right, and every smell he had before hand was drowned in the thickness of the fog. It swirled around his ankles and up his legs, threatening to engulf him.]

[As he backed up and away, turning to go back towards a building he passed, he enveloped him, throwing him into a white cloudiness that was impossible to see through.]

[He growled, continuing towards where he thought the building had been, unable to see it in this fog. He kept his ears open for any signs of life or beings out in this too, but for the most part, he walked until... smack. His fist hit a brick building.]

There we go...

— past deeds —
[There are buildings here, some he's passed, some he's gone through, but this building seems more important. It's something he want's to check out and look into.]

[Boots heavy on the hard wood floors, they creak as he walks, leaving boot tracks in the dust. It seemed as if someone else had been here as well, by the foot prints. Good. That meant there were others here.]

[He wandered the offices a bit, riffling through things to find hints to... to... what ever was going on, but in the end he found himself faced with the bulletin board.]

[He wanted to remove that paper. The one with the symbol, because to him it felt... he felt something about it. But he wasn't sure he had ever seen it before. And the words. Why did this happen? He could tell it was blood, though not what kind.]

Why did this happen? [he repeated out loud, frowning at it and taking a step back. He'd leave it for now. It felt... important to leave it.]

I. THE FOG.

[ John wishes he could say any of this is weird to him. It's not. Unusual and unexpected, sure, but not weird. He comes to a stop once he realizes the fog isn't lifting. His eyebrows, cigarette in his mouth and yet still halfway in the pack.

Voices... nice touch.

He looks over his shoulder, fully pulling the cigarette from the pack. A moment later and its lit as he gazes around his surroundings. What would of been surroundings, then the fog covered it all. Bollocks. ]

There's easier ways to get my attention, [ he's testing it out. Never know if its a demon, angel, or some other supernatural twit he's pissed off. ] although I do appreciate a bit of theatrics.

III. PAST DEEDS.

[ There's been plenty of symbols and other manner of derangement John Constantine has seen in his life. Messages scrawled in blood isn't terribly frightening. An occult symbol he hasn't seen? Now, that's a bit unsettling. More unsettling than it should be. His mind is wrapping around anything he could relate to it. Where was a convenient doorway to Jasper's bloody millhouse when he needed one?

A puff of smoke leaves his lips as he looks at the papers littering the floor. His head tilts, eyes following them one by one. He's half tempted to grab them all and start trying to pin them together like some bizarre map. It... really wouldn't be the first time he'd done anything like that. ]

— the fog

[ the bar she’s found is small, homey, or would be if there were any patrons milling around. she’d knocked, waited a moment, before pushing the door open and taking in a number of small round tables and the length of a shined bartop. there’s still glasses on it, which is… in all honesty, kind of unsettling. whoever had left this place, they hadn’t made sure to put things in order before they did. she moves to pick up a crystal tumbler, much nicer than anything she’d find at home, and starts to move to put it away when she catches a glimpse of what’s happening outside through an old open-shuttered window.

there’s a fast moving wave of it, dense fog that seems to consume the terrain as it moves forward, and there’s also a figure ( she can’t tell more than that, from her vantage point ) waiting to be swallowed. she forgets the tumbler, puts it back down to rush towards the door and pull it open. in the seconds the action took the fog has advanced enough that she can’t see the person at all.

she cups a hand around her mouth to amplify her voice. ]

Hey, over here! C’mon!

— past deeds

— one

[ every building she steps into has the same feeling, absent and dreary, and the chipped paint and faded signs in this one make her think it’s been this way for some time. she doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for, no real plan in place, as she walks down a hallway on the second floor of the town hall. maybe some sign that people have been here recently, people that have the answers to why she’s here. but that hope has been dwindling since she’s stuck her head in a multiple houses only to be greeted with silence, and it continues to do so now as she passes each closed office door with no sound coming from inside.

she stops at one at the end of the hall, turns to face it, and reaches up to trace the letters of the plaque hung on it, K-E-N-N are easily made out but after that the painted letters start to fade into illegibility. she moves her hand to the space where the next letter should be and feels for a slightly raised surface that will indicate the next letter’s shape. she takes a moment to figure that one out, and the next two—

then she smiles ( got it! ) before turning to her companion. ]

What do you think? Will Kenneth mind if we take a look?

