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1.0 Test Drive Meme
1.0 Test Drive Meme
Premise & Arrival ֍ FAQ ֍ Apply ֍ Navigation
Welcome to Well! Characters arrive the same way every month. Your character arrives with only a handful of memories, clad in old west style clothes of your choosing, with no items from home.
Anyone is free to play on the TDM, but you need an invite to apply. Feel free to use these prompts, and interact with the arrival or locations. NPCs are around, but only say a certain set of phrases. TDMs can be considered game canon.
Applications open on January 20th, and the game opens on February 1st. Invites are available for members of the mods' plurk lists.
Put on your dancing shoes
Content warning: Alcohol, intoxication, altered mental state
Something’s happening at the Cactus Pad Saloon. It’s lit up bright against the growing night, and music spills out onto the street. Seems like a fun time that you should check out. In fact, it’s hard not to check it out: the closer you get, the stronger the urge to join the fun. If you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ll feel even more compelled to come get a drink.
The bartender serves up anything you can think of: from whiskey to apple juice to blood, if that’s your preference. She doesn’t blink an eye, no matter what’s ordered. The funny thing is, no matter what you order, once you take a sip, the world feels a little easier to deal with, your worries seem to melt away. You’re flush with sudden confidence.
If you strike up a conversation with the person next to you, conversation flows like you’re talking to an old friend. You feel a sense of kinship, deep and meaningful, good or bad, that bonds you together.
The old record player is playing a fun ditty, and the longer you stick around, the more you’re tempted to join, or start, the dancing. Whether you’re a great dancer or you have two left feet, you find that you feel capable of dancing like no one’s watching. No one knows you here, after all. You barely know yourself, so why not draw a partner into the fray? A party’s better together!
If you end up staying there til closing time, the bartender kicks you out with a gruff “come back tomorrow,” leaving you to stumble home with your new best friend. What was their name again?
Something’s happening at the Cactus Pad Saloon. It’s lit up bright against the growing night, and music spills out onto the street. Seems like a fun time that you should check out. In fact, it’s hard not to check it out: the closer you get, the stronger the urge to join the fun. If you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ll feel even more compelled to come get a drink.
The bartender serves up anything you can think of: from whiskey to apple juice to blood, if that’s your preference. She doesn’t blink an eye, no matter what’s ordered. The funny thing is, no matter what you order, once you take a sip, the world feels a little easier to deal with, your worries seem to melt away. You’re flush with sudden confidence.
If you strike up a conversation with the person next to you, conversation flows like you’re talking to an old friend. You feel a sense of kinship, deep and meaningful, good or bad, that bonds you together.
The old record player is playing a fun ditty, and the longer you stick around, the more you’re tempted to join, or start, the dancing. Whether you’re a great dancer or you have two left feet, you find that you feel capable of dancing like no one’s watching. No one knows you here, after all. You barely know yourself, so why not draw a partner into the fray? A party’s better together!
If you end up staying there til closing time, the bartender kicks you out with a gruff “come back tomorrow,” leaving you to stumble home with your new best friend. What was their name again?
Sand trap
Content warning: Quick sand, potential drowning in sand
You step through a door into a room you didn’t mean to enter. You were trying to head into the saloon, or your hotel room, or the bathroom, and instead you’re here: in a small, tight, windowless room in a white-washed building. The air here is old, stale, and thick. Hazy gold light bounces off the walls, but you can’t tell where it’s coming from, since there’s no visible ceiling. The walls just stretch up and up into bright nothingness.
Someone else is there, too, coming through an identical door on the opposite wall. Both doors snap shut, and won’t open again, no matter how hard you try. They won’t even break.
This might not be so bad, except that a sound starts to fill the space: sand, trickling down the walls. It’s just a dusting to start. It comes sprinkling down above, seeping through the cracks in the door. The longer you stand there, the faster it comes: sand flows down the walls in massive torrents, building up on the floor, shifting and thick, trapping you in place.
