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DECEMBER 2019 TEST DRIVE

DECEMBER 2019 TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to December's Test Drive Meme!

This month's Test Drive's theme is: PROPHETIC HORROR.

All Test Drive Memes contain at least one clue to the Deerington's upcoming in-game events for the month! Keep your eyes peeled! But...not literally.

Characters may die during TDMs, but you do not need to count it towards a game-canonical death unless you want to. Consider it a freebie. All TDMs can be considered game canon as TDMs introduce minor aspects about the world of Deerington that can be revisited by characters later on in the game. You may also use TDMs for your application writing sample as well as AC.

CW: Possible death via exposure (freezing), Krampus imagery, possible vore, visual and auditory hallucinations, monster violence, stalking, decapitation

Don't forget to tag content whenever necessary. Have fun!

Prompt One Prompt Two Character Arrival Master Navigation

VANISH LIKE THE WARM STOVE

Winter has set in in Deerington and it’s as harsh as one would expect for the frigid mountains of inland Maine. There’s snow on the ground, icicles hanging off of most buildings, and black ice all over the roads. Better be careful where you step or you might just slip and hurt yourself while you’re walking around town!

But there’s something unusual about the cold. It feels bone-deep and no amount of layers or staying inside seems to make it shake. Your teeth are always chattering, you feel the need to hunch in on yourself to keep any heat from escaping, and if you look at your hands, you might see them go from bright red, to white, to even the slightest tint of blue throughout the day. You’re getting colder by the minute and it feels like there’s no way to stop it. Maybe you’re just doomed to freeze.

The box is waiting on a bench. You didn’t see who placed it, but there’s a small tag with your name on it, so clearly it was meant for you. If you ignore the box, it will start to show up on random surfaces around town wherever you might be; the kitchen counter, a desk or display case at your work, the floor of your bedroom… No matter where you are, the box is there too. Eventually, you might as well just give in and open it.

Inside every box are three matches. They’re relatively long, like the sort you’d use to light a fire in a fireplace, and they appear to be completely normal. People who can sense magic won’t get a reading off of the match and no amount of testing the wood or the tip will show anything other than the exact chemical make up one would expect. So maybe they’re safe! There’s a small note tucked inside the box with only two words written in childishly messy scroll; Keep Warm.

If you light the match, you’ll find that you’re instantly starting to feel a little less cold. It’s the first bit of heat you’ve managed to snag in so long that you’ll probably find yourself a little desperate to hold onto it. The matches burn at a relatively steady rate, not too fast or too slow, and the wind can easily blow them out, so be careful! You’ll have to protect the flame from the elements if you want to keep yourself toasty. The only strange thing that you might notice is that whenever you’re near another person who has a lit match, both the matches seem to burn a little stronger and stay lit a little longer. So maybe you’ll have to pair up and learn to share. If you’re smart, you’ll light just one of each of your matches at a time, giving you a total of six chances to keep yourself from freezing to death.

There’s always a catch though, isn’t there? Each match will come with a unique vision as the flame dies out. A vision that can be seen by both of you. The vision will belong to whoever’s match as burning and it will be as vibrant and detailed as if you were really in the middle of it.

The end of the first match will show you something you want. It can be anything; a warm meal, a new bed, an object from home you’ve longed for. You’ll be able to pick it up, taste it, smell it, do whatever you would normally do; but at the end of the day, it isn’t real, and ultimately you might find that you’re just chewing on your own (or your companion’s) hand.

The end of the second match will show a vision of someone that you miss. Whether it’s from home, a previous world, or someone who’s come and gone from Deerington, you’ll see them clear as day, calling for you and beckoning you to come with them. It’s probably best to not. After all, you’d have to leave your matches behind, and it’s cold out there.

The end of the third match will show you a vision of somewhere you miss. It’ll be like you’re standing in the middle of the very place you’ve been longing for ever since you arrived in Deerington — maybe even longer. It’ll look, sound, smell, and feel like the place you’ve missed most. It’s almost easy to want to stay and forget to come back to reality and light your next match.

If you both can make the six matches stretch until the sun sets, you’ll find that the cold has finally broken, and you’re able to keep yourself warm again. If you don’t? Well, it’s time to find someone else with a bundle of matches, and hope they’re okay with some basic invasion of privacy to stop you both from getting hypothermia.

