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

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"Not a drug prescription, a bottle, a set of handcuffs to be found." People had flaws. Vices, weaknesses and impulses. Whatever impulses these people had, they didn't leave any evidence of it." That's what bothered him about it.

"Only thing that's common between all of them is a group photo. Looked like a community ritual - something they might do for Easter or something."

While he would rather focus on that than why he was looking for cooking sherry, the question still hung in front of him. "Wanna see somethin' weird?"

Malcolm took in that information with interest, but when Raylan asked the question, he perked up.

"Always," he promised.

"C'mon," he said with a gesture as he turned around and lead Malcolm down the hall. "I still haven't figured out how this is possible either so if you think you can figure it out.."

Raylan led them into a decent looking breakroom, if it weren't for the heavy layer of dust that showed the passing of time and headed over to the refrigerator to pull it open. There was still food in there, standard fare as well as a few lunches - Jan's sandwich and Greg's steamed chicken on rice.

Not wanting to offer any leading information, Raylan just gestured towards the open fridge to see what Malcolm made of it.

Malcolm's eyes narrowed slightly as he peered into the fridge. He took out a couple of items and turned them over in his hands, then put them back.

He glanced around.

"This room seems to have been in disuse for months or even years," he remarked. "But the food is still good." He looked at Raylan. "Is this the only place that's like this?"

"No," Raylan replied with no showmanship or smirks of amusement. How was what Malcolm saw possible? He was open to answers.

"The only exception to that seems to be what's left out. Like booze bottles. They're empty. Like a puritan has moved through the town."

Malcolm looked at him.

"You know... this really only lends credence to the theory that all this... dust and scary notes and graffiti are just set dressing," he said. "Someone is changing the food. A sandwich doesn't last forever." He considered Raylan for a second. "Have you tried eating any of this food?"

"If you say so." Malcolm's opinions were his own; Raylan was firmly on the fence - Everyone had an answer and not a one of them settled right in his gut.

"I have. It's good, as good as it looks. They restock too; like we never touched anything."

What do you make of that, sharp dressed man?

"They restock it." He laughed. "So they know we're here. And they want us alive." He looked at Raylan. "How could it be anything other than a set-up?" he asked.

Go easy on him, Raylan. He's never seen magic.

Raylan took it impassively. He'd gone through his own stage of nodding protest.

"How do they get it into a house I'm sittin' in overnight? I'm sure you're gonna wanna see it for yourself and that's a fair ask, but I was in your shoes, though a little bit dustier-" he said with a glance down at Malcolm's shoes. "A few days ago. I got no reasonable explanation. For any of it. Been trying to not think about it when I'm not actively huntin' for a lead. I'm waitin' for a church to come into the circle. There's always something in a place's religion."

Malcolm considered that.

"Could you see the fridge from where you were sitting? Could you have drifted off? We're on their turf; if this was deliberately built, there may be a mechanism for it. Have you examined the fridge?" he asked, turning around to inspect the appliance.

"Yes, no, and yes. Along with every other inch of the house. You'll find out yourself," he said with a waving off kind of gesture. "One of many puzzles to solve, if you like that kinda thing. We got quite a few people who claim to be associated with the occult. How comfortable are you with that?"

Was this an interview?

Malcolm just looked at him a moment.

"...With people who believe in the occult?" he clarified.

"I assume that's part of the association," he clarified with a gesture of his fingers and a slight lift of his chin since he was still waiting for the answer. This was a good hint but.. Well, call him selfishly greedy.

"Sure," he said with a shrug. "Live and let live, I guess." He glanced around again. "Where are these houses you're talking about?"

So not far off from where Raylan had found himself. Well that was promising, at least he wasn't the only one here who seemed to be out of that loop, aside from John Henry.

"Down the road a little bit. Maybe a minutes walk. Could probably see them from the front door, you look in the right direction." He jerked his head before moving back out towards the hallway and the front door. "We're all just holin' up in the ones we like, for as long as they're comfortable."

"Does anyone know how we got here?" Malcolm asked as he walked alongside the Marshal. "Does anyone remember being taken?"

"No and no. I was sittin' at home in Lexington when I was dropped into the ocean, very rudely, I might add, with no sense of how I got there. No drugs, one beer - nothin' that might otherwise cause me to have lapses in memory, before you ask. The others, places and conditions vary but no one knows how they got here."

"Maybe some kind of gas," he mused faintly. He looked at Raylan. "Is it possible to be dropped in an ocean politely?"

"Yes, by lettin' me know if I'm bein' gassed," he replied, with a gesture for Malcolm to go out of the door in front of him.

"There," He said, pointing out the start of the rows of houses up the lane. "Plenty to spend your days tearin' them apart, if that's what gets you goin'." It's what got him going and over more than a few hard days, but it wasn't like they were in a spread out area.

"Sea's that way," he indicated with a gesture down the crossing road. "It'd be prettier if I were here voluntarily."

"Tearing them apart?" he questioned, looking in that direction. "Aren't they they only available shelter?"

Raylan shrugged. "Hard to pull down a roof without takin' out the supports. That doesn't have anything to do with floors or ceilings. Alls you need to be covered is a roof."

Malcolm looked at him studiously.

He'd been pulling out walls and ceilings.

"Have you found anything pulling them apart?" he asked.

He had. Methodically.

"No." The answer came with a tensing of his jaw in annoyance. "Nothin' worth a good goddamn. I wish I could offer you any sense of reasonable answer, but I'm havin' a hard time finding those right now." And it was clear that he hated it.

"But your curiosity is good. Sharp mind. What did you say you did with the NYPD again?"

Interesting, Raylan's reaction to the lack of answers. He seemed to take unsolved mysteries with as much grace as Malcolm did.

Not much.

"I didn't," he replied with a hint of a smile. "But I'm a profiler. Behavioural analysis; psychology?" he clarified. "Same thing I did for the FBI. I mostly work murders."

He hadn't, but the question and whether people picked up on the wording of his ask was distinctly important.

"I know of it," he said with a slight nod. "Why'd you stop working with the FBI? No offence to the NYPD but it is a step down."

(no subject)

abrightboy - 2020-10-25 11:07 (UTC) - Expand

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