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1.0 Test Drive Meme
1.0 Test Drive Meme
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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.
Dahlia Hawthorne | Ace Attorney
STAYWELL HOTEL
She sits in the lobby, staring at the key she's received from the front desk. She has yet to make it to her room, brown eyes narrowing at the key as she tries to recall just how she got here. There are spare memories - things she can recall but nothing concrete - but nothing that comes to mind of how she arrived at Wellstone. Dahlia sets the key down rubbing her temples as she decides that it's currently not worth the effort to try and remember. Besides, she feels like she's supposed to be here, and it's a warm welcoming feeling.
She starts to twirl her fingers through her red hair, idly wondering what she should do next. Exploring could be interesting. She could ask the hotel staff questions about the area. She could go to her room and lay in bed until nightfall doing nothing until she willed herself out again. She had options, but instead, she sits in the lobby, considering them instead of actually getting up.
Finally, she rises to her feet, smoothing out the cloth of her dress with a heavy sigh. It was too hot to really explore, wasn't it?
"Well," She says to herself with a smile. "Let's see what there is to do."
With that, she makes her way to the bulletin board, taking a look to see what is currently advertised.
PUT ON YOUR DANCING SHOES
The night air was like a balm, cooling her heated skin from the harsh day and inviting her back outside to explore. The music is what calls to her, drawing her inside the saloon with welcoming arms. She has her hair up in a loose bun, mostly to keep the heat off her neck, her dress sweeping the floor as she walks towards the bar with a sweet smile. Maybe just one drink wouldn't be so bad. It's not like she had the opportunity before.... before? The thought is gone as quickly as it arrives, not quite sure where she was going with it.
Dahlia orders her drink - a Mary Pickford - and takes her seat at the bar.
"The music is quite lively isn't it?" She glances toward the person next to her as she waits for her drink, a smile never leaving her lips. "Almost makes you want to dance."
Does she like to dance? Does her newfound conversation partner like to dance? Well, it was definitely a mystery she was oddly looking forward to finding out.
MEMORIES OF THE LIVING
She feels like she's been wandering the small graveyard for hours. It was starting to frustrate her, unable to find the exit as she continues to pass by what she swears is the same headstone she passed by when she first arrived. A scowl crosses her features, huffing as she kicks up dust and dirt - nearly kicking over a wooden cross that marked someone's grave practically throwing down her parasol in the process. Deep breaths, Dahlia, why are you so angry? It's not like she's entirely lost - or entirely alone.
"Please tell me," Agitation still clear in her voice, "you aren't lost as well?"
She quickly lifts up her parasol from the ground, shaking the dirt and dust off as she takes another calming breath. Perhaps with another person would be beneficial for finding a way out. Two heads were better than one, after all.
memmies
"Oh, I...I'm sorry." She stops just shy of a proper, conversational distance, her expression pinched. "You the words right out of my mouth, I'm afraid."
She's just as lost, unfortunately.
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That was unfortunate. She does her best to school her expression as she tries to smile. It wasn't this woman's fault that she was lost. She had wandered in on her own free will - she thinks. Maybe? She did feel a sort of draw to this place...
"Well, perhaps we can search for a way out together." She rests her parasol on her shoulder. "It would be nice to return to the hotel for some rest."
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...Especially in that lengthy dress. That's a lot of fabric to navigate with out here.
"I agree," she says, nodding. "Let's try a direction neither of us took and go from there." She points behind her. "I came from this way...and did you take a straight line or zigzag around?"
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But it might be a futile effort is what she's implying.
"Where would you like to start?" They, thankfully, had a few directions to choose from. She glances to their right, hoping to see the exit but she sees nothing but stone and wood marking graves.
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"Well..." Which way? She tilts her hat off her ponytail so she can see further ahead of them past her bangs. "How about this way?"
She points off just slightly to the right. "There's a large...um..." Whatever the hell a cactus is. "That strange pillar. It's something of a landmark. It might be closer to the fence, too, and then we can follow that to the gate?"
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It was a better idea than she had previously which was to wander aimlessly until she found her way out again. She twirls the parasol idly before she takes a step forward.
"Let's go, then." She smiles. "No need to waste time standing still."
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Lucina falls into step beside the polite young lady, already feeling better for having a direction to put all this anxious energy into moving toward.
"My name's Lucina," she says, offering a small, somewhat sheepish smile. "Sorry, I should've said so first..."
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Honestly she couldn't say what was a pleasure or not. There is an irritation deep down, a frustration she wants to scream about, but she doesn't understand. Best not to dwell for now, best not to lay out her worries to a stranger.
Though, maybe she won't be a stranger for long.
"Have you been here long?" She has no frame of reference as to when people have arrived. Considering she just found herself standing at the front desk of the hotel. "The town that is... not the cemetery."
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And it's strange that she's in such a state with no sign of injury; even so, she absently reaches to feel the back of her head, just to be sure.
