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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.

Threaded | Flat

CONTENT WARNINGS: BARRY (HBO) touches on concepts of PTSD, mental illness, depression, murder, war, and that there-in. If any of this subject matter is sensitive to you please let me know and I will do my best to circumnavigate them for you.

ONE █ VANISH LIKE THE WARM STOVE

OPTION A:
[The cold masks the harsh landscape of Deerington like the deadly force of a blizzard without the furious storm to lead it in. Barry's no stranger to snow, having been a native of Cleveland, but the temperature is more than a rattle of bones, it's a deep cold that sets into every pore of his being. It locks his joints and sets his jaw, he's had to layer on what clothes he arrived with. It's all more suited to Los Angeles, and the Henley only does so much for body heat with a Lulu Lemon tracksuit piled over it.

The gloom of the constantly flowing crisp snow would evoke happiness for kids who might associate it to something cheerful like Christmas or building snowmen but Barry knows how quick harsh terrain can turn from difficult to cruel so he's been busying himself with the basics. Kitty litter, two huge forty lbs bags of litter are on his shoulders as he exits the store and he makes these trips, one at a time, loading up his shitty station wagon with shit like that, large boxes of salt, bulk size cans of potted meat, and the fundamentals. There are some ratty blankets and a shovel. He's dressed down, his face chapped pink from the cold, but it's clear he's trying to stay busy and moving despite it all. He shines a flashlight into abandoned store-windows, before moving in for extra provisions and they're always on the strange side for anyone not well acquainted with snow or hardship.]

OPTION B:
[When Barry first finds the box it's during a routine casing of the stores on Mainstreet. He's in the middle of putting chains on the tires of his car when it appears, at random, under the wheel well.

Common sense tells him not to open it, but he still does - and he's surprised to find the matches there and the tiny scrawled lettering. At first, he's not sure what good they'll do or what they could be used for just shy of lighting the fireplace at his house. The cold being as crippling as it was has him pulling just one from the box, and he strikes it fairly easy- staring into the flame long after it starts to burn down like those same flames were purifying his soul.

A family, simple. His wife, a son - doing the things normal families would do. It's a day at the park, a push on a swing. Barry can hear the laughter around him, the creak of the chain against the pole, and cut through the air as kids next to him and his son, pump and fan their legs.

It's over as soon as it starts, replaced with the same crushing stabbing into his skin like a thousand tiny knives. Even though he barely resists the siren call, he has enough sense of self to know that it's not real.

The second match follows suit and this time he's enraptured by it, what he sees instead of someone he misses, is Chris sitting front of an open bonfire outside of the car he'd left his body in, the bullet-hole still wet and dripping at the side of his head. Barry's eyes were already outlined in red from the cold, now get a little glassier and yeah, he loses time. This particular vision keeping him locked in for so long that he cups his hand over the flame completely. When it fades out, Barry's fist pushes what remains of the stricken mash into the snow beside his car. Once, twice, three times- until his knuckles come up slightly bloody from the flakes of ice cutting into his skin.]

TWO █ NETWORK / UN: BBLOCK ; TEXT

I've been to the library and there's zero topographical information about this town around, I mean - nothing consistent. Which I guess you'd expect for a place with living organs in the walls and flooring, but I'm just wondering if there's anything like substantial or at least rooted in SOME sort of reality.

I don't know, historical documents??
Something, anything. So far all I've got is a lot of Nuke Town nonsense.

THREE █ WILDCARD

[This is a place for any of the above prompts or anything you feel like doing. You can throw your character's arrival, a random location in Deerington. Whatever tickles your fancy!! Feel free to get me at

doggos for any questions and concerns. TY. MERLY CHRSLYR]

Edited 2019-11-23 07:45 (UTC)

VANISH LIKE A WARM STOVE

(a) NO MATCHES
[ the box keeps appearing.

no matter where she goes, the box appears—on a park bench, beside her in a cafe, under a pile of clothes in a clothing store, on her desk in her new home… even when tossed into the trash, it finds its way back to her.

it's in a warm cafe that she sits at a table and glares down at her box. there's no food in front of her, not even a cup of coffee—it's just katherine, her attitude wrapped up in a stylish coat and scarf, and this damn box. with her elbow resting on the table, she leans her chin on her fist as she eyes it, expecting it to shake, to burst open and release the contents of pandora's box, or simply vanish.

