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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.
no subject
Geez, are you always this dramatic?
[Like, he hates himself too but he keeps that shit to himself. At least, he's pretty sure he does. Not having memories sucks.]
If you need a damn hand just ask already. Don't make it weird.
no subject
[Maybe he is! Maybe!
yesHe doesn't remember!][Anyway, he absolutely will not. Probably. Especially since he's been just saying the stuff in his head and it comes out like this.]
I-I didn't ...mean to make it weird...? I'm sorry for being weird. I-If you could spare a moment, I'm still very dizzy...
[He's...He's asking. He's trying!]
no subject
Do you want water or anything.
[It's asked in the surliest crabbiest voice, not quite resentful but about an inch short of it. Like he'd really rather he didn't feel obligated to help but he'd feel too guilty not to. Feelings, gross.]
no subject
Ah... yes, please.
[He sounds...very timid, but the other had told him to just ask, so. So, he will. This will be all he asks, though. With water he can get cleaned up, and then he can maybe find his hotel room. After that, he should be just fine on his own.]
T-Thank you.
no subject
Tch....just try not to fall out of the chair or something.
[Kagari stalks off and returns with a glass of water but also a straw. It seems easier than tilting his head back when you're dizzy, anyway.
(It was NOT a thoughtful gesture, fuck you, do NOT perceive hIM!!!)
He could, of course, just fuck off from here. It'd be easier. And yet, he doesn't. He looks vaguely uncomfortable just standing like two feet from him, but he will pretend he isn't. He's gonna let that Awkward Silence linger long enough that it feels like it could suffocate them both, before he speaks up again. At length:]
What was that, anyway? Your ears like, exploded.
no subject
[Yes. Yes they must, sorry Kagari. Mayoi is too polite to not thank him, regardless. It's okay, Mayoi is starting to think this person is just kind of gruff and ornery in general, so maybe he is not taking Mayoi's existence as personal as it might have seemed initially.]
[When he returns with water, Mayoi has successfully located a proper handkerchief on his person, and has cleaned himself up a bit. He takes the water gratefully, sucking down like half of it instantly, and then dripping some of it onto his cloth to do a slightly better job looking like a murder victim.]
...Ah. I'm ..not sure.
[A pause, since he had been turning it over in his head while Kagari was away.]
I felt as though ...something was missing. Something important-- life or death, and I couldn't recall it, so I desperately tried to. Then ...blinding pain a-and... [Blood. Lots of blood.]
no subject
...Fuck, you don't remember anything either?
[Two or three people is maybe coincidence, but four? Nah. No. Some fuckery is going on here.]
Okay, that's officially suspicious, right? No way everyone who shows up here just so happens to have lost their memories. Especially if that's what happens when you try to remember.
no subject
[But Kagari at least agrees something isn't right, and it makes Mayoi feel a lot better about the blood he just lost while trying to figure this out himself.]
I-I can recall very little beyond my name, and a few gut feelings that feel much too strong or specific to be just strange fancies.
[He frowns, looking out towards the lobby of the hotel. Tries to think again of where he was before now. He comes up short past checking in, and trying to go before brings him an unhappy throb in his head. He flinches, pressing a hand to his temple and exhaling.]
It's suspicious. [Once it's passed, he looks at Kagari.] It felt almost like ...I was being punished for thinking.
D-Do you suppose we've found ourselves in limbo?
no subject
[It's an oddly surreal feeling, but he feels like it makes sense in a weird way too. As though movies and video games and manga were the majority of the way he'd experienced life, somehow.
Mayoi's suggestion, too, doesn't ring false.]
Hell would've been my first guess if we were going that route, but...[he shrugs] Could be. Maybe this is all some kinda elaborate test, like ...a 'what kind of person are you when you don't remember all the shit that fucked you up before' type deal and if you pass you don't go to hell.
no subject
Likewise ...the feeling for me is that of a book, perhaps some ghost story I've read. In fact--
[There's a pause, and it does actually come to him. Such a strange tidbit when everything else is so vague. Frustratingly useless, and yet.]
Such a thing would not be unlike the Fields of Asphodel from Greek Myth. A purgatory where neither good nor evil come to rest. It is said that before entering the place, you lose all identity and simply wander as an aimless non-existence.
[...Honestly, it sounds worse than hell. Anyway, that was such a specific thing for him to just pull out of no where it even strikes him as strange, and he sits there blinking a little.]
...I-I'm not even sure where I was thirty minutes ago, but it seems, somehow, I know underworld mythology very well.
no subject
Man, I don't even know what 'Greek' means, let alone the rest of that stuff. But it's not like we've got anything better to go on, unless this is some kind of ... I dunno, social experiment or drug test or something.
[It doesn't sound any less plausible than the purgatory idea, anyway.]
You know what's extra weird? How those guys running the hotel don't even act like they're alive. They just say the same thing over and over again, like the NPCs from a video game. I bet we could set the damn lobby on fire and they'd still be all like, "We're so glad you chose to stay at the Staywell. Enjoy your stay!"