— two

[ the space behind the reception desk hadn’t been occupied, only by an empty chair, so she hadn’t hesitated in taking it herself. she hadn’t hesitated either in opening drawers, starting from the bottom up, looking for clues. but for the moment only finding standard office wear that looks a little bit out of shape, much like the rest of the building.

she stops at the sound of approaching footsteps, and stands quickly, popping up from behind the desk. ]

Hello, how can I help you?

[ it’s said brightly, with the cheer one would expect of a front desk worker. ]

— wildcard

[ literally hit me with anything and i will roll with it! ]

THE FOG

[ Phil's seen a thing or two in his time; he's weathered worse storms than this, but when the fog rolls in and takes the visibility with it, he's finding himself more or less blind. Sure, his senses are still sharp, and he knows better than to allow himself to get disoriented when his outstretched hands reach nothing, but there's also no arguing with the way all humans are made and designed.

With no way to differentiate any landmarks or solid structures in the fog, it's all too easy for his senses to start swimming. It's a good thing that any SHIELD agent worth his salt knows a thing or two about staying focused even when outside stimuli makes doing so easier said than done. The only problem is, unless he walks headlong into a wall or door or something solid, there's nothing really to focus on.

That is, until he turns a corner (as best as he can tell, anyway), and he stops in his tracks, because that sure does sound like someone talking. In this fog, it's impossible to tell for sure, and who knows if the person or persons there is a friend or foe. ]

Hello, is someone there?

[ If there's no immediate response, he just continues on his slow, somewhat ungainly way. Sooner or later, his path has to take him to something other than this endless blanketing fog, right? With that in mind, he keeps going, but suddenly, he feels his foot catch on something, and taken by surprise, he winds up stumbling forward, carried by momentum, and he lands in a very unflattering position on the ground. Of course, with the fog, no one can see that, but he can certainly feel it.

Maybe it's coincidental, but as he's trying to pull himself together from his spot on the ground, the voices start talking again, increasing in volume. Maybe this time, he's really lost his marbles. He knows he's been through enough crazy things for that to be a possibility.

Strangely, though, he chuckles to himself, even if nothing about this is remotely funny. ]

Don't they say the way to confirm that you're slipping is if you say something and the voices answer back?

[ For what it's worth, he really hopes his question is met by nothing but silence. ]

PORTENTS

[ Well, the fog was bad enough, and Coulson's thinking he really could do without waking up and finding himself sprawled on the ground. Did someone do him in? Is this an evil plot orchestrated by some enemy of SHIELD? He certainly knows they have enough of those.

If this is some plot meant to bring SHIELD down, or if it's his team that's being targeted, he's not going to get anywhere by lying around on the floor. So, with that thought in mind, he pushes himself up into a standing position and immediately regrets it. His head swims, his vision blurs, and he staggers awkwardly to the right, barely managing to catch himself.

While he's holding his head, as if that'll make the spinning stop, he catches sight of something on his hand. As he's moving his hand to get a better look, he spots something else on the wall, something bigger than a weird scrawl on the back of his hand.

Whatever it is, it's glowing and it looks like it's made from very fresh paint. Or, well, some kind of freshly applied substance. Not even really realizing that he's moving at all, he reaches out with his marked hand to brush a finger against the design. The effect is immediate, and Phil jerks away from the wall with an audible hiss. ]

The significance of the phrase "keep your hands to yourself" was never completely clear to me until just now.

[ Yes, he's frowning, obviously annoyed with himself for falling prey to that foible of humanity: curiosity. ]

PAST DEEDS

[ Coulson wouldn't be a very good agent if he didn't thoroughly examine the town hall. Who knows what might be found here, after all? But before he can get too far in his exploration, his attention is caught by the large bulletin board that contains one solitary scrap of paper.

Yes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. He runs his hands along the board, avoiding the words written on the paper (because hey, it looks a lot like they were written in blood!), noting the symbol that's drawn onto said board as well.

Taking a step forward, he feels something slip beneath his shoes, and he looks down to see what appears to be an innocuous black pen that someone might have discarded. Looking around reveals that there's more than one pen on the floor, and what's more, there's bits of paper strewn around as well. ]

Why did this happen, indeed?

[ He straightens up to look at the bulletin board again. ]

Curiouser and curiouser.

