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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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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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[that said, another glass is set down while the empty ones are cleared. while taking it into both hands:] My name is Lucina. [she thinks. she's pretty sure.] It's nice to meet you.
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[A pause.]
...I realize now after saying that, that it makes me sound like a pro-drinker and I really don't think I am.
...Unless...that's a thing?
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[all the same, she has to address this drink. she lifts it off the bar and gives a tentative sniff, her nose crinkling. it smells unpleasant. maybe it's the taste that's the appeal?]
...
[...]
Oh-- [eugh. no. no, it's not the taste. she can't help but grimace as she suffers her first sip.]
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Okay, okay maybe I should have warned you about the bitterness...
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[He reaches for the mug to take for himself.]
I might not remember much, but I sure as hell remember the taste of a cold one after a long day at the forge.
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...What else do you remember? What kind of long days? Where?
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That's...where it gets a little hazy. There's familiar things, you know? Stuff I can picture and hear at the edges of my senses. Like the ringing of hammer on steel, the scent of metal shavings and oil, even the heat from the forge.
It's something I know like it's ingrained into my body. Muscle memory, you know?
But...beyond that? I don't know. All I know is when I think about it, I get this...surge of pride. This burning desire to create and the satisfaction of working with my hands.
...Probably sounds weird though, huh?
What about you?
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[Lucina is an attentive listener, though she can't help but barely hold off on interrupting to ask for more detail.
her fingers twitch at one point: muscle memory.
when the tables are turned and she's prompted, she goes still, her expression at first uncertain, then somber, then apologetic, despite the smile.]
I...I don't know, myself. I wish I did. It sounds...nice. Having some kind of...picture to hold onto. [she shakes her head.] But I don't.
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[He looks her over. Maybe there's something about her appearance or the way she's carrying herself that he can point out to her?]
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I've...I spent the day trying. Looking around. Checking places, things...for something to click. Something familiar. But so far, I only have a name, and that name isn't written anywhere, or...sound familiar when someone says it... [she shrugs.] Even the sounds in here, the drinks...I can't imagine myself having experienced it before, even though I'm here now.
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And if nothing here seems to resonate with you, you're probably not used to crowds or taverns or anything like that so...maybe you're from a secluded place?
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then, slowly, admiringly:] ...You're really good at this. I don't think in a hundred years I'd have gotten that much on my own.
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[He laughs a bit anxiously, his cheeks growing slightly pink.]
I'm...I dunno. I find watching people interesting? Maybe it's something I'm used to or...
...That...sounds really weird too. I'm not like, watching you or something!
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[At least it gave him a few precious seconds to stall and collect himself.]
I don't really know about all that. Some people probably don't take kindly to being examined closely, especially if that person can point out all of these weird, possibly intimate details about them. I think I prefer to keep a lower profile.
[It's a feeling he can't shake as he smiles wistfully into the now empty mug. The feeling of wanting to keep his head down and just...blend in.]
...But, I don't mind helping someone who clearly sees the merit in it. Especially someone who seems kinda lonely and out of place.
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her mouth twitches a bit at that last part, and she finally ducks her head a bit, bangs obscuring her eyes.]
I, I did think that was more of what I'd find... [more of herself.] But in here, some people seem...not as, as ill-at-ease as I thought. [whether that's willful efforts to relax or a natural state of mind is beyond her.]
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[But not everyone was full of anxiety and trepidation. Sure, Darin had questions. Tons of them, as anyone in this position would have. But what would agonizing over any of this get him?]
There's nothing wrong with you, you know.
[He doesn't know if that's what's bothering her, but he isn't really the type to worry about being wrong.]
People cope with things differently. We're all dealing with a shared loss of identity and...in a way, it lets people just...be who they are without any pretenses. People grow up to be someone molded by experiences and trauma and we just try and get along as best as we can. Take all of that away and you're left with...well, who you are at your core. At least, that's what I believe.
[He offers her a smile.]
You're not weird for worrying. If anything, this just means that you're conscious of others and of yourself. That's not a bad thing.
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Maybe...some good will come of it. Being...whoever I am without pretenses. [with a little laugh in her voice:] I hope it's not just being uneasy all the time!
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I think of it like a clean slate. And if I start to remember things, then I can figure it all out then. For now? What's the sense of getting sick with worry? At least we have accommodations here.
[That said, he orders yet another drink. And this time, he orders a water for Lucina so she can at least drink with him in some capacity.]
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she takes the glass offered, giving it a cursory sniff and--] ...Is this just water? [really? it's either nasty bitter beer or this??]
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Want me to taste it for you?
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