BETTER WATCH OUT

Have you been a good person this year? Probably not! This is Deerington after all and everyone’s got a sin or two they’ve committed that they’ve been carrying around some deep shame about. Whether it’s something you’ve done here or something you did back home, the things your character feels guilt over will start to plague them more and more frequently as of late. Maybe you’ll start to see small little snippets of the memory flash before your eyes, or hear the voices of the people you’ve hurt calling out to you for mercy. No matter how it manifests, it’ll be gnawing at your insides, growing more and more impossible to ignore.

It might just be the paranoia from having to flashback to your worst memories at all hours of the day, but eventually you start to feel like someone (or something) is following you. You hear the scrape of nails against cement, the thud of heavy footsteps, or the sound of a heavy sigh by your ear accompanied with the smell of rancid breath. But every time you go to look, it seems like there isn’t anything there. No matter how logical a person you might be, you still end up feeling a little on edge, and you know you’re right about being… well, stalked. You may not be the sort who usually goes for comfort from others, but something inside of you tells you that maybe you’ll be a little safer if you aren’t alone. You seek out a friend, a colleague, or even a complete stranger— just someone who might make this creeping suspicion of being watched go away for a little while.

Except the moment that the two of you are together, Krampus finally arrives. He seems to fall from the sky, landing in front of you with a ground shaking thud, his long tongue hanging out of a mouth filled with razor sharp teeth. He’s ever bit the demon you’d expect him to be and he looks hungry. You can try to run or you can try to fight, but he’s quick and strong, certainly hard for any normal human to take down. And if you look into his eyes, then things are about to get a whole lot worse.

Whoever locks eyes with him will have the very thing you have been feeling guilt over put on display for both you and your companion to see. It’ll be like you’ve been transported directly into the memory, Krampus’ clawed hand gripping your shoulders and forcing you to watch whatever your shame is play out in front of you all over again. The detail is striking and there’s nothing left out, no matter how hard you or your companion try to stop it.

When the memory stops playing, Krampus will start to move his tongue around you, wrapping you in the long, blood red muscle like it’s a snake. You can try to break free and it’s possible to cut the demon’s tongue with a sharp blade if you or your companion happens to have one; whatever you do, it’s best to do it quickly before you end up a snack.

Krampus can be taken down in one of two ways; either the person who is experiencing the guilt must confess their sin out loud and profusely apologize, begging for forgiveness for their misdeeds or he can be taken down in a somewhat simple ceremony. The chains dangling from the Krampus wrists must be grabbed and somehow secured into the ground; this will weaken Krampus greatly and leave him more vulnerable to attack. Once he is secured, you must take off his head. It doesn’t matter if it’s cut off, ripped off or blown off, the moment the neck is severed from the rest of the body, the Krampus will turn a deep black, like coal, before crumbling into dust, leaving only the head behind.

A little messy, but definitely efficient.

Character Arrival

You can read how all characters arrive in Deerington here.

There is not a collective "all these characters showed up at the exact same moment" occurrence in Deerington. Since characters fall asleep, die, or pass out at various times throughout all their worlds, it wouldn't make too much sense if they arrived in game all at the exact same time. There should be some discrepancy between character arrival, whether by a couple minutes, hours, or even days up to a week.

The players are entirely in control of how/when they want to play their characters arriving in Deerington. For TDMs, you can play it like your character has just arrived and that can be maintained as your game canon, or you can wait until game events for that moment. Or you don't need to acknowledge it at all. The flexibility for character allows a bit more of an organic feel to the character arrival situation, so please play it to whatever feels right for you.

If you are interested in having an "arrival" introduction for one of your TDM prompts, you are more than welcome to explore that option.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

🔪 MATCH, MATCH, BABY

[ the cold is unbearable. Villanelle can’t remember even the chill of Moscow winter being as penetrating as this. Straight to the bone, like flesh doesn’t mean a thing. Her fancy fur coat, the one with the mole skin finish with large clumps of rabbit fur trimming the inside, cuffs and neck. It looked so good. Especially with a sharp pair of cat eyed sunglasses embedded with rhinestones. But she lost that ages ago. Somewhere between Prague and Dresden, certainly worlds away from this little shit hole.