it does neither of those things.

mumbling angrily to herself, ]

stay gone

[ no one can blame a 500 year old lady of being too paranoid to open an oddly bewitched box. ]

(b) BURN BABY BURN AKA MATCH USE
[ eventually, katherine gives in and gives the damn box what it wants: she opens it.

nothing really happens. there's no clap of thunder, no violent shake of the ground… the cafe she sits in remains as calm and full of life as it was just moments ago.

it's with an unimpressed pout that she regards it, now lit in her hand. it's just a match. how the hell is a tiny, little thing of wood going to keep her warm from that pesky chill?

then she sees it.

it's her in a spilling pink gown, hair impeccably curled and loose around her shoulders, chasing after a little girl with hair in ringlets tighter than hers. she chases after her with a full laugh, hearing the little girl cry out in joy as she picks up the pace and tries to outmanoeuvre her.

katherine barely picks up her pace, deliberately going slower in her chase. when that little girl bolts towards a thick tree, she collides with it and hides behind it, peering around. she looks just like katherine, except for her warm blue eyes.

you can't catch me, mama.

then katherine's hand slams into her chest as she lets out a stifled scream. it's like a dagger being plunged into her heart—or worse, a freaking stake. her other arm lashes out and knocks her box to the floor. ]

BETTER WATCH OUT

[ you know what's fun? being chased by a creature that looks like one of her numerous ex-boyfriends.

with her companion—stranger or friend—by her side, katherine feels some semblance of responsibility for them. guiding them into a thin alley way, she slams her hands against the high fence signifying a dead end. ]

Damn it!

[ whipping around, she can hear the monster's footsteps—loud and heavy and hungry. while she's not the first to have the thought of pushing her companion into the monster's arms and run to save herself, she's not a coward—and by far, she's not unfair, contrary to popular belief.

when krampus appears in the alley way, katherine finds herself standing between him and her friend—and that's when she makes the mistake.

locking eyes with him, she feels stuck in place. there he stands, in his crisp, immaculate suit, looking at her like she had so cruelly and so coldheartedly snatched the entire world from him. elijah is handsome in his dark suit, and even more so with the vulnerability of his expression. the air around him is electric.

what makes the vision appear ugly is in his recoil. it's his distrust in her word—in her authenticity—that hurts the most, and katherine can feel it begin to rip her apart all over again. rather than keep her feet in place, she sees and feels herself walk away all over again. all she wants to do is turn back.

with her feet off the ground and wrapped in the gross tongue of krampus, katherine fidgets and pushes and pulls as best she can. ]

go!

[ a little help, companion? ]

NETWORK

[ this one comes in the very early hours of the morning. guess who isn't getting her beauty sleep? (not that she needs it, lbr.) ]

@ katherine

I'm bored. Let's play a little game. I say a word, you say the first word that comes to your mind and I'll say the first word that comes to mine. We'll go back and forth until someone says more than one word. Make sense? Great.

Creepy.

WILDCARD

[ you can wildcard me if you like! have your character be the one wrapped up in krampus' saliva or lighting match #2. katherine's from 4x18. ]

VANISH LIKE THE WARM STOVE

[ holy shit. it gets cold in indiana, of course it does, but the october chill she just came from is nothing like what the weather is like here, and for someone that generally runs a little cold, this is unbearable. teeth-chattering, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders pulled up to her ears - awful. she's been here a few days, long enough to sort of know her way around, but she obviously made a huge mistake, leaving her apartment in hopes of finding more clothes she can layer under her coat, or a few more blankets. it's weird how they just give her those sorts of things for free here, but she's not questioning it. ☆★ ]

☆

[ she also doesn't question when a box with her name on it appears on the window ledge she's leaning up against when her body feels so cold she needs to just stop and duck away from the wind for a moment. the box should be a red flag, maybe. it came out of nowhere. still, she turns her back so she's facing the storefront, just so she can open the box without worrying about the wind pulling at its contents. but they're- matches. and a note. keep warm.

and she's feeling desperate enough to do just that.

well, once she steps inside the store she's been loitering in front of, right. she's sure she's not supposed to light matches just- without warning in a shop, but, she doesn't really care. ask for forgiveness, not permission, right? so she strikes her first match, and the glow of it seems to warm her whole face and her hands right away. enough that she actually shuts her eyes and smiles. it doesn't register that one single match flame shouldn't warm her up quite like this, but she doesn't question that either. it's amazing what an uncomfortable cold will make you look past. thank god.

eventually she looks up, checking for a newspaper or something flammable she can buy to bring back to her apartment and light a small fire, but instead she ends up making eye contact with someone else who just stepped into the shop to get out of the cold, looking just as shaken as she did a moment ago. without thinking, she holds out her match a little bit towards them. ]

Here. Warm your hands, if you need to. It still has a little ways to go.

