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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.
no subject
May I ask, then, what your plan happens to be?
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...it will be easy to backtrack. You can accompany me or find another way; it is your choice.
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Since we're traveling together. Backtrack or to the wall first? [In contrast, he doesn't seem tired at all. Wary of their surroundings, but steady like a wall.]
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she's quiet for a beat, looking to the directions he'd motioned.]
You...said the exit...[she looks back at him, squinting.] disappeared? Is that right?
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I heeded the call and stepped inside. When I glanced back the wall was completely smooth without a break or markings of an opening.
[He pauses, weighing something. Then says,] There is nothing close to the wall to climb on.
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Then I would assume...going back would simply waste time, wouldn't it.
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Let's see what we can find. [He'll wait for a reply and for her to follow before he continues. He passively scans around with small glances.] I haven't felt the call since I arrived in this graveyard. But I've seen names of people I've met here.
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...right. she hadn't answered in turn.]
...Cecelia. [after another beat, she moves to catch up with him, nearly falling behind at the remark of names in the graveyard.]
You mean names etched upon the headstones. Yes?
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A headstone that looks elegant with whorls of wind and fire carved into it. He spots his name on it. Before the grave a signet ring lays before what is without a doubt a small version of a coat of arms, a fiery bird set within a shield.
He slows and stares. Then he takes a breath, shakes his head, and keeps walking.] I don’t trust any of this. With how many mind games this place seems to play. I doubt any of us are dead.
no subject
What is it you have deigned to trust, then? Given the circumstances.
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[At first that seems all he would say but he keeps going.] I trust for now we’re all trying to make sense of the chaos. And this place will not stop trying to muddy the road and slow us down.
…The rest I don’t know. I haven’t seen enough of here, or my memories to trust anything else.
no subject
this place, he says...]
You suspect the environment, not a person? [or persons.]
no subject
You are right it could be a person. We'll see.
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her jaw works in silence for many steps while she wrangles this feeling roiling around in herself. there's a want to vent, to even weep, but she's just as repulsed by the notion as she is enticed to.
in her impatience:] Can you perceive any sense of progression beyond the change of names at all? There may be a trick to this we're not yet grasping.
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He closes his eyes and breathes in. There is something here. There has to be. He opens his eyes. And stops. All the gravestones have gone blank except for one close to the wall.
They return to being numerous names. Diluc fixes his gaze on that far gravestone.] ...did you see that?
no subject
even as her eyes are searching around:] No. Explain.
no subject
It seems tied to the same reason I'm a living source of fire. I don't know how to call it forth. But I tried to focus just now, and all the names vanished from the tombstones. One by the far wall gives off a sense of fire, just like my own.
[He cups his hands and wills that sense of heat to his palms. Heat and flame burst up between his fingers, then settles down into a tiny candle flame. He isn't hurt.
no subject
The names...vanished. [a living source of fire? what? is that an elaborate metaphor?] And now...you feel some kinship with a hea--?!?!??!?!?
[she startles when surprise firehands, stepping back a couple paces with wide eyes.]
Gads-!!
no subject
Yes, I can see that glimmer ahead of us. It's a possible clue. Or bait. Either way, it's something. I'll guide us there if you wish to look.
no subject
Well...well, you seem to be full of surprises and insight - far more than I, admittedly. So...yes. Let us see, then, what this...glimmer has in store.
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The gravestones line the path. His head aches as if something is a breath away. He ignores it until the pain fades. Ahead of them on the right side is a version of his grave. The others had a ring with a crest on it. A small shield with what was a coat of arms.
Resting against the headstone is a massive black and red sword. His hand itches to grab it. He reaches for it despite himself and grasps it. It is only after he grabbed it that he realizes it was with the hand that held a flame. The thread of fire weaves over the blade as if it was always meant to.
And a wash of cool air to his left makes him turn. A hallway of stone with the exit at the end yawns before them. He stares at the sword. He could take it.
But instead he lays it back in place and walks towards the new hallway. The urge to go back and take it pulls on him. He shakes his head. Behind him the flames die out on the blade.]
no subject
she's more vindicated in her wariness when she watches him gravitate toward a wicked-looking sword; she feels a sinking pit in her stomach that's...familiar, but still faraway in its full meaning. her skin prickles at the sight of flame rushing across and ebbing on the steel, prompting her to hug her arms to herself. before she can ask him the meaning of what just happened, he's already on the move with such purpose, yet all she sees is...endless headstones.]
Wait--
[perplexed, she has to hasten a step to catch up to her safe distance.] What was the meaning of that?
no subject
Whatever it is telling us, it is something. Are you alright? [He glances back at her with open concern. Maybe he should be worried for himself, but he isn't. Swords. Fire. These things are tied to him. As long as he doesn't hurt anyone he is trying to protect.]
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