So when the matches show up, everywhere, with her real name scrawled on a tiny note, she stares at it for just a moment before finally picking it up. Muttering “stalker” under her breath she flips it over to do a quick check under the lid and bottom for any laughable attempt of some sort of booby trap before she slides it open. ]

Three? Are you kidding me? What the hell am I supposed to do with three?

[ she spots someone close by and gives a shout and snaps her unbelievably frozen fingers together to get their attention ]

Hey! Do you still have all yours? Hand them over and I’ll give you something good for it.

🔪 I MAKE SINS AND TRAGEDIES

possible cw: mentions of psychopathy, murder, gore, castration, suicide

[ She feels nothing. Always. She had admitted that to Eve, maybe even more to herself. Every hour that ticks by, leaving the stink of empty, the echo of it when the rustle of crepe paper of a new purchase or a shriek of someone begging for their lives is absent. The annoying reminder of what separates her from everyone else. It’s confronting her one and only true problem, really.

So the voice begins. She recognizes it. She’d recognize it anywhere. Anna’s voice. Soft, reassuring, terribly domestic in her complacent house wife way. It had burnt Villanelle with wild passion all the same. It’s Anna’s voice shrieking at her, accusations and denial. That made her feel something at the time. Anger mostly. Some people were so ungrateful, she had to learn that the hard way.

But Anna never retaliated. Would never follow. Would never run her blunt and sensibly trimmed nails down the side of Villanelle’s bedpost as she slept. That kind of torture was well beneath her.

This is something else. She is so used to dealing with things on her own. But she can’t get a glimpse of whoever it is. Let alone any information. This calls for drastic measures.

Finding the first sucker she can, she swaggers up to them. Bright smile with just the right touch of vulnerability. That old shtick ]

You wanna grab a drink? I’ve been stalked by a match box all this week. I’m pretty shaken up by it. Could use a little comfort, you know?

[ comfort or someone as insurance. Something is watching. Better to have two pairs of eyes than one, right? ]

( ooc; feel free to pm me to talk over any of the prompts! )

[ Will's lucky this month, for some measure of the word. His matches have been burned down to their ashes with the help of a friend, and it cured him of the supernatural aspect of the cold— not that it could do anything for the very real, still-existing winter that Deerington had fallen into. He's zipped up into a rugged outdoor jacket, beanie tugged tight down over his ears with zero regard for fashion sense or what it's doing for his looks as it mashes his fringe against his forehead.

When grabbed, he reacts with surprise, which is probably reasonable given that he looks neither friendly nor like the most attractive person one could pick for asking out for a drink.

He looks her over briefly with no eye contact — he doesn't recognize her — and he frowns when something about her expression catches his attention. He couldn't pinpoint it, couldn't say this is where I see the lie, but some part of her speaking to him scratches like nails on a chalkboard. ]

I've got some idea. [ Said slowly and after a pause that's just a hair too long for normal conversation. He also looks behind her, as if he's expecting to see a literal stalker after her. The paranoia is catchy, it seems. ] The bars aren't usually much safer than anywhere else, around here.

{ooc; I'm gonna shoot you a quick pm shortly, I just wanted to get this tag to you first!}

[ Great. A weirdo.

The deadliest weapon Villanelle has is people’s love to conform. The fact that people will scramble to obey social expectations, to be polite, to do everything right. They ignore their gut instinct, they trust because someone with confidence told them how it is going to be. Like herding sheep.

But weirdos. Weirdos don’t care about any of that shit. There’s no script to follow. All improve. A challenge.

She dips her head down lower so she can catch his eyes. Her smile is endearing, a mischievous glint in her eye. ]

Something wrong? I'm not your type of pretty face, is it? Or is it my accent? You know we Russians aren’t that bad. Promise.

[ She leans in closer, a little flirty, a lot of that confident assertion too. ]

Dangerous? Yes, maybe it would be good to avoid that. But sticking together will help, right? Safety in numbers, it’s worked for ages.

[ Will's adamant about the lack of eye contact, unfortunately, and seeking it out makes him skittish. A weirdo indeed - he's already hunched against the cold, but it exaggerates into something defensive and prickly when she tries to override his initial body language. ]

Don't really care about the accent. Or the-- face. [ His voice skips like a bad record, but it's not from shyness or embarrassment. He's distracted by something he can't place, can't tell if it's her or if it's whatever she insinuated being worried about. ] I'd ask why you picked me, but it looks like we're the only ones stupid enough to be outside right now.