[ oh, nancy. so dang helpful, as always.

what she doesn't realize is once that first match burns low, a vision of her living room will appear. it's blurred though, for the most part, all but the roaring fire in the fireplace. she doesn't quite understand it at first, looking around with a quick whip of her head left and right. maybe the thing she longs for the most is home - but right now, specifically? it's the very fireplace that's sitting right in front of her. so she rushes towards it, encouraging the person sharing the memory to come with her, crouching low and sitting right there in front of it, despite how hot she gets, so quickly. the vision only lasts a few moments though, minutes maybe, tops, before the fire snuffs out all at once, and she's back in that shop again.

where it's freezing frickin' cold. ]

Shit. Shit, shit. No- What was that? How-?

[ oh, wow, the cold is so much worse after sitting by the fire. shit. ]

★

[ all she has to do is find the right store so she can get what she needs. which results in way more wandering around from shop to shop than she'd like to do when she can't really feel her fingers anymore, but she knows she needs something useful or she'll completely lose her ..cool. ah.

blankets. blanket, blanket, blanket. that's what her mind fixates on, and she makes a sound that's something like a triumphant yelp into the cold air when she comes across a camping supply store. perfect. they'll have all kinds of things for dealing with the cold, right?

well, they would have, if she wasn't so late to the game of finding ways to stay warm. the place looks absolutely ransacked. still, she wanders along the nearly empty shelves, quietly stepping past the other people browsing, until she sees - on top of one of the display cases - a bundle. when she shuffles her way towards it, she sees it's a fleece bundle, and her mood lifts just a little bit more. it's definitely the scratchy kind meant to lie on the ground or at the floor of a tent a few times folded over, and not the kind you wrap around yourself for warmth, but whatever. she'll take it.

if only she could reach the damn thing.

so basically, whoever comes by next, they'll see a petite girl in an oversized coat, hood up, on her tiptoes with both hands stretched up as high as she can reach, and still coming about six inches short from where the bundle sits. you can probably hear her cursing under her breath, too. ]

C'mon, you stupid - bullshit - little -

ooc holy tldr batman! don't worry about matching length or any of that shenanigans, 4am is just a wild time to write starters. i left the matches prompt open after just one match so we can play out how they handle the rest of the match situation, aaaand the second one is just silly in case you don't want to have your character share some deep secrets. hit me up if you'd like a different starter, or just wildcard me!

sexbang

Edited 2019-11-23 09:30 (UTC)

i really can't stay (network/un:pattyo).

I'm gonna be honest given the choice between spending my winter break in some strange frozen dreamscape with no visible means of leaving and sacramento........... i'd pick this place every time.

are we SURE there's no way to communicate with our home worlds though? Because i don't mind staying for a bit IT COULD NE INTERESTING!! but if I do't at least leave a message with my editor she will literally kill me and I'd at least like to finish my Masters before i die I think. i worked so hard onit.

Oh! and what's the Supernatural Community like around here?? i figure if I'm around I might as well see if I can collect research for another book, right? maybe then May will only MOSTLY kill me instead of completely.

baby it's cold outside.

[ patrick isn't exactly built for cold weather. not this cold, anyway. between ireland and california, his knowledge of snow was mostly academic. he doesn't even own a good winter coat, and had to resort to layering 3 deep before he even contemplated stepping outside.

it helped, for a little while, but his hand circulation is complete garbage and he lost complete feeling in his fingers about five minutes ago. that cannot be good. not that he's an expert on any of this stuff. in fact, just to be safe, he quickly crosses the distance between himself and the first person he comes across and shoves his ungloved hands into their face. ]

H-h-h-hey is it b-b-bad if m-my fing-gert-t-tip-ps are t-t-turn-ning b-blue?

i've got to go away.