Edited 2020-09-20 07:02 (UTC)

i. the fog

[ all of this is one huge problem. from the limitations of his teleportation to the creepy as all shit ambiance.

first thing was, he knew he wasn't getting anywhere without some sustained energy. which is why he is indoors, rummaging through cupboards for anything he can use, and tries to ignore how alone this place is, blanketed by the impenetrable fog outside.

he'd found a jar of instant coffee right as he hears the voices. the jar is in his hand, and five makes to grab the closest semblance of a weapon.

a few stick out as too familiar, and he's darting out of the room to the the front door, a blink of his powers as he swings it open. ] Klaus? Vanya?

[ the fog is thick as milk, but he thinks he catches movement. whoever emerges from the fog will see what looks to be a boy in a school uniform, clutching a jar of instant coffee in one hand, and a mostly-dull kitchen knife in the other, and looking about as pissed off as they come. ]

ii. portents

[ the headache is nauseating, but five hargreeves doesn't know how to stay down. he's hinging himself up and to his feet as fast as he can (which isn't, at all), before finding the strange symbol on his hand. ] What the hell?

[ the same symbol is mirrored back at him on the wall across. something in the back of his mind is screaming not to touch it. he steers clear, and instead tries to categorize where he is. or when. footsteps scratch the floor behind him, and he turns fast, small frame falling into a slightly defensive stance. the grogginess is unwelcome, and keeps him a bit too unsteady on his feet for comfort. ] Who's there? [ really? he chose to start with that cliche?]

(ooc; if you would like to avoid s2 spoilers, or would like to plot, dm me or hit me up here!! open for anything! )

▶ THE FOG.

[ She doesn't think the fog is anything special, at first. It's just a part of nature and seems to fit the town she's in; it feels more real and less like a dream when the weather changes. Jill still can't say how she feels about it, if it's a dream or reality. In the distance, she's sure she hears a familiar voice, coaxing her from her midday exploration walk to carry onward.

She can hear the hum of fluorescent lights sting and she can nearly taste copper and sea water in her mouth; his voice has a lilt of amusement. Her stomach pulls tight and it makes her feel nauseous, despite her freedom to do as she'd like now.

Thicker, it permeates. It's so heavy that she struggles to see where she's at. Without better knowledge of her surroundings and a mental map having been built up, it becomes the sort of thing someone else may panic over. She manages a cool head, moving slow and purposeful, aiming for one direction and whatever building she may cross first.

It's not so terrible that her instincts aren't overpowered and before seeking her own safety, she makes a point to seek out others that may be in need. ]

Is anyone out there? If you're looking for a way out, follow my voice and we can find it together. Or, I'll come to you. [ It's commanding, like she knows the answer to all that's going on already. ] We'll get through this together.

[ It can't be too bad, she figures. You get going or you get caught up in the problem. You have to push forward and that's that. ]

▶ PAST DEEDS.

[ There's enough natural light left, she figures it's still not time to return to the empty home she's claimed for herself. The town hall is easy to spot when not cloaked by fog, but she didn't expect it to hold any more answers than anywhere else might. A good place for anyone else skulking around like she is to gather. Everyone could find one another without having to run around, but that would mean finding all of them first...

Who knows? There may only be a handful of people in this place, at best.

Though the forest is a point of interest, she intends to head there last. In her experience, the worst is always hidden in plain view. Sometimes quite literally under her feet (something she'll never stop thinking of, even now, years later). Her thoughts remain focused, however, and don't wander far down the lane of nostalgia. Rather, she approaches the building cautiously and moves with purpose when entering.

It seems to be undisturbed for some time, abandoned long enough that dust has gathered in layers. Her first move is to check doors and make sure there's no one behind them, that the area is clear and hopefully safe. Once satisfied on a surface level, she heads to the reception area and swerves around it, rifling through any remaining documents, looking for a hint of anything.

She's almost casual in how she does it and starts talking. ]

Is anyone else here? I don't mean any harm, so let's keep it civil.

[ Probably worth asking when she first arrived, but she figured she'd rather check it out on her own in case she needed to get the jump on who or whatever might be behind the other doors. If there's anyone else her already, they've probably heard her by now. If not -- for now -- she remains scanning tidbits of faded notes until she spots the board nearby. It piques her interest enough to drop digging where she is for the moment and to seek out whatever else may be left there.