[ The wind chooses that moment to spit some more big, flaky snow at Will's cheek, so he supposes the weather agrees with that indictment. ] Look, if you're looking for a date, just-- [ He holds up one gloved hand, like he would physically distance himself from the idea if he could, ] --don't. If you're looking for someone to show you somewhere safe, I can walk you home.

Or to the bunker. [ If she's new, Will's counting on her not having heard of F.E.A.R. before, but he's always been quick to bring it up. A secret organization, it's very much not. ]

[ At first she thinks he’s stepping back because there’s something in the distance he’s spot before her. She doesn’t move an inch and tries to hear over the sound of the whistling wind and the low hum of paranoia ringing in her own skull.

But no, no danger yet. Just failed charm.

Her face freezes in a clenched jaw, just for the briefest moment, and then the sugary sweet smile is smoothed back into place. She feels nothing. Almost all the time. Except anger. And the feeling of her pride being smashed to bits by a socially awkward hammer. God she hates weirdos. ]

I get it. Traditional man, huh? Not until marriage. Cute. [ that’s not what it is at all. Nobody acts that way over just the suggestion of a date. But he’s offering shelter that’s good enough for her. Especially since for some reason, some strange reason it feels like a set of teeth are never far from the very back of her neck lately. ]

Bunker? Great. I’m guessing they don’t have aged whiskey and bathrobes down there, huh? What a welcome.

[ she starts walking already, in a direction she’s not even sure is the correct one to get to whatever bunker he’s referring to. She brushes as close as possible to Will, no other reason than to see his reaction. A small smirk on her lips. ]

And that’s not true. I would have asked you anyway. I think it’s your beanie.

[ playful or mean. Who knows. ]

You got a name?

[ This is all the parts of socializing that Will hates the most - the social impetus to smooth out conversational corners, to comfort little missteps. His disinterest isn't something he feels like sanding down, though, and it sharpens when she starts forward and comes-- too close. Will freezes in place not from nerves but from stopping the impulse to check her shoulder with his, aggression rushing in to comfort the embarrassment. ]

Not one for sharing with people who think they need to flirt for attention. [ Said without an attempt at apology. Will's social niceties extend about as far as preventing other Sleepers from freezing to death and stops well before indulging their strange hangups and fantasies about how information should be bought.

Will starts off in the other direction - the correct one. ] And the bunker's this way--

[ Which is when he stops short, because as soon as he turns to look at where she was coming from, he sees...

It's gone almost as soon as he spotted it, but Will's body language is abruptly tense and observant, and it's clear he saw something that spooked him. ]

[ A small sarcastic sound of ever suffering escapes past her lips as she rolls her eyes. ]

Don’t be like that, Beanie. You know you should really relax more. There’s nothing more—

[ But whatever ‘more’ is they’ll never know because of Will’s sudden change in body posture. Villanelle stops dead in her tracks, ears and eyes trained on the tree line, scanning for whatever was just seen. ]

What is it? Is there something there.

[ The fact that her sarcasm and jokes has drained away seems to suggest that her concerns about being followed are a little more serious than a stalker matchbox ]

[Dean's paranoia alarms have been on DEFCON 4 all night. So, he hears her walk up, hand itching to reach for the knife, but he pauses when she speaks. The Winchester faces her fully and keeps his fight or flight instinct in check. For now.]

Drink, I can do. Not sure about the comfort thing, but we'll see where the night takes us.

[He's been royally screwed over by a beautiful woman a time or two that turned out not to be human before, so he's still a bit on alert. But he could sympathise with the feeling of being stalked.]

Russian, right? The accent?

See where the night takes us.

[ She repeats the phrase as she gives him a quick grin, lets her eyes trail up and down him head to toe. Pointedly with a mock presentation of consideration. But the sly motive is to give him a quick sweep for anything a little off. Any sign of a holster, a switchblade stored carefully in pocket. Seems that she is equally cautious of pretty men. ]

Yes, Russian. Is that unusual? I am a bit of a world traveller so sometimes I forget.

