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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.
memories!!
He hovers just next to a falling-down angel, her face worn away by sand and time, wondering. Is it a ghost after all? Are ghosts even real? Do ghosts perch themselves on their own graves and sing mournful-sounding death songs? Is this what he's been looking for? His skin feels rubbed raw, like he's been standing in the wind and sand all day. Every nerve prickles, every hair on his body up on end, but that's not new: Flynn felt this way the moment he stepped into this place, and it's only gotten worse.
He might look like a ghost himself, dressed as he is in a white shirt and pale jeans, hatless and blonde, an unmoving spot of light amid the dust. He should keep looking, he thinks absently, but the song seems to be winding down, coming to a halt, and as it does, Flynn—tired, footsore and spooked and a little sun-addled—blurts out without really thinking about it, ]
You aren't a ghost, are you?
1/2
[An easily startled ghost, if he is one. Mayoi topples right off his grave stone and hits the ground with a graceless thud.]
2/2
I-I'm sorry! I'm ...I'm ...not unlike ... a hideous phantom but- but I am flesh and blood...
no subject
[ Flynn bursts out over the shriek, but the poor ghost— man— really he is trailing fabric!— is already falling off his perch, so it's really too little too late. He makes a move to help, but freezes, his eyes wide. His heart is thundering against his own ribs. This place is awful, and the profusion of graves is awful, and he is so very on-edge. ]
I... didn't mean to imply that you looked anything like a hideous phantom! That was, um. It was a nice song. Are you alright?
no subject
N-No... its okay ...I am fine...
[Slowly, he will stand up so that he's not crouched behind his own grave stone. He lifts the veil draping over his hat so he can look at Flynn a little better, and so, Flynn can see him, too. His eyes are kind of bright, in a weird way, but he's mostly just a startled, pale teenager.]
Thank you... I can't ...seem to remember the words but ...but it felt important. It wanted out.
no subject
It was... fitting, for a place like this.
[ A little finger of a breeze trails along Flynn's neck, making him shudder and half-turn. ]
Even if it would be better to get out of here sooner, rather than later. Was it, um... for someone in particular?
no subject
I'm ...uncertain. It must be ...because, what are songs for, if not for others? [He says that like he's only just now processing his own words. That was the reason he sang, right? So that others might hear him...?] It ...It did reach someone at least.
[And Mayoi offers him a small smile. He comes a little bit closer. He is a frail looking thing up close, until probably you see his teeth, which are unnaturally sharp and jagged.]
But you are correct-- ...we should not linger here. Have you felt it ...? The pull of the spirits. If we do not find what they want us to find, they may spirit you away for real~
no subject
But this man is friendly, if waif-thin, and possibly teasing him, and that's a lot less uncomfortable than silence and graves and the distant howl of animals he can't fight, so Flynn makes himself relax. ]
Um. I don't know if that's true, but... well, I'd rather not find out if it is, so I'd better keep searching. It would be easier with two pairs of eyes. It would also be easier if I knew what I was supposed to be looking for.
[ That is the most reasonable possible way he can say please don't abandon me to the graves. ]
no subject
[Mayoi folds his hands politely in front of him, tilting his head (and the whole hat/veil combo with it) in mild surprise.]
...You ...you'd like for me to help...?
[A beat, and then he breaks out into a pleased smile.]
Ah ...I am glad, I am glaaad~ Do you have a name that I can call you...? It will make what we are looking for much easier to find if I know.
no subject
[ Hard to disguise the naked hope in his face and on his face, or the way his entire body perks up like a dog offered a ball. Help, and polite help, goes a long way to ease the crawling feeling that he's missing something.
Even if it's still clear that he's missing a lot. ]
no subject
[He offers him a polite tip of his head, something shy of a bow.]
[As far as what they are looking for, Mayoi will gently step back so that he is standing by the headstone that Flynn initially startled him off of and gently rests his hand on the top of it. It reads Ayase Mayoi (礼瀬 マヨイ).]
We must find the one that belongs to you.