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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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Hah! Yeah! We could get a bunch of water in those-- oh, Estelle? She's important. A princess. Not that that's a reason to need protection, but it's kinda a reason to need protection. She'd never left the castle before.
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A princess! A real princess in a castle? Like out of a story? I can't imagine spending all that time with someone so important. You must be very trustworthy to be tasked with something like that.
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Damn. Guess you win, unless I can get our esteemed host to bring me a back up...
[ He looks up, but the waiter must be in the kitchen or something, so instead he launches himself over the back of the booth and jogs to snatch a straw from the dispenser counter. He rips the paper off with his teeth, coming back grinning to Flynn ]
Yeah, a castle and everything. Real big one, too. I dunno if it means I'm trustworthy. Probably just the one dumb enough to do it.
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[ Flynn is sort of thrilled about the fact that Yuri came back with a new one. He puts his little straw-sword back up for round two without hesitation, matching that grin. ]
I think you have to be at least a little trustworthy. Unless you're trying to tell me that you're not, but then I don't think I'd believe you.
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[ He sets right back into the fight, even as his milkshake melts in front of him. It'll still be good, and he's itching for a fight, even if it's a play one. ]
I have no idea how I got the gig. But I'm not mad about it. Estelle's a great girl.
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[ Jab! We're going on the offense this time after the first win. Flynn really should be paying attention to his own milkshake. ]
Tell me—
[ Another jab, this one more desperate to counter a swipe from Yuri ]
—more about her. You don't remember how you met?
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Nah. No clue. What else about her... it's hard, 'cause I don't remember many details? Just, I dunno, vibes. Except I have one really clear memory, but it isn't a fun one.
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[ Flynn admits with a little flourish of his sword, a neat move he doesn't remember learning but knows involves footwork, if they were properly fighting. Unbalances an opponent, done right. ]
The one clear thing I remember, I mean. I remember spending a night in jail.
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Jail, huh? Clean cut type like you? Takes all kinds, I suppose.
Mine's a fight. Estelle... something happened to her. I don't know what. But she was asking me to... kill her. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I fought her, until she could break free.
[ Even more unbalanced now, faltering as he tells the story ]
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Did she? Break free?
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[ He frowns... and has no compunctions about using Flynn faltering to stab him in the chest, shouting out his victory. ]
Hah! Drink your milkshake.
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[ Flynn bursts out, laughing as he falls back against the squeaking booth in mock-death. He lets his head loll back for a moment to really sell it, and then pops back up with a breathless burst of laughter. ]
Drink your milkshake. Actually, I'm kind of hungry. Is it a bad idea to get food this late?
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[ He snorts a laugh at Flynn's antics and does, indeed, drink his milkshake ]
What's jail like?
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[ Flynn ponders this around the bent tip of his straw, which he plunges back into his own, much soupier, shake. ]
Honestly? Awful. Dark, and cramped. I hadn't been arrested before then, and I was angry, and... pretty terrified. I remember trying not to show that part. I didn't want to let them see they'd scared me.
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[ To get put in jail. He's intrigued, and doesn't quite know why ]
Guess it's not supposed to be a nice place, but, hell. Unless you go around murdering people for fun, does anyone really deserve that. Hey--waiter!
[ Yuri waves a hand for the waiter, who comes over with a smile ]
Get the man-- what, a burger?
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[ The waiter gives them a sparkling grin and whips around again, and Flynn leans forward into his own palm, watching Yuri. ]
It definitely wasn't murder. I'm not actually sure what it was we were charged with. I think... maybe they wouldn't tell us, but we were so angry, because we were sure it wasn't right, and that they were just locking us up so they could keep us out of the way.
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[ Yuri asks softly, turning his eyes back to Flynn. He looks him over, and feels like there's something incongruous between him and jail. But, well, can't judge someone by their looks. Except that the jacket sits warm around his shoulders. But, good people can be punished if the way the world works isn't just. ]
What were you getting in the way of?
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[ Flynn has to think about that for a second, staring sightlessly down at the shiny tabletop and the remains of his milkshake. ]
I'm sure it was a we. I know there was someone else, but I can't... every time I try to picture him, I—
[ Don't mind the way he's gritting his teeth. Maybe it's just brainfreeze. But there was someone, he knows it, and he knows there was a specific thing they were railing against, the two of them, sitting back-to-back in cells beside each other, their voices filling the cold and terrifying night.
His nose is bleeding. Flynn hasn't noticed. ]
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He pulls paper napkins from the dispenser on the table and hands them to Flynn. ]
Hey, stop trying so hard. You're gonna hurt yourself.
He sounds pretty important.
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[ Flynn's voice is still muffled, sort of hazy: his eyes are faraway. ]
Or, at least, I've known him for a long time. I know I have. He's been with me longer than anyone else, and he knows me better than anyone, and I...
[ His voice is thick. Hopefully, the napkin muffles that, too. ]
I miss him. I should know what his face looks like, at least! Or his name, or... or anything. You can't just forget someone like that.
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He lets out a breath ]
S'not your fault. It's this place. We don't remember--anything. Much of anything at all. At least you know he exists, and that he matters. And that you matter to him.
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I'm sure you matter to Estelle. I didn't mean...
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He feels... empty. Hollow, like there's a place inside of him that should be full, that he's lacking. Maybe he does have people like what Flynn has, but he doesn't remember them ]
Yeah, I know I do. But it's not the same. I'm her knight. I protect her. That's different than... a friend like yours.
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