The blood is obvious to her. It's a familiar sight. The color is specific, not like an ink. Dried, darker, suggesting it's been there at least past a day. Perhaps before people abandoned the town but without any indication of a timeline it could be years or a week. Even days would darken it like this from a fresher red to rust.

Would be nice to have a lab to send it to, but a lot of things would be nice right about now.

Jill crouches and picks up individual stray pieces of paper. This feels familiar despite being entirely different from things she's dealt with previously. She knows exactly what this probably is and that the answer won't be easy to come by. Her nose twitches and she exhales a huffy little sigh. Her voice is low, irked, and as if she's simply tired. ]

Goddamn puzzles.

▶ OOC.

[ She's from Desperate Escape and will be blonde and look like this + this! Please feel free to link me to your TDM if you'd rather I reply to yours or drop me a starter! Otherwise, open to other things!

If you need to contact me, comment to me OOCly here, PM me, and/or ask for my Discord! c: ]

I. Fog

Walking down the street like a normal person, someone who has somewhere to be and something do, it does take a few minutes before Quentin notices the thick fog rolling in.

It's slow noticing at first, just the forest looking smaller. Nearer. Until it's not just the trees that are getting washed away in the dense fog, but it's the first houses too. And it's strange, how it makes the sounds dimmer too. The soft shuffle of his shoes on the pavement, the crunch of pebbles and leaves-- all of that sounds as if it's happening to someone else.

Except it isn't and the fog just keeps rolling up the street, eating up everything in sight and Quentin turns, fast, feet tangling as he struggles to get his hands out of his coat pockets.

"Fuck! Jesus what-"

II. Portents

"What-?"

Still dizzy, and with his legs screaming pins and needles at him, Quentin sits up and rubs his head. The place looks... nothing like Whitespire. It doesn't even look like the Physical Kids cottage and it certainly doesn't look like his dad's house.

"Just-- wait..." still mumbling to himself under his breath, he starts to rummage around his pockets, pulling out a worn notebook and a slightly larger book with the words The Tale of the Seven Keys written on the front. "At least it wasn't a complete waste.." except for the rune-- or was it? written on the back of his hand like the worlds tackiest tattoo and the same symbol smeared on the wall right next to his face.

This has 'do not touch' written all over it, and it's generally a good idea to not to poke magic you don't know or understand or you might find yourself waking up in weird places or that you've lost the color purple.

So, Quentin grabs his pen and starts drawing the symbol in one of the last pages of the notebook, trying to get the curls and the abruptly ending strokes just perfect, ignoring the all too human urge to poke that which should not be poked.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐆

[ there is something... off about the fog. there was something wrong about it and dread was starting to pool in the pit of her stomach. because it wasn't just the fog that felt off, she felt off. she felt off-balance. she was normally able to feel connected to everything because of her visions. but now there was nothing. and it was like the floor had been yanked from under her and for some reason made her head pound in the same way her abilities normally did. and then there came the voices.

so many voices. some she knows. some she hasn't heard in years and as she hears them that dread becomes worse. she feels sick. he can't be here. he can't. ]

Hello?

𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

[ her head pounds, that's the first thing she's aware of. somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she's lying on the cold hard ground with no idea of how she got there. zed is used to headaches and they had only seemed to get worse once she had found out about her brain tumour. but she pushed through them because all magic had a price. and if that was the price of her powers than she would take it.

she tries to open her eyes, to push herself up but that makes her head hurt even more. the pounding makes her dizzy and she loses balance and falls back onto the floor. she winces and takes a deep breath, pushes through the pain and finally manages to sit.

it's then she notices something on her hand. something that wasn't there before. her brow furrows as she tilts her hand and tries to make out what it is.

her eyes roll back into her head as she falls back to the ground again as her entire body convulses with a seizure. ]

the fog
As the fog enfolds the shoreline in a lover’s arms, a small figure can be seen on the boundary of rock and water, a dark outline against the white like a tintype of a little lord fontleroy. Standing ankle-deep in the soft-lapping waves, the small figure is out of time and out of place with a feathered tricorn hat upon his head and furred cape around his shoulders. His silken breeches stop at the knee, with white stockings below, and he glitters with gold and embroidery.