The only way out is up. When you look again at the walls, you’ll notice it: about 10 feet up the wall hangs a flimsy rope ladder, half-hidden by the waterfall of sand. You’ll have to work together to even reach it, or maybe let the ever-growing pile of shifting, slippery sand lift you up? Be careful, because even if you manage to reach the rope, you both have to get out of here, and the longer you’re here, the faster and harder the sand falls. The ladder seems to go on forever, tens of feet up an endless wall. The better you work together, the closer the top seems. No matter how well you collaborate, they're at least 50 feet high.
When you’ve fought your way through the sand and reached the top of the ladder, you finally see it: the sand is coming in through the open windows of a steeple. You can’t see where it’s from, not really. You can’t see much of anything, but it’s clear: the only way out is, well, out. You have to jump, trusting that yourself and your companion will be safe.
Once free, you land together outside of one of the buildings or rooms you were trying to enter, like nothing happened at all. It’s a calm day, after all.
You step through a door into a room you didn’t mean to enter. You were trying to head into the saloon, or your hotel room, or the bathroom, and instead you’re here: in a small, tight, windowless room in a white-washed building. The air here is old, stale, and thick. Hazy gold light bounces off the walls, but you can’t tell where it’s coming from, since there’s no visible ceiling. The walls just stretch up and up into bright nothingness.
Someone else is there, too, coming through an identical door on the opposite wall. Both doors snap shut, and won’t open again, no matter how hard you try. They won’t even break.
This might not be so bad, except that a sound starts to fill the space: sand, trickling down the walls. It’s just a dusting to start. It comes sprinkling down above, seeping through the cracks in the door. The longer you stand there, the faster it comes: sand flows down the walls in massive torrents, building up on the floor, shifting and thick, trapping you in place.
The only way out is up. When you look again at the walls, you’ll notice it: about 10 feet up the wall hangs a flimsy rope ladder, half-hidden by the waterfall of sand. You’ll have to work together to even reach it, or maybe let the ever-growing pile of shifting, slippery sand lift you up? Be careful, because even if you manage to reach the rope, you both have to get out of here, and the longer you’re here, the faster and harder the sand falls. The ladder seems to go on forever, tens of feet up an endless wall. The better you work together, the closer the top seems. No matter how well you collaborate, they're at least 50 feet high.
When you’ve fought your way through the sand and reached the top of the ladder, you finally see it: the sand is coming in through the open windows of a steeple. You can’t see where it’s from, not really. You can’t see much of anything, but it’s clear: the only way out is, well, out. You have to jump, trusting that yourself and your companion will be safe.
Once free, you land together outside of one of the buildings or rooms you were trying to enter, like nothing happened at all. It’s a calm day, after all.
Memories of the living
Content warning: Cemetery, contemplating mortality
Dusk settles purple over Wellstone. Early stars are out, the moon is thin, and you find yourself inexplicably drawn to the graveyard. You can resist, but the more days you do, the harder it gets. The graveyard is calling to you in a voice you can’t hear.
While it seems small before you enter, once you start walking through the crumbling graves, it seems to stretch endlessly. You pass elaborate dust-covered crypts carved with strange angels; bleached wooden crosses overgrown with cacti; a crumbling old well, long gone dry; worn-down headstones jut at odd angles. Some graves have old offerings on them, brightly colored beads or candles or framed photos, sun-bleached beyond recognition.
You may have been walking for five minutes or fifty, but when you look around, you can’t see to find the exit. You hear howling, and see the flicker of lights from behind the graves, but you can never find their source, no matter how much you look. No matter how long you spend in the graveyard, the sun never seems to sink lower in the sky. An oppressive sense of being watched grows to the point that you whip around, expecting to find someone there until—
You do. You find each other. Others drawn here to the graveyard, walking among the crumbling stones, will end up by the same headstones. Exploring together eases the watchful feeling just a little, but it won’t help you get out. No, you’re looking for something. The exit? No, you’re sure there’s something more important than that.
If you follow your impulses, you may just find it: a gravestone, weathered, old, with a familiar name on it: yours. Your date of birth can be visible, but the date of death is too weathered to read. You may find an offering there, something small and meaningful to you, a small shiny coin or some bright beads.