[ he's not sure if it's thanks to the societal implications of the season or something especially strange about this curious little dream town, but patrick swears he keeps catching glimpses of his mother and stepsister around town, little flickers of motion and color out of the corner of his eye that has him spinning on his heels anxiously every couple of blocks until he's honestly dizzy from it.

he stops to lean against a brickfaced storefront until his equilibrium settles, then stays leaning a little longer, eyes cast down because he can't glimpse them if he's too busy staring at his feet, right? except that's when their voice drift in, ghost like and carried along by the frigid wind, cutting through him sharper than the chill ever could.

patrick shivers and contemplated buying a pair of earmuffs.

he doesn't want to see them, he's been very clear with his therapist on that matter before, yet for some reason his subconscious appears to firmly disagree with him now and he has no idea why. his mother says she's worried. imee says she misses him. patrick firmly covers his ears and all but flings himself around the corner of the building, determined to find some sort of distraction.

only to collide firmly with another person and get sent sprawling to the icy ground. ] You know, with the number of times this has happened to me in my life, I really should have had a meet cute by now. I feel like corporate Hollywood has been lying to me my entire life.

[ how would you even know if you had a meet cute, totoy, when you refuse to open your eyes?

imee's voice sounds like it's being spoken directly into his ear now, and patrick makes an abortive gesture to cover his ears again with his hands again, before grounding his hands into the asphalt below him instead and using that cold prickling pain as a distraction to drown her out as he turns his attention to his new company instead, smiling wide. ]

Hey so is there something strange going on in town right now, or do I need to schedule an emergency session with a therapist-does this place even have licensed practitioners? I can't remember when America started pretending to care about people's mental health.

{ooc; permissions & content warnings here. in general the cws will run towards excusing selfish behavior & just generally being a nightmare of entitlement.}

Vanish Like The Warm Stove / Arrival

option 1
[ Kylo didn't, in fact, have any trouble with ignoring the box. His name printed on the little tag - his false name, his forgotten one - was enough to see him jerking it up off the little bench and inspecting it.

Matches. And a note.

He'd hurled it out into the field and kept walking, shoulders hunched in for warmth.

But as time went on, it seemed letting the box know he wasn't interested in whatever sort of screw it was trying to drive into 'destiny' wasn't working. It popped up in increasingly strange places, like a bad memory. At one point it nearly fell out onto his head when he opened a cabinet in his assigned quarters here, exploring what was meant to be his.

So finally, he took this thing, too. And lighting the match was-- ]

Finally. [ He's in his quarters - in Brahms, in the David Cliff Apartments, according to the signage outside - which means it might be impossible to overhear him for the moment.

But he ends up keeping his match, and its accompanying box, with him. Sulking in his room might sound like the best idea for later, but for now - he's out prowling for food, now that the match has solved the pressing issue of freezing. He's unlikely to approach anyone, but the very obvious match he's holding might attract anyone else who's gone ahead and lit their own...or who hasn't caved and lit their match, but can feel the radiant heat off of Kylo's. ]

option 2
[ To the surprise of absolutely no one, Kylo still managed to blow through the majority of his matches while wandering around on his own and while turning down offers of help. The warmer he got from his matches, the more he realized this was ridiculous. How could he possibly not be able to keep himself warm, if this tiny match could do the trick? What kind of Force user had imbued power into these, and why couldn't he feel it?

Whose test was this, and who knew Kylo was failing?

Furious and determined to prove himself, Kylo has exhausted his supply of matches and is wandering the town anew. Each time he gathers the Force to himself in an attempt to stay warm, or in an attempt to simply ignore the cold, he feels it dissolve in his hands. The control he'd honed over years of work is just-- gone, here. Like the heat.

When the time comes, no one needs to be trying to reach out to Kylo. He does it entirely on his own. He stops the nearest person to him that's also sans match and grips them by one shoulder to turn them towards himself, visibly angry. ]

Who's in charge, here? Who is testing us? Where is whoever Sodder is so afraid of? [ Hope you've got either an answer or a mean right hook, because Kylo doesn't look like he's going to move along until he's gotten some kind of resolution. ]

Better Watch Out

[ Kylo's used to being feared. Revered, almost, or at least hated enough to not be approached while stalking around.

Which is why he's more than a little stunned to be rushed into from behind. He half-stumbles and goes to grab whoever ran into him - on purpose or on accident. ] What are you doing-- [ Except as he turns towards the other, he sees what the problem presumably is.