When someone approaches along the shoreline, Florian lifts his gaze from the water to assess. He’s pretty and petit enough that he looks like some sort of life-size porcelain doll, and the contemplative cant of his head is almost more saurian than human. “Is that what passes for apparel in this place?” he asks, tone lazily edged.

portents
No survival instinct will warn Florian off of touching the sigil. He’s long since learned that such petty animal urges are things to overcome, obstacles for a dedicated scientist. Though he sets his jaw and holds out a moment against that searing pain, he learns nothing.

At the sound of footsteps, he clutches his fist tight, hiding the sigil, and rearranges his features into lost helplessness. It’s an easy performance because he feels it deeply. A lost, scared young man in an unknown place without his familiar defenses. He tells himself that the fear is the performance, but he has always lied first and most to himself. “What is this? Where are we?”

past deeds
The mystery in the Town Hall comes as a relief. Finally, a puzzle he can fling himself into, something in this place he can order into place. If he has mastery over one puzzle, he can learn to master the rest.

Copying that one particular emblem in black marker upon the meat at the base of his thumb, Florian sets to work gathering pages and arranging them in neat rows. He need not fear anything he can understand, anything he can learn to control.

At the sound of the door, Florian straightens up with a sullen frown, standing between his work and the newcomer as though he thinks they’ve come to plagiarize his work. “What do you want?”

i. the fog;
[ He probably shouldn't. The rolling mist is seeping everywhere, thick and cold, causing Quentin's bones to feel light and heavy at the same time. It's just fog, he tells himself. It's just fog. The coldness is science, tiny ice crystals suspended in the air. Or maybe it's just a residual feeling he can't shake from the mirror world.

Still. He really, really shouldn't.

He's not sure how he got here. He's not even sure where 'here' is, other than some sort of ramshackle shack. All he can feel is cold, and when he hears a voice calling out in the darkness, it's unfamiliar. So he shouldn't open the door.

Except Quentin does. He risks it, despite his whole being saying it's a bad idea: cracking open the small little shack's door, he answers back, voice louder and far more confident than he feels: ]

In here!

ii. town hall;
[ Quentin snatches the paper from the wall, maybe a little too hastily, because every single thing about it screams 'important clue.' It's less to do with the fact it could be an answer and more because he's desperately grasping at straws. He has no idea why he's here, he has no idea the outcome of his actions back home (just the phrase "back home," isn't that a delightful clusterfuck of phrase for one hell of a situation?) but he can focus on this.

It's better to go insane trying to figure out a small puzzle than to lose your mind with the big picture. At least for now.

It's a matter of minutes before he's got a pen out, another pen tucked behind his ear. He's on the floor like a madman, on his knees as he carefully tries to rearrange the multitude of scribbles on the floor. ]

It's just--it's gotta be something, it's got to mean something...

[ It's easy to mistake him for someone who's lost his mind. It's the Mosiac all over again. ]

iii. wildcard;
[ Have an idea that's not on here? Want to plot or come up with a starter? Hit me up at

whitespire! ]

➼ i. THE FOG

[ Eliot is no stranger to weird, spooky shit happening. This is definitely the weirdest and the spookiest, but it's given him enough sensibility to know that when you see thick fog rolling into a mystery town, you get inside. So that's what he does - or, that's what he tries to do. But the fog is quick and overtakes him before he realizes it, and Eliot stands in the middle of it.

He decides to keep moving. He knows the general way of where he's supposed to go, and he tries to cast something to help guide him but his magic seems to be tapped out. Even the fog itself seems to be draining, and Eliot's not sure if he's actually moving slower through it or if he's imagining it.

He's not sure if he's imagining the voices, either.

(It's not the first time hearing phantom voices has gotten him into trouble. He calls out anyway, reaching a hand out, hoping to feel the warmth of another hand and not something terrible.) ]

I'm here -

➼ ii. PAST DEEDS

[ Eliot peers at the notice tacked up on the board. He's not about to touch it - he's very aware it's blood and he has no idea how it got there. Blood magic is deep shit and he doesn't want to get swept up in something unexpectedly. But his brows furrow while he reads it over a couple of times.

His gaze wanders, to the torn papers littering the ground and then the paper and pens just waiting to be used. ]

No, thank you. [ He says it to no one in particular, but if you happen to be in the vicinity, he'll end up looking your way before he goes on. ] This has "haunted diary" shit written all over it.