Once you find your grave, when you look up, you’ll see the exit. You’re really not that far from it, after all, the rusted iron arch barely a stone's throw feet away. Your companion won’t see it yet. You can make a dash for it, get out of this awful place, or help your companion find their own gravestone. When your companion finds their stone, they will also be able to see the exit. Exiting together will alleviate the impulse to come back to this place. Leaving alone will only draw you back, making it more difficult to find your grave again.
You can take the offerings left on your grave if you want, but the sense of being watched will only grow greater until you’re compelled to return them, and leave another offering of your own.
Dusk settles purple over Wellstone. Early stars are out, the moon is thin, and you find yourself inexplicably drawn to the graveyard. You can resist, but the more days you do, the harder it gets. The graveyard is calling to you in a voice you can’t hear.
While it seems small before you enter, once you start walking through the crumbling graves, it seems to stretch endlessly. You pass elaborate dust-covered crypts carved with strange angels; bleached wooden crosses overgrown with cacti; a crumbling old well, long gone dry; worn-down headstones jut at odd angles. Some graves have old offerings on them, brightly colored beads or candles or framed photos, sun-bleached beyond recognition.
You may have been walking for five minutes or fifty, but when you look around, you can’t see to find the exit. You hear howling, and see the flicker of lights from behind the graves, but you can never find their source, no matter how much you look. No matter how long you spend in the graveyard, the sun never seems to sink lower in the sky. An oppressive sense of being watched grows to the point that you whip around, expecting to find someone there until—
You do. You find each other. Others drawn here to the graveyard, walking among the crumbling stones, will end up by the same headstones. Exploring together eases the watchful feeling just a little, but it won’t help you get out. No, you’re looking for something. The exit? No, you’re sure there’s something more important than that.
If you follow your impulses, you may just find it: a gravestone, weathered, old, with a familiar name on it: yours. Your date of birth can be visible, but the date of death is too weathered to read. You may find an offering there, something small and meaningful to you, a small shiny coin or some bright beads.
Once you find your grave, when you look up, you’ll see the exit. You’re really not that far from it, after all, the rusted iron arch barely a stone's throw feet away. Your companion won’t see it yet. You can make a dash for it, get out of this awful place, or help your companion find their own gravestone. When your companion finds their stone, they will also be able to see the exit. Exiting together will alleviate the impulse to come back to this place. Leaving alone will only draw you back, making it more difficult to find your grave again.
You can take the offerings left on your grave if you want, but the sense of being watched will only grow greater until you’re compelled to return them, and leave another offering of your own.
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hearing not a bad idea is something of an unintentional olive branch. she lifts a hand to her chin to consider, looking askance.]
I suppose I couldn't rightly say... I would hope most would seek to find the truth through their own experiences, even with written forewarning...but it would be validating to see that the outcome wasn't theirs alone. That they're not being singled out for bullying, that is to say.
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Yeah, yeah... so say something like "I only know a few words, please be nice to me".
[ It's half a joke. He's deflecting his own discomfort here with a small smile ]
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[she folds her arms to herself, turning her head to glance at the ever-smiling receptionist once more before sighing and looking ahead of herself once more.]
There are more important matters than kindly notes; I'll not worry about it. [her eyes dart back to the stranger.] But if you've already gotten this far, what more do you know?
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Walked around town a bit. There's not much there. A bar, a store, that diner he's going on about. Lots of sand. [ So much sand. It feels familiar to him, but he has no idea why ] A couple other people out there, but they're all like him. [ A nod to the receptionist ] At least, so far as I can tell. We seem like the odd ones out here, unless you're holding out on me.
[ If she starts repeating phrases now, he doesn't know what he'll do ]
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for now though, she just kind of squints at him, slightly tilting her head.]
'Holding out' on you? Sir? [america explain]
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Hey, I dunno. You could be like those guys. Just with more words.
