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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.
Darin Altway | Original Character
[The tavern felt nice and familiar to Darin though, much like everyone else that arrived here, he had no idea why. He must have enjoyed a nice drink wherever he was from...or maybe it was the social atmosphere. The music, the dancing, the loud conversations...it just evoked a sense of belonging that Darin seemed to vibe with him.]
[Without much hesitation and clad in some worn jeans, leather boots, and a black vest over a white, button down shirt, Darin makes his way over to the bar.]
Barkeep! Lemme have a beer!
[He settles in and leans against the bar, surveying the crowd, and once the foaming mug clanks nearby, he takes a nice, long drink. He downs it without much trouble and tells the barkeep to keep them coming.]
[To anyone watching this blue-haired man, he's all smiles and easily approachable. He has no issues making small talk and knocks back drink after drink without any trouble.]
[It's only around maybe the tenth or so beer that he seems to realize something and leans over to the person next to him to confirm.]
So, uh...hey. Random question. How many of these have I had? ...Okay, wait, I know how that sounds but I'm pretty sure I'm not drunk.
...Wait, okay I know that sounds like something any drunk would say but I'm not! I don't think I can get drunk!!
-SAND TRAP-
[Yeah, so this might as well happen. He doesn't know how he got here, and now he's stuck in a death trap. Honestly, if he had any inkling as to who he was prior to this, he might wonder if maybe this is just his luck. And for someone with sand pouring down on his head, he doesn't seem to be panicking much.]
So, I imagine you don't come here very often. Or, at least I hope you don't. Let's see if we can—PFT!! BLECH! AGH!! DAMMIT!!
[Yeah, the moron just looked up and got a face full of sand.]
WHO THE HELL MAKES A ROOM LIKE THIS?!
-MEMORIES OF THE LIVING-
[Nope. Nope nope nope. NOPE. Darin did not like this. He did not like this one bit. The atmosphere> The endless cemetery with no exit in sight? The feeling of being watched? He could feel his anxiety dialed up to eleven and every shadow was subconsciously given a decidedly human form. One that flitted in and out of his periphery just enough to send him into a mild panic. He jumps every few minutes, literally scaring himself.]
Good. Great. Apparently I have an overactive imagination. Sure do love finding out these things in the worst place possible. You know what would have been good to remember? Something to ward off gh—
[All this focusing on griping and complaining and Darin completely failed to notice the person he just tripped over. But if there was anything in the graveyard other than the two of them, it would instantly know where they are the way Darin is screaming. He dives behind a headstone; almost going through it and hides.]
I'M SORRY!! I'M SORRY!! I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M HERE JUST TELL ME WHERE THE EXIT IS UNLESS THE EXIT IS HELL IN WHICH CASE CAN WE MAYBE GET A SECOND OPINION?!
[Ayup.]
dancing shoes
[have an eight foot tall bodybuilding centaur. Vic's totally doing this right, mingling at a bar like the cool swoleboy he obviously is. The tail switching and tapping hooves don't mean anything.]
Maybe she does cocktails, I dunno.
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[Clearly, Darin's never heard the old 'Beer before liquor' adage.]
I don't really know any cocktails though, do you have any suggestions?
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[Fragments of names chase each other around in Vic's head, but trying to grab at them hurts.]
Dunno, bro, just think of something cool and sexy. Like... a naked walk in the rain! That's gotta be one.
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[Looks like we're doing this.]
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[Vic's tail swishes as he scratches his chin.]
I bet it's blue.
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Oh man, this sounds delicious.
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memories
Watch it! What are you doing?
[And what, he thinks, makes the man sure they're not already in Hell? It's a possibility. But Nicholas manages enough tact not to say that.]
Re: memories
[At this point, Darin is searching for something to huck at this guy's head but all he's coming up with is dead grass.]
[He throws it and it just looks like he's throwing the world's saddest confetti.]
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[If anyone is ambushing someone in an unexpectedly endless cemetery, it's this idiot!
Idiot being a very key word here. If the guy's that convinced Nicholas is a threat, he should have just kept retreating! Who the fuck thinks grass is a defense?]
AND WHAT DID YOU THINK THAT WOULD DO?
sand
Why are you-! Ah-- [she startles away from her side of the room as she feels sand sprinkling against her shoulder and arm, prompting her to hug her arms to herself and look back, eyes widening.] How, but...? [visually, it's baffling, leaves her at a loss for words.
...which i guess is fine since there's someone in here YELLING ALL THE WORDS. she flinches, prompted to cover her ears.]
Stop!
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[At this point, Darin's fight or flight response has settled firmly on fight and since he can't fight the sand, it's time to fight the person in the room with him.]
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...Ladder. [she points. up. it's...way up, but it's there!]
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Son of a...
[Why the hell a ladder was all the way up there and not within reach was an entirely different matter.]
[But still, credit where it was due. He looks to regard the shrinking woman.]
Good eye. Got any ideas on how we can reach it?
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Ohh... [calm down. don't panic.
...too late. panic less. she swallows, straightening and craning her neck.] No, no other...ropes or...steps...?
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[The sand's already deep enough for his ankles to be buried and it's rising fast. He's able to dislodge his feet, but the sand is too loose. He's just not getting any traction.]
[He examines the walls but there don't appear to be any handholds or anything like that either.]
This...okay. Stay calm. There's a ladder, right? Which means this room is meant to be escaped from. So...we have options. We just need to be careful. Alright? We'll be fine!
[He's desperately trying to believe that himself, but at least his voice doesn't waver. At least he's got 'acting' going for him.]
Look, let's...let's start with introductions. I'm Darin Altway. What about you?
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Dancing shoes
I've seen you put away three, but I got here after you did. [He leans one elbow on the counter, regarding the other man with unconcealed amusement.] Are you trying to float out of here?
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[Darin laughs with boundless enthusiasm.]
I dunno, I just felt the need for a drink and I just...didn't stop. But I don't feel any different! I'm serious! Watch!
[He takes his now empty mug and tosses it up in the air in such a way that it flips end over end a dozen or so times as it rises and descends. On the way down, he snaps his hand out and threads his fingers through the handle and catches it, then drops his elbow onto the countertop to lean on it as if he were tipping his mug to his newfound friend.]
See? Perfect coordination! Totally sober!
shoes
[Lucina double-blinks, wide-eyed and frowning quizzically. true, she did notice more than two or three throwbacks in her peripheral, but...]
Do you...want to be drunk?
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I mean...it tastes fine...
Have you had anything to drink? Wanna try one? Apparently they're weak as hell if I've had this many and don't feel a thing.
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Not even a stomachache from that much? [are all those glasses over there his?]
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It doesn't taste watered down either...
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Ma'am? May I have...ah... [she hesitates, pointing at the mug.] Whatever this...was...? [she flicks a glance to him; help her out, here.]
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A cold beer for my friend here, my treat. Thanks, Barkeep~
[Once the bartender moves away to get the drink, Darin introduces himself.]
Name's Darin by the way. Darin Altway. Don't force yourself to drink it if you don't like it, alright?
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sand trap
Hey. Matchy-matchy. [he points at his own blue hair.] I think it's just a death room, if I'm honest. Kind of a lazy one, too. I'd rather be killed by spikes or fire. Sand is just... eugh.