He's grabbing that weird little metal thing dangling at his waist as soon as he catches sight of the horned creature. Hope whoever grabbed him isn't afraid of the crackling noise of his big laser sword turning on, because he's offering no warning or directions to stay clear of it as he activates it. ] --Who are you? [ He's addressing the creature, while keeping an eye on whoever ran into him. Anyone who wants to speak up with answers, he's temporarily all ears. ]

Edited 2019-11-23 19:13 (UTC)

🔪 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! )

A. PANDORA'S BOX

( he's been staring at a box for going on ten minutes now. it's not the first time he's seen it but he'd left this particular box on the bench it had shown up and now, hear it was, on the barstool next to him. the nametag where his name is written flutters when someone opens the door behind him.

stefan can't stop himself from glancing around, trying to figure out who might be following him so well that he hadn't heard them or seen them drop this box off. he's lost in thought when someone grabs the barstool next to him, sending the box to the ground. )

Don't apologize. I'm pretty sure that whatever's in that box is something I don't want.

( he's just going to leave it there to be swept up by whatever janitorial staff this bar employs. he doesn't want to deal with it. )

B. STAY WARM

( the box doesn't disappear. it shows up at his home, in his bedroom, in the bathroom, everywhere. but stefan refuses to open it. whatever's in there he doesn't want to deal with.

but, it doesn't go away and when stefan actually kicks the box across the sidewalk because it suddenly just appears in his path, he gives in and opens it.

he expects some ancient evil to be released, some new doppelganger to pop out of the box, something bad to happen but all there is are three matches and a note to stay warm. )

That's it?

( so, he lights a match. if all he has to do to get this to stop is burn a piece of wood, fine. the flame flickers in the cool night air and stefan watches it until something else catches his eye.

the muted light from a nearby shop catches on something red, something old. stefan recognizes it immediately and starts forward, unable to understand how his car got here. it hadn't been with him when he'd arrived but it's there now, parked and sparkling, looking beautiful under the moonlight.

his boots slap against the ground and just as he reaches it to touch, the car disappears leaving him in the darkness. his breath puffs out in front of him and, without thinking, he reaches inside the box and lights another match.

when he brings it up to illuminate the area, it's not his car that's there but — )

Lexi?

( that was...so much better than his car. )

C. WILDCARD

( i'm game for other scenarios too. feel free to throw different things at me. )

🎈 █ VANISH LIKE A WARM STOVE

OPTION A:
[What the fuck was happening? Going from a warm bath to whatever frozen landscape was in front of him was too jarring to be considered with anything but shock. Stanley is quite literally wrapped up in the blanket from the bed he'd woken up in sitting on a bench in the center of town trying to make sense of it all. He looks like the typical vagrant in any given town that might scream at the wind but instead of screaming, he just shakes. Maybe he should be grateful he wasn't still dripping, but the scars on the inside of his arm make it all too real. He'd succeeded and he can't help but wonder if the other losers were successful or if they were lying somewhere under Neibolt a feast of fears for that fucking monster.]

OPTION B:
[Later on, through the guidance of some bizarrely helpful strangers, Stan has found himself in the diner with a warm cup of coffee and a migraine that made him feel like his head was about to collapse inward. The cold hadn't done him any favors, and he'd been purposeful when he made the move to the south to be away from that weather and the state of Maine with its too many trees and not enough actual citizens.

Say what you'd like about southern hospitality at least people weren't constantly killing each other. He's scrolling through the fluid, not interested so much as for something to do. He doesn't have any money and he keeps pushing his palms into the mug not to take a drink but just to bask in the warmth.]

OPTION C:
[As naturally skeptical as he is, at first Stan doesn't really care to use the matches but he's halfway to the bar when the chill sets so deeply into his bones that he can't help it. He strikes a match, expecting something to jump out at him or the flame to be immediately doused. Instead, he's greeted with a familiar scene. The losers, standing in a circle in the barrens making the oath, and it feels so real that he can smell the summer sun, the water on their clothes long since dried from the quarry and it's weird to be standing so close to the people he hasn't seen in decades. Maybe, he hoped that his sacrifice wasn't in vain that it had all worked out. When the flame gets blown out, Stan's left against the brick wall behind him rattling out a tired breath. The cold had almost overtaken him while he'd been in the throes of that vision.]

