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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.
02!
[ Flynn narrowly sidesteps putting his heel through the broken end of a bottle, jostles it with a sharp tinkle of glass instead as he comes down slightly to its left. Crisis averted, he guesses, and looks up from the carnage with a small smile that brightens quickly. ]
Thank you! What a mess; I don't see why you wouldn't just return your glasses. It seems like such a waste.
[ His fingers twitch with some half-remembered urge. Somebody, he thinks, should really tidy these, or someone is going to get hurt, and he very nearly bends to pick one up when he remembers his reason for leaving the crowd behind to come over here in the first place. ]
Um— but, if you'd like to get out of the muck—
[ Smooth, Scifo! How are you supposed to ask someone who looks just a little lonely if they'd like to dance? Does he just spit it out? Isn't there a protocol for this kind of thing...? If there is, he doesn't remember it, and now he's just standing here staring at her, so— ]
Would you like to dance?
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take this man's case: even with a startle, he shifts without twitching, so he's surely no anxious wallfly. yet in the half-start of cleaning, he must have much on his mind to be so quick to drop his valuable first-impression for such a diversion.
...or he's got a clean-streak. both can be true or none at all.
her eyebrow lifts. muck. hm.
her head tilts. an offer to dance? without an offer to a name at all?]
Are you offering because you wish to dance, sir? [or evade the draw of cleaning.]
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But his drink did betray him, and he is loose and easy and the bottles keep winking at him, clinking every time he taps his heel in time with music that doesn't feel familiar at all. ]
Well, yes. And because no one should be relegated to the wall.
[ ...wait. ]
Unless that's where you'd prefer to be! It was a little presumptuous of me just to ask—you really don't have to say yes. I can dance on my own!
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curtly:] It was, but I'm not offended. Rather... I wonder: Do you not think a stranger would be keener to join you were you to offer a name first?
[a beat. starting to frown:] ...If you recall one at all.
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My name is Flynn. It's all I can seem to recall!
[ He's been given an out, at least, which is very gracious of her, so at least he's only almost put his foot through several broken bottles instead of straight into his own mouth. ]
Let me start that again, then, please: what is your name, and would you like to be left alone against your wall?
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she goes still for a beat, feeling...something. a flutter. it's a little alarming, so sudden as it is, but as she looks up from Flynn's hand to his face and feels it again, dots connect.
...gads...keep it together, woman!
while lifting her chin:] I'll learn nothing more just standing here; perhaps I'll remember how to dance.
[with a slight bow of her head:] If my memory is true, my name is Cecelia Ardenbury.
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It's a pleasure to meet you, Cecelia.
[ That, at least, Flynn means. It's been a long day of sun and sand and headaches, and now he knows the name of at least one other person and the world feels a little more open with it. ]
You're gracious for giving me another try— oh!
[ The music tips over from a rolling melody into one that frolics from note to note, making half the joint whoop with excitement. Flynn turns his head to watch the crowd with a grin caught on his lips, caught up himself. ]
Let's join them! We'll see what we remember, at least!
no subject
at the very least, her alarm can easily be mistaken for being startled by the hollering - it is pretty damn loud in here - and she can try and recompose quickly enough.]
Ye-yes. Very well. Lead on...
no subject
[ Which is a very inspiring thing to say just as he's leading his new friend into a dance, but that's alright, because, it turns out, Flynn does not step on her feet. He leads her gently by the hand to a slightly-less crowded and considerably-less-messy part of the saloon, just behind a few tables.
Maybe it's because the music is familiar, in a bone-deep sort of way that makes Flynn's head hurt. Maybe it's because he's loose and not thinking about it too hard, but actually, he's at least on rhythm, swaying to the beat as he pulls Cecelia up at a respectable distance, smiling. ]
We have a lot to figure out, but it's nice not to worry too much about it for a little while and just enjoy ourselves.
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she can only puzzle about it so much in the midst of trying to keep tempo and master her footing. it...comes naturally, somehow. maybe she really did do a lot of dreaming, once upon a time. the bit of satisfaction that swells up lifts her head so her eyes can finally meet Flynn's. warm, smiling eyes - a summer's blue sky. her own, severe gold, seem to soften.]
I look like...someone you wouldn't have to worry too much about? Is that what you mean? [soft eyes, sure, but her words are still sharpened for scrutiny.]
