![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
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
that's so familiar.
That's so familiar. Like trying to grasp at water with molten hands, however, the notion of familiarity is impossible, and he can only shake it off for the moment. The priority is the human here in front of him, after all.]
More reason to carry you. You may rely on me, when you are able to find me.
[He shrugs minutely, before finally easing up; most of the blood's gone, and anything left behind requires a harder scrub than he's comfortable performing on someone soft and delicate.] Arms around my neck. We will find somewhere for you to recuperate, but I will need your assistance.
And you are no burden. Do not say this to me; it is [--causing him a sharp head pain, almost like an electric shock] ...My...Honour.
no subject
[It's gone just as fast, all he can do is move as he's told and put his arms around his neck. This person- who may not be human (Is he? Is he even human himself...? That question makes him uneasy.)-- is ...safe.]
O-Okay. If that's so, then I will--
[And then he seems suddenly falter. When Mayoi speaks again there is worry thick in his voice.]
A-Are you okay?
no subject
[--He hadn't meant to bark that out. But it comes out with the faintest hint of enunciation, violent in the monotone.
All he can offer in apology right now is eye contact, even if it's one-sided on his part, and the embrace necessary to carry Mayoi. No romo, just carrying a dude princess style.]
...I am fine. A minor error, already repaired. Nothing more. I would not carry you if I doubted my capabilities to do so.
[Just to emphasise, he gets to his feet readily and without loosening his grip once. The absolute professionalism in his hold! Clearly this is a bot with practice.] Are you comfortable like this?
no subject
I-I see. I'm. I'm sorry, i-it was presumptuous of me to ...to question you, wasn't it...?
[Ah, he should stop. This person does not want to hear him speak, surely.]
I am. P-Please do not mind me.
no subject
...One hand squeezes him, however. Gentle, an attempt at reassurance.]
No. I am a stranger; you have every right to question a stranger's capabilities. However...I am unaccustomed to errors such as the one I just experienced. It was...
Disquieting.
[Over to the receptionist they head, though his gait's slow and steady: if anyone thinks that Dimos is robotic, they're about to get proof that he's really, really fucking advanced, babey.] It is frustrating, to have a momentary loss of control over your own body. You have done nothing wrong, so please. Do not fear me. I will not hurt you, and I have not yet felt anger.
[Y'know, in general.]
no subject
...was it pain? Like ...[He hesitates, but his curiosity gets the better of him.] Like you were trying to pull a thought together but instead your head felt like fire...?
[Maybe ...Dimos being mechanical means that's not the case and maybe he will feel stupid for asking, but. He wonders if Dimos encountered something similar to what just happened to him. That really had been it, he thinks. He was trying to string his thoughts together, trying to grab something great and terrible, but important, and he stubbornly tried to hold onto it until. Until it all went red.]
A-Alright. I... I won't. Do you have a name...?
[You know, since he's trusting you with his soft squishy human body, they should probably exchange names, if they can.]
no subject
As though I had failed my training, and was being punished for it.
[He stops, then. Mere metres in front of the receptionist, close enough for him to make eye contact and smile politely at the sight of them. But Dimos is too busy staring ahead into nothing, and then, after a few seconds of that, back at Mayoi. At the flecks of dried blood he hadn't been game to scrub away.]
I...What was I talking about, when it happened? What were you thinking of prior to the bleeding? This is important. I would not normally suspect a shared condition between us, and yet...
[He'll give his name in a minute. This is...This is frustratingly close. He can't recall; the zap's jolted his memory a little, rearranged things just a little more to obfuscate and distract, but Mayoi was there for it. Mayoi was there. Can he remember?]
no subject
Something… s-something felt wrong, like …like something was just out of my grasp but it was catastrophic. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was going to happen and it would be my fault— but I didn’t know what, so I tried… I-I tried to think a-and…
[Blood. He shakes his head a moment.]
You had said …that I was not a burden. That to …help was “your honor”, I think…? Your words …they faltered on that last part. Do you recall?
no subject
You thought. And I thought. And we were punished. It is my honour to assist, after all, but there is no reason that I should feel this way. I do not have a purpose that involves helping humans so.
[The shock collar hasn't kicked in again, so he's not onto something yet. That's a pretty good warning sign, he thinks.
The receptionist can't help them grasp this great cosmic truth, however. Dimos pivots away from him, canned greetings bouncing off his lovingly sculpted back (what the fuck did they do that for), and starts walking...Somewhere. He's not sure where. Somewhere with water, certainly. But that should be easy enough to find. Food, water.]
Listen to your body, first and foremost. You are human; you will exhibit signs, I assume, before catastrophic bleeding occurs. Do not earn ire if you can. Promise me.
no subject
I... I am thankful, though. It is a paltry thing to offer, but ...thank you for helping me.
[He says still being gently carried about. He's pretty cozy like this actually! And he really doesn't have much strength for anything else right now. Blood loss...]
I... [Oh. That "Promise me" catches him off guard. This person really does seem worried about him. It ...feels strange. Like he isn't used to it. Is it ...nice...? To be doted on...? He feels filthy for thinking that. He falls quiet probably a little longer than Dimos wants.]
I- I promise. I'll ...I'll be mindful of the signs. I'll not let it happen again.
[And trouble him all over again.]
no subject
[Said hesitantly, as though the words feel strange in his mouth. Likely because they do, given that this is the first time he's said them, but so be it--
ah
food smell?
Dimos pivots again, turning on a dime towards what, they find out, is the dining area. It's long past breakfast, but not quite lunch, and so there's still a few leftovers long gone cold in the pot or set out to go stale. But...It'll do. There's seating too, which is just as important; he sets Mayoi down on a chair after kicking it out from the table with one foot, then kneels in front of him.]
May I ask for one more reassurance? I...It...Important. It's important.
[And then he extends a hand, curled into a loose fist bar the pinkie.]
no subject
[He turns his attention back to Dimos when he comes to kneel in front of him. He watches his hand and ...it takes him a moment to figure it out. What he is asking him. After a moment he raises his own hand hesitantly, as if he's asking Dimos if he understands correctly, before offering his own pinkie.]
Y-yes, go ahead. I will listen.
no subject
Please take care of yourself. That is all.
no subject
[It seems like such a simple ask, but something about it. It hits him somewhere deep down. Something that's dark and festering. That thing that speaks to him in unkind murmurs. It rises up for a moment in protest before the weight of this stranger's actual concern hits it and pushes it back down.]
[He still doesn't have a name but ...the amount of kindness and concern he's been given. It feels very big, just as the promise he's being asked to keep. He doesn't know why, exactly, but it all wells up in him in a way he can't stop. Tears that are not made of blood finally start to spill and he nods.]
A-Alright. I'll... I'll try m-my best.
no subject
[Pinkie promise: fucking sealed.
...Tears: falling? oh god he's fucking leaking again. Dimos makes a noise that might have once been the equivalent of a sigh, before reaching over to carefully wipe away those tears.]
You asked for my name, before. I am Dimos. Do you want anything to eat, while we are here? Or just to drink? I will help take care of you, where you want me to.