[ vanish like the warm stove ]

[ Atlanta gets its cold snaps every now and then, but that is nothing compared to winter in Maine. Black ice he knows how to deal with, but the snow on the ground is something (safe to say) he's never seen before. Not like this anyway. It'd almost be pretty if it weren't so damn cold. It's a cold that he feels all the way into his bones, no matter how many layers he's been able to pile on. How does anyone live this far north?

He'd broken into a car and shut himself inside, not to drive but to get out of the cold air and turn on the car's heater. Rubbing his hands together to no effect, he sees a box sitting on the passenger's seat next to him, complete with it's little tag. It could really be addressed to anyone. The label is ambiguous enough. But there it sits. B-A-B-Y. "Baby." He shrugs and picks it up, having no reason (yet) to be suspicious of a strange box with his name on it in a random car in a weird town in Maine while he's slowing freezing to death.

He strikes the first match. ]

[ better watch out ]

[ Baby had made an series of arguably poor decisions in his life. He'd even gone to jail for 20 counts of those decisions. But the stuff that really gets under his skin, the actual guilt, is the stuff that the legal system doesn't punish. Things related to the important people in his life and the trouble his actions have caused them. He can practically see it when he closes his eyes. Joseph knocked out of his chair... Debora with a gun pointed at her head....

He taps one of his earbuds lightly then turns the volume up on his iPod. The background sounds he can barely hear through everything else are starting to make him uneasy (and a little paranoid) because he's not sure if they're really there or not.

If there's another person nearby, maybe he can get a read on them to see if its not just his ears (likely) playing tricks on him.

His voice drawls slightly. ] Excuse me?

[ wildcard! ]

[ Not writing a proper arrival post, but feel free to run into the newly arrived Baby anywhere! ]

i. Of Visions and Matches

[ The armored sim trooper gestures you to come closer toward the match burning against the cold. This may be the first match or even his last, either way, Donut seems to be content with sharing his newfound bounty of warmth. He's a friendly sort if a little eccentric. He likes talking, can keep up a conversation all by himself and will sometimes ramble on about his friends. It's clear by the time the match starts flickering with its last burning heat that he's got no bounds for personal space, so by the time the match dies out you'll be close enough to watch the vision in the flames. ]

a. 1st Match

[ The first vision will show a pristine armor similar to his own but instead of lightish red, it'll be a bright red. It dances in the flames, a temptation to the match-holder as the flame dies out. ]

b. 2nd Match

[ The next vision isn't armor but a group of soldiers in a similar armor and color scheme as Donut. He's part of the vision but the others may be harder to identify under the armor. When the match dies, Donut isn't so quick to reach for the next, the energetic guy seemingly subdued for a moment murmuring something about 'missing the guys'. ]

c. 3rd Match

[ The last vision shows a Temple near the ocean. The entrance is by the beach near a set of gates. Inside, the grounds open to a field of larkspur flowers in different colors. At the entrance, there's three cobble-stone paths that open up. The center leads to the actual temple which rises up from the field of flowers as a decadent castle off in the distance. The other two veer off in opposite directions leading to different flower mazes. The entrance to the castle/temple opens to a Spartan Red Hall. The long hallway leads to a Grand Staircase which takes you into the Ceremonial Hall which is where the vision ends. ]

ii. Better Watch Out

a. Bad Memories

[ The flashbacks are taking their toll on him and pretty early on you might find a blond guy crying on a bench. Good luck with that - he's a clinger. ]

b. Krampus

[ Donut is running his mouth too quickly to make sense. He ran into the first stranger he saw and started rambling about Akayashi and gods and flowers (?). Let's just say the guy doesn't make sense but it doesn't really matter because one moment you're being accosted, and the next a giant monster falls from the sky. Donut screams and an energy shield snaps into place all around you, around 10 ft in diameter, while the blond jumps into your arms. Have fun with that. ]

c. Visions
cw: implications of abuse and noncon

[ Once the attack is in full force, Donut finds his inner soldier and stands up to his stalker. ]

Hey! You can't just stalk people all willy-nilly! It's called invasion of privacy and it's creepy! Your whole look is creepy! I'm not into rattling chains but if you ask really nicely and apologize, I'll be willing to part with my fluffy handcuffs and call all this a misunderstanding.