[ A thrill is tingling in her spine, pushing the very real sense of danger to the side. Spinning a tale chock full of bullshit is always fun. It’s inappropriate in the moment, especially if the thing, imaginary or not is circulating in. Time to get shelter and some information. Fun will be just an extra little bonus. ]

Come with me and I’ll tell you about it. It’s better than freezing death.

[ or dying a mysterious one ]

[In her once-over, she would probably notice the small bulge in the back of his jacket about his hip where his pistol was holstered and on his left side was a sheathed knife. Neither of which he planned to use on her, but they were still there.]

A bit. But it's not a problem.

[He gestured for her to lead the way and would start following her as they left, hopefully at a brisk pace.]

World travel, huh? That's not for me. [Yeah, he hated flying.] Do it for the sights or work?

[He still couldn't shake the feeling of being stalked.]

[ A grin, seemingly honest and bright. Weapons and companionship all right here, it's a perfect situation. ]

Oh, really? But I suppose you do give off a bit of a country boy vibe. [ Only not. What kind of country boy walks around town armed to the teeth. One with secrets. ]

Work, mostly. But I will never say no to meeting new people. It's exciting.

[ She starts walking, trusting him to follow, but as soon as she turns the delicate hairs on the back of her neck start to prickle. A predator's gaze kind of sensation. Just as she opens her mouth to comment a whistling cuts through the air, followed by the sound of ground splitting under incredible weight. It takes her eyes far too long to digest what she's seeing in front of them.

She lets loose a string of words in Russian that need no translation, really. 'What the fuck', is a given right now. ]

[Country boy. She wasn't wrong.]

It's the plaid, isn't it?

[In his line of "work" meeting new people was almost always a disaster. Case in point:

The crashing impact has Dean reacting on years of instinct, pulling the engraved 1911 from its holster and cocking the hammer back, taking a half-step in front of her to protect her.]

What the Hell!? Can't I take one freaking step outside without... [Dean trailed off when he realised it, whatever it was, was staring past him to her. Worse yet, he didn't recognise it, which meant he didn't know exactly how to kill it.]

He a friend of yours?

[ his quick draw has no hesitation. Seems she was right that his plaid doesn’t quite hide whatever this is. Villanelle makes a face at the question while letting loose a string of some more interesting choice of curses. ]

I’m not very good at choosing friends but I would choose better than that.

[ She lunges for Dean’s belt as the thing starts walking towards them, teeth gnashing and globs of saliva dripping to the ground. ]

Give me your other weapon. Hurry!

(no subject)

67_impala - 2019-12-04 07:23 (UTC) - Expand

warnings for character-typical misogyny.

[ if this woman is trying to leverage doe-eyed sex appeal, it's not working — if anything, the deliberately beguiling fragility results in annoyance and contempt on herbert west's behalf. so many women seem to believe that all they need to get what they want is the right facial expression and the right brassiere. he considers himself lucky to be immune. ]

[ herbert answers curtly, without any of the faux-apologetic cues most other people would probably pepper in. ] I don't drink.

[ That is one chilly nature radiating off this man. Villanelle doesn't bother hiding her gaze flicking up and down him all the same. Usually blunt and unresponsive types have a thing. Some indication that they're crazy rich men with no moral compass, criminals, or just plain socially maladjusted. She'd like to think she switches up her tactic to deal with different types but levity is really the only thing she can convincingly pull off without raising alarm bells. So... ]

Ah, sobriety. That's fine. I don't understand it but I respect it.

[ She rolls her eyes over in the direction of a building to prompt him to look at the bar that's lights don't look quite as warm and inviting as it did the day before. ]

Pack of peanuts?

[ How rude. Raylan stops, one hand on his hip, and turns around with his lips pursed a little and his eyebrows cranked up so high they're practically hidden under his hat. ]

Y'know, call me a pessimist, but that don't seem like a good deal to me. [ Never mind that he took one look at the box of matches with his name on it and immediately declined to engage with that shit; he'll get to that in a second. The point here is that he doesn't want to be taken for a fool. ]

You haven't even heard what I'm offering.

[ Her expression is two clicks away from being something like a pout. Getting her way instantly by charm is never fun. And it's really too damn cold to try and overpower him in a fist fight. Fighting tall men is always a little tricky and she's pretty sure any sort of punch will shatter her fingers clean off. ]

Or would you like to guess?