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[ That is what he meant, Flynn supposes, although not exactly what he meant. Dancing, apparently, doesn't require a lot of thought. Maybe it's something he's done a lot of? He remembers crowded, falling-down kinds of buildings, people and voices. Is that the kind of place dancing happens? Is he the kind of person who would have thrown himself into it?
Maybe it's his skills with a sword, very much remembered, that make him a good dancer. Flynn doesn't have to think terribly much about his feet, and though he occasionally falters or misses a beat, he is, at least, a confident dancer, and Cecelia seems to know what she's doing: it's easy, and fun, and that bright warm thing in him blooms a little more. ]
Maybe that is what I mean. You warned me about the bottles. Doesn't that suggest that you're a kind person?
no subject
Even so, [she flicks her glance sidelong back his way, a wry tone creeping in.] do take care not to assume kindness where practicality can simply suffice. It's not as though we have enough evidence to believe each other to be true, yes?
no subject
Are you trying to convince me not to trust you? I think the way to do that would be to tell me that I could, not tell me I'm being naive and that I should be wary of you. Unless you really do have some nefarious design you're hiding.
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I didn't mean naive, only... I suppose...[...ya got me kid.] No, that probably was what I meant. But would you blame me for be cautious?
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[ He says, still smiling, catching at her so she doesn't spin too far. ]
That should extend to anyone, but I do think you're trustworthy. Am I wrong?
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it can't be just her.]
Does this familiar to you at all?
no subject
[ Another spin, this one quicker, matched up with steps that Flynn doesn't, shouldn't, know. A little trick of the foot, a turn. He's having fun, is the thing. ]
Or... being dropped somewhere with no memory of making the choice to get there? Dancing feels incredibly familiar. The rest of this situation, I can't say the same. Something tells me I knew a lot about the desert, though. What about you? What can you remember?
no subject
We've done this before, you and I. That's...what it feels like.
[she can't be completely certain, but she feels convinced to some degree; the Cecelia she was before this lived a hundred different lives and roles, danced a thousand dances with hundreds of partners, and so many of them had similar eyes and smiles; in this fog, it's too much to imagine much more than one, so for now, this is a singular point to try and--
ah...
she misses a step, the hammering in her head more like a pickaxe behind her eye, prompting her to squeeze both shut and suck a breath sharply through her teeth.]
no subject
[ Flynn starts, but then she falters, and drags in a sharp breath that sounds very like pain, and he stops all at once, clutching at her arm, already moving to pull her to the side. ]
Cecelia! Is it your head? Are you trying to—you really have to stop, if you're trying to remember, it isn't worth it at all!
no subject
it's brief, but enough to be unsettling; she's paler for it, feeling a chill under her skin as her stomach clenches.]
That... [exhale. she blinks a few times, squinting.] Ah, that...was unpleasant...
no subject
It is, isn't it. I stained one of my shirts trying to remember something earlier. Are you alright? Some water would help, if you need—
no subject
Y...yes. That--if you please.
[maybe when the pain eases a bit she can probe at that staining a shirt with a headache...]
no subject
Here—the biggest glass I could get, and it's cold. Let me get you a stool, while you drink that!
[ If she's going to protest too bad he's already hurrying away to do that too ]
no subject
she wordlessly accepts the glass with both hands, having a generous drink before setting it down and focusing on it for the remainder of her few seconds alone.]
My thanks. [almost inaudible in the noise of the bar - gads, was it always this bloody loud? - but earnest enough. she sits down, lifting a hand away to rub at her temple for a moment before squinting at Flynn.]
What was it you were saying? About it happening to you? [and messing up a SHIRT???]
no subject
[ Flynn wrinkles his nose, hovering beside her like she's going to fall off the stool if he's not right there to make sure she doesn't. Maybe the water is helping, but Flynn knows that pain all too well, and it doesn't subside quickly. ]
I can't be sure whether it was just... me, or whether this happens every time, but earlier I was trying to figure out... honestly anything else about myself. The more I thought about it, the more my head felt like I'd been hit with a shield. The next thing I knew, the front of my shirt was coated in blood. I got a nosebleed, I think, and nearly passed out. It does kind of put a damper on the idea of having a carefree night here. Are you feeling alright?
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