[ Krampus turns on the blond, snapping it's great razor-sharp tongue as it locks eyes with the sim trooper. Almost instantly, Donut goes rigid as his world shifts and you're dropped into another world while a scene unfolds around you, crisp and clear as if you were standing off to the side, a witness to his inner turmoil. When it ends, Donut tears start falling from his eyes and despite the threat of the monster looming above, his energy shield never goes up to protect him. ]

iii. Wildcard.

[ ooc; make up your own scenerio, I'll make it work.

Notes: 1) all prompts open to multiple threads, 2) Permissions & Opt-Out 3) cw: part of his personality relies heavily on double entendre's, so it's important to know that he's canonly oblivious to them and never means them in a sexual manner. ]

Edited 2019-11-23 23:33 (UTC)

A. Vanish Like The Warm Stove

[He almost went right past... It was so cold. Quentin Beck hugged himself as he hurried along, shivering but as he passed by the bench, something caught his eye. A tag - and his name clearly written there. He frowned and halted, glancing up and around. Was this some kind of joke? Or a trap? But curiosity won out, compounded by the distraction of the increasing cold dulling his thoughts. He reached out for the box, opened it. Matches... Now, it did seem like a cruel joke. One little match surely wouldn't do much. But it was something? A small flame of warmth. He lit one. It flared and instantly there was a relief of heat. Even if not perfect, it felt better and he relaxed slightly, pausing with a sigh and he picked up the box, tucking it under his arm and began walking slowly, holding the match aloft like a beacon.]

B. Better Watch Out

[Quentin Beck heard the sounds first. Something was being smashed. He flinched and looked around. Nothing appeared out of place - but there it came again. Like walls crumbling... and screams of panic. Was something going on just out of sight? He moved forward - not toward but away from the sounds. He didn't want to get involved. He wasn't prepared for--- Wait. What was that? He halted again, listening. The other noises had faded away but now there was something else... A growl? The sounds of irregular breathing?]

Is someone there?

[It was dumb to call out, he thought, even as he said it. He frowned to himself and backed away then turned and kept moving. He sensed something... Something following him. He ducked his head and hurried along, not liking this at all.]

C. Wildcard!

For any other random scenarios! Poke me on

grindelwald if you want to run anything specific by me.

VANISH LIKE THE WARM STOVE

[No one has to tell a Gallagher to light a match when it's cold.

He'd opened the box as soon as he he on the bench, cold and looking for whatever he could find to wear or eat or sell, so when the contents were revealed to be matches he wasted no time lighting the first one as he looked for something to set fire to in an attempt to extend the warmth.

Surprisingly though, he finds almost immediately that the warmth runs through him in a wave and he settles back onto the bench, keeping the flame safe with his hand. As it starts to dim though, he finds his mind falling to dreams he'd had before, vibrant and longing and real. A life where he could be happy. A life where he could be loved. Where shit ever worked out. Mick. He tells himself it's the cold as he feels tears at the corners of his eyes and the flame falls dark.]

BETTER WATCH OUT

Come and get me you piece of shit!

[He'd run as long as he could in the cold, but even as fit as he is, that far and that fast in this weather would take a toll on anyone. So finally he'd stopped, planted his feet, and readying himself for a fight with whatever it is that's been following him.

He jumps back when the thing lands in front of him, but doesn't hesitate to look it in the eyes, adrenaline keeping him from expressing the fear he's sure he'd feel in a more explainable situation.

He feels suffocated as the memory envelops him, the faces of his family as he abandons them without them even knowing. Saying 'see you later' when he isn't sure he ever panned to come back. It strikes him in the gut that he isn't sure he feels guilty about anything he's done since, and that more than anything terrifies him.]

WILDCARD

[I'm new to this game and not sure what sort of wildcard to propose, but basically I'm down for Ian to be found where ever! I can be poked on my plurk with any questions!]

Edited 2019-11-24 02:08 (UTC)

1 - network/text un: neonleon

so liek i heard there r monsters round here????
what kind r talking bout?
werewolfs? swamp monster? jersy devil? maybe bipedal turtles that are actually p cool guys but u might think r monsters?
pls tell me everything (o3o)/

2a - a BIT chilly

[ Leo and cold do not really get along all that well. He is, after all, a turtle. Cold blooded and all that jazz. He can take some cold, he lives in New York he's used to chilly winters. It's not too hard to combat if you wear several layers stuffed with handwarmers and prepare ample hot cocoa.