[ Raylan's eyebrows dip, just so he can narrow his eyes suspiciously. This is getting more and more dubious the more she says, but goddamn him he just can't help himself. ] Alright, as fun as that sounds, I'll pass on the guessin' game. If it'll make ya feel better, though, you can gimme your offer and I'll pretend to think about it.

Edited 2019-11-27 18:48 (UTC)

[ This interaction? Drops to childish in less than three seconds. She lets out a breath that mimics a horse's trill and mutters 'party pooper' with just enough volume to make sure he hears.

She walks over to stand in front of him, arms crossed in maybe a professional manner, but really it's to hide her hands from the bitter cold. ]

It would make me feel better. We can find a tree or a car, light it on fire, but before all that we'll get you some marshmallows and you can argue with me about having a better roasting technique. How's that?

[ Raylan, a second later, puts his other hand on his hip, and now they're both standing here looking Very Professional. He's incredibly proud to be a party pooper. He'd wear it on a hat if he didn't already have a hat to wear.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth at her question, though. He's plain amused by her, but he doesn't want to laugh because she seems like she might take some offence to that. ] Don't really like marshmallows.

(no subject)

joujoux - 2019-12-02 14:21 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

ultimatums - 2019-12-06 17:35 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

joujoux - 2019-12-07 20:40 (UTC) - Expand

[ The nearby someone, in this instance, has outfitted himself in a bulky coat that makes his slight frame even slighter. It would probably stink, too, if the weather weren't nostril-paralyzingly cold.

Small mercies.

The chief feature of interest, however, isn't the man's coat but his mask. Smooth and silver, as though a mirror has swallowed his face. He turns when addressed—the finger snap reminiscent of someone—and crosses to her, close enough for her reflection to be caught in the mask, warped and distorted by the lines and hollows of his face.

He doesn't speak, not right off the bat. Maybe he's looking her over (he is), maybe he's contemplating the middle distance. When he does talk, it's with a strong Southern drawl, lackadaisical as the flow of a river. ] What're you gonna do with six [ a pause that is also deeply, inexpressibly Southern ] that you can't do with three?

Principle of multiplication, I guess? First I have three, then six, nine, and then I have enough to make me comfortable.

[ Comfortable how? Who knows. But the point might be; she plans on being out here for a while panhandling for magic matches. Seems reasonable. ]

What happened there?

[ Pointing to his mask. Zero degrees out. Zero tact. But she really can't tell if it's his physiology or a costume. Neither will surprise her at this point. Teleporting matchboxes seems to be the baseline of normal here. ]

[ Thing is—comfortable how is not a question that occurs to him. He knows the comfort of preparedness, of taking stock and having a plan in place. Of provisions and alarms.

Of a shelter there to retreat into like an escape hatch from your own damn head.

He gives a ruminative: ] Uh-huh. [ And on its heels, dryly: ] Don't suppose you've given any thought to investing in a lighter.

[ When she points out the mask, he looks left and then right. It seems deliberate. It's not, at any rate, accompanied by any fidgeting, any extraneous movement. ] Reflectatine. Protects against psychic backlash from extradimensional events. [ Such as, you know. Showing up here.

His gaze—such as it is, the silvered-over eye sockets each cupping a tiny reflection of her—returns to her. Slowly and distinctly, in the manner of a zookeeper at the lion's cage, he adds: ] Please do not touch it.

Ever seen Wild Wild West movies? They light a match on the bottom of their boot or between clenched morals? I’ve always wanted an excuse to try.

[ He doesn’t really look like the type of man who appreciates bizarre lines of thought— or rather sounds— the mask is doing a very good job hiding whatever is underneath. And is it ever a mask. A pretty shiny thing. Villanelle leans forward, eyes bright. Like telling a child not to pull the bottom card out of a card tower. ]

What would happen? An electric surge? A curse? Can it do that?

Where I'm from, we just call those movies. [ Is that a joke? His tone is nearly as opaque as the mask. A moment later, though, and it's steeled: ] You don't touch it, you ain't gotta worry about it.

[ He gives no physical reaction to the increased proximity. The naked scrutiny. Behind the mask, he's returning the favor, looking into those bright eyes, studying the nuances of expression. He takes his time before speaking again. ] Your matches. Did they come with a note?