➼ iii. WILD CARD

Choose your own adventure! Feel free to start something not listed here, or PM me if you want to plot something.

Portents

Malcolm's eyes fluttered open and he startled almost immediately. The last time he woke up on cold, unfamiliar ground, he was in chains. Lifting his hand quickly to check whether he was back in that basement, he realized he wasn't... he would have almost breathed a sigh of relief if he hadn't noticed the symbol on his hand. Was... was that blood? No. The odour was pungent. Chemical. It was paint. ....It was too pungent for the smear of paint on his hand. He pushed himself unsteadily to sit up, casting his gaze around.

Oh.

There was paint everywhere, but it wasn't a spill. The symbol on his hand was also painted on the floor, taking up most of the room. He frowned. He didn't know the room, for all its eerie resemblance to the murder dungeon his father had hidden under the house. He glanced around more urgently. Where was he?

He stilled suddenly. Footsteps. They were approaching. He crept to the corner of the room - careful not to touch the weird still-wet paint - where its state of dilapidation allowed him to pull a piece of a wood panel from the wall. He clutched it tightly, watching warily to see who would open the door.

Past Deeds

If anyone would have answers about the town, it should be the authorities, right?

Malcolm was less sanguine about that as he approached the building itself; it was clearly in a state of disuse. He frowned faintly and climbed the steps, trying the door. It opened easily. He stepped inside and looked around.

"Hello?" he called experimentally as he moved further in. The bulletin board caught his attention. As he examined it, he realized some of the smaller pieces looked like they might fit together. He cast around until he noticed a folding table just down the corridor. He dragged it to where the bulletin board was and picked up all the small pieces, laying them out on the table, working to try to fit them together.

He couldn't help trying to solve a puzzle.

THE FOG

( geralt is no stranger to waking up with hardly a memory of ever getting there at all. a surprising number of monsters came with a hell of a variety of hallucinogens and poisons and someone he’s survived each one.

except he’s fairly certain he’s not endured another attack. he aches, yes, head-sore and frame heavy as he stands and watches a fog roll around him, but there's no signs of battle anywhere.

the other thing he notices, too quickly even amidst the terrible disorientation, is the lack of his weapons. no sword, no dagger, the lightness of his shoulders dizzying in a terrible way. his hand goes to his medallion, and at the very least, the cold metal is a comfort geralt thought himself above needing (witchers have no use for sentiment).

his eyes adjust fast, of course they do, mutations to be wasted otherwise, a piercing and unsettling yellow in the thick mist.

gone is the cells beneath cintra’s castle walls, gone is the approaching army. he is free of his bonds, removed from the epicenter of so-called destiny.

this freedom, however, is not his doing.

instead he stands amidst the fog, fists curled and shoulders squared. he takes a breath, the air cold and crisp and the smell foreign - seasalt and petrichor and dust. ) Hmm.

Fuck. ( who the fuck flung him this far and where the fuck was he. a sorceress? yennefer? or mousesack, in some far flung attempt or order from calanthe? didn't seem he had destiny to deal with. )

-- Hello? ( and with less surety: ) Yennefer?

PAST DEEDS

(towns, it seems, no matter how strange the shape, how unfamiliar the architecture around, are all the same.

you can always tell when a building is more important than the rest. and while his surroundings are devoid of all life - he'd have felt it by now, smelled it amidst the solitude.

there is nothing there, however, even as he tracks further in. there is a board with a posting up ahead, something that catches his eye and makes his senses flare, for no discernible reason that he can tell. heavy footfalls scrape along the ground, echoing.

it doesn't take him long to realize it's written in blood, not ink. his nose scrunches as there is a long suffered sigh. ) Nothing's ever fucking easy, is it.

( damn, and not even a horse to talk to in sight. everything about this place is making the hairs rise on the back of his neck, senses muddled and blaring warning both, as he stares the symbol scrawled beside the first note, to which he seems to offer a quiet reply: ) - there's never good reason, I can promise you that.

(WILDCARD: i'm game for absolutely anything, so if you want to hit me up for something else, like portents, please feel free! hit me up at

berezka (or disco) for anything!! )

Edited 2020-10-27 15:19 (UTC)

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QUESTIONS?

MOD EYES

rey - star wars

daisy johnson | agents of shield (mcu)

max guevara | dark angel

Leonard McCoy - ST:AOS