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after a beat to just frown disapprovingly:] So the remainder of this...town? [did he say town? or just buildings. whatever:] Is inhabited by...facsimiles of people. Save for the two of us.
[that's a rather foreboding prospect.]
How did you come by this place? [she simply woke up here; perhaps there's a trick to it.]
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[ So there might be others, he isn't sure.
He tilts his head at the receptionist again ]
Woke up talking to him. Got a key, a room. It's pretty nice, I guess.
[ Compared to what??? Jail???? ]
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[like the key in her own possession. hm.]
But we do not belong here, do we? Not as true residents. [because she certainly doesn't feel like one.]
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Couldn't say. You got any clue where you are from?
[ He doesn't. He doesn't remember much of anything, except for Estelle. He remembers Estelle, and feels a strange calling to go back to her, to make sure she's okay, but he can't. He can't, and that aches in his gut. ]
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instead she just shakes her head a little, smoothing out the front of her dress while she takes that brief moment to collect her thoughts. then, with her chin lifted again, she looks back to him.]
If you're as much lost as I, then you've time to show me what you've seen, yes? Would you be so kind?
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After you. It's all sand and dust out there.
[ Not that he's wearing a hat, but maybe he should with the sun outside.
He falls into step next to her as they exit the hotel. ]
Not too much to see. There are a few buildings that seem to be in use, and more that aren't. Past that, there's sand. A lot of sand. I didn't go too far out of the town, yet. Think I'll need to stock up on water before I do.
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for some reason, Cecelia knows the heat is oppressive, but it doesn't hurt her skin like it out to; she only needs to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun to scan around.]
None of this...feels familiar to me. [she's not sure if it should or not.] Save for the heat.
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Yeah, same. I think I... [ nope, not going there. He doesn't want another headache. His nose wrinkles. ] Yeah. Heat's familiar here, too.
D'you know why you remember heat? [ Maybe there's a clue ]
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Likely the same reason it feels familiar to wear clothes... It's just a fact of my life, in some way. I couldn't speak certainly of anything deeper than that.
[no vivid memories of dusty towns, that's for sure.]
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He looks down at his own clothes with a little grimace. He hadn't quite thought about them yet ]
Huh. Not so familiar to me.
[ A beat, and he picks at his shirt. No, that feels wrong. He undoes a few more buttons so most of his chest is free, then unties the bandana from his throat and shoves it in his pocket. So much better.
A slight breeze catches his shirt, making it billow ]
Well, wanna compare notes?
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What, are you keen on such an uneven trade? I haven't even a page to write upon... [and somehow, that makes her feel shades more troubled than before.]
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[ He smiles a little, shrugging. She reminds him of Estelle, a little. It's kind of nice. ]
Or, there's the General Store. Maybe there's a notebook there.
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I need to familiarize myself with these buildings anyway, so, please. [show her.]
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"Welcome in, kiddo. You let me know if anything strikes your fancy."
[ Yuri gives the guy a wave ] Sure thing, man.
"You ever tried our special prickly pear jam? Really livens up your breakfast!"
He said that to me like ten times while I was in here. [ He mutters in an aside to Cece ]
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how ghoulish.
she walks the humble aisle or two of jars and trinkets that spark little but annoyance in their unfamiliarity, stopping to frown at the array of seemingly empty mason jars.]
Why would...?
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[ He snorts a laugh. The idea seems kind of absurd, but he has no idea why ]
Who knows. Doubt you can write on those, though.
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she turns and moves on to look for something to write with and upon, glowering at canned goods and weird little...sculptures of things with peculiar, dark eyewear...
unnerved:] These goods don't seem very... [...] Good, if I'm to be frank...
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His eyes spot a notebook, one made for children in the shape of a cowboy hat, with a red spiral and a marker. He plucks it from the shelf and debates for just a moment whether this girl is going to be more offended by this offering, or more happy that she has something to write with.
He doesn't really think that hard about it ]
This good enough for you?
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[she turns to him with interest and a look of hope......that waters away within two seconds of looking at what's in his hands.]
...What is that.
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