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She smiles a bit, glancing toward Lucina. "I'm glad I am not the only one who doesn't remember anything beyond yesterday."
It was comforting in a way, that she wasn't alone with this feeling of emptiness, of loss, of wonder. Who was she without her memories? She supposes she will just have to find out.
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"I only regret not having more help to offer, but...if I can at least help you get out of here, I'll consider it something of a victory."
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Would they though? She wonders how long it will take them to find a way out. She hopes not too long, but she has completely lost track of time. The sun has not set, the air hasn't cooled much, and she wishes she hadn't wandered into the desert without some sort of plan.
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After about ten minutes, Lucina grimaces.
"Does it...seem any closer to you?" Maybe? She could squint and assume it is...or that it's farther away.
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"Hmn?" She blinks, glancing in the distance, frowning. "No... it does not."
How annoying.
"How is that possible?"
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She can't help but start to feel the dark weight of a real threat.
Her pace, which had slowed as they realized this, started to pickup again with urgency--up until a staggered stop when something catches her eye.
"What's-?"
She hesitates, looking toward one of the grave markers. Something had glinted, what was...?
"What's this...?" She approaches it, crouching and picking up a thin, silver wedding band. "A ring?"
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"You...found a ring?" She asks, taking a step closer to see the piece.
What did it mean?
"It's lovely." And simple. "Does it mean something to you or do you think someone lost it?"
Did Lucina lose it and not know? Or lose it and not recognize it as something she lost? What a dreadful thing their memory is turning out to be.
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dancing shoes
Well, what's the harm, in the end? It's a nice enough place, and the bartender was kind enough to give him a glass of orange juice. Alcohol, Flynn thinks, doesn't seem like a good idea on your first night just about anywhere, and anyway it doesn't matter because his limbs are full of a pleasant kind of warmth, and the tips of his booted toes keep tapping against the bar.
"Almost," Flynn echoes, and shifts on his stool to face the newcomer entirely. Out of the question to ignore her, and he's practically overflowing with warmth. "In spite of— you know, I can't actually be sure I've ever danced at a place like this, before. Do you think you have to be good at it?"
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Dahlia takes a sip of her drink once it's placed in front of her. Definitely, one of her better choices when it came to drinking. The man beside her was thankfully handsome - though should she be looking? She has her relationship (one of the few things she can recall) but she hasn't seemed to find Phoenix yet. Something settles in her chest as she thinks about Phoenix, almost unpleasant, and she decides to stop dwelling on him for now.
He's not here.
"Maybe," She starts again, setting her drink aside. "We could get to know each other first, instead of jumping right into dancing." She laughs again. "Though I wouldn't be opposed to dancing."
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The thoughts flit through, don't take root, spin off into nothing as Flynn leans on the bar and half-turns, looking out at the laughing crowd and then back at his companion with a growing smile.
"In that case," he says, with a nod at her drink, "you'll get a chance to finish that, and then we'll see whether skill or enthusiasm matters more. I think it's polite to at least ask your name before I invite you to possibly let me stand on your feet."
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Of all the things she remembers, at least it was her name. That could have been quite embarrassing if she had forgotten it.
"Dahlia Hawthorne." She offers her hand to him. "It's a pleasure."
Because it was quite the pleasure in that moment. The warmth from the alcohol settles in her chest and spreads through her body, a welcoming presence when she seemed adrift. Whatever worries she had about her stay in this town were slipping away, and perhaps it was because of her present company.
Maybe dancing wouldn't be so bad after all.
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There's something so easy about this. Maybe it's the warmth fluttering light in his veins, maybe it's something in him that says you know how to do this, even though he absolutely doesn't.
"Flynn," he says, and tacks on a quick, "Scifo," as he shakes her hand, firm and easy. "And really, the pleasure is mine. I can't say I've met many people in this town so far. It's kind of nice to think about dancing instead of all the things we don't know. I hope you're settling in better than I am."
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Because the things she does not know outweigh what she does know which. She knows her name (at least, what she believes is her name, but there's some solid about the way it sounds when she speaks it) and scattered memories that are familiar in feeling but she doesn't quite understand. It's unnerving how much she can't recall. Her brows knit together as she worries her lip.
"Though, I'm not sure "settling in" is the term I'd use. I suppose I am resigning myself to the mystery of my being here, and I will take it one day at a time." It's all she can do. She smiles, however, taking another sip of her drink. "If I keep meeting people like you, however, I'm sure my time here will be enjoyed."
She hasn't met many people, but those she has met she's thus far gotten along with to some extent.
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The desert had its own charm, she supposes, but if she had to choose she would definitely go somewhere by the ocean. She thinks. It's hard to say now that she thinks about it. Would it really matter if she was in the desert or by the ocean if she was able to just curl up with a good book?
"Or at least I think I would." She admits as she turns away, almost a little embarrassed that she has no idea if she would or not. It sounds like something she'd say...right? "What of yourself?"
Maybe turning the conversation to him would at least make her feel less like a fool. They could be fools together.