The cold here is like... a whole other level. He's covered head to toe, including ill fitting boots an coat that doesn't quite work well over his shell and a scarf covering most of his face to protect from the wind. This sucks. AT least he found a place to buy cocoa... which he didn't immediately drink because he was fighting with his scarf. And when he finally gets ready to partake of the good stuff... ]

Oh you have GOT to be kidding me...

[ He pops the lid off and tips the contents of the cup into his mittened hand. Solid. Fricking ice cube. ]

2b - this is not drive in weather

[ Normally every instinct in Leonardo's entire body would be yelling at him that HEY DUMBASS! YOU PROBABLY SHOULDN'T MESS AROUND WITH THE SHADY MYSTERIOUS MATCHES YOU FOUND ADDRESSED TO YOU. But he's really cold, and fire equals warm, and you know what? YOLO.

So he lights up a match. And as it burns down he looks up in awe as an old projection screen appears, an equally old movie playing on it. It's a Lou Jitsu film. It's a cheesy over the top action flick ~~The star of which might remind some very strongly of Jackie Chan. There's only enough time for a single scene of total complete ASSWHOOPING before it fades away. ]~~

b - no REGRETS

[ Regrets? Guilt? Whelp... Leo is fourteen. And aside from being scaly, green, and frequently engaging in combat with mutants and yokai he's a pretty normal teen and hasn't lived long enough to have any truly horrifying guilt inspiring moments. Aside from accidentally flushing his dad's pet fish. Or the incident with with his brother Donnie that shall never be spoken of, or that other time...

But anyway he DOES have a huge sword. Perfect for slicing through ugly AF goat-monster-whatever tongue. Just, y'know, give a holler or whatevs. ]

1. GUY WALKS INTO A BAR
[If this is Hell, he thinks, he could do worse. The initial shock took a lot out of him; when you're pissed off and terrified and ready to fight, but there's nothing to fight, and nowhere to run, a man can end up paralyzed. Boyd Crowder is not the paralysis type. He gets his bearings, and figures that if nothing else there's always a place one can rely on to get the lay of the land, a feel for the natives, and an insider sense of what's going on around these parts:

The nearest establishment serving hard liquor.

He finds one; asks for whiskey, neat, without specifying a brand, just to see what they'll serve him up by default. Wild Turkey. Now, either that's a hell of a guess, or maybe there's a touch of heaven in this place after all.]

2. THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

[Got-damn.

This is the kind of cold that doesn't belong in Kentucky, even way up in the hills. Hell, it's colder than the desert at midnight, which is damn cold, colder than he ever would have guessed until he felt it himself. And yeah, maybe someone could point out that he's lucky he's got a nice little box of matches in case he needs to start a fire, but to that he'd point out that three goddamn matches ain't no good to nobody if he's minutes away from freezing to death. It's not that bad yet. But he could still say it.

Four or more matches would put him in a better spot. That's just basic arithmetic. Since he's got nothing else on his immediate person that would serve as a resource in what threatens to be increasingly sub-zero weather, he figures if he plays his cards right, he can double his assets and see about the next step from there.]

Excuse me, friend. I've been havin' some trouble gettin' my hands on these handy little matches that seem to be turnin' up for many luckier souls than myself. Any chance you could spare a couple, maybe save a poor man like yours truly from losin' the tips of my fingers to frostbite?

3. BULLETVILLE
[Boyd sure as hell knows what it feels like, being followed. Even when the son of a bitch in question happens to be good at it, there's just a sensation you can't shake, the eyes on the back of your neck. Any Crowder worth his salt can pick up on a tail and shake it before bringing it anywhere important, or better yet, catch it and make 'em think twice about not minding their own business. But no matter what tricks he uses, no matter how many times he doubles back or takes a sudden turn, he can't figure out what in the god damn hell is riding him so closely that he can practically feel it breathing.

Until turning a corner suddenly puts him in the middle of the woods, surrounded by dry leaves and half-dead trees and empty tents and -- bodies, swinging, strung up, drained of blood. Bullet holes. Boyd cries out in shock, nearly falling back, feeling his shoulder hit a building hard -- and then it's gone, just as quick as that shock of pain. He stands in the snow gasping, wide-eyed. Nothing but the buildings and the shadows around him.

Hell. He needs another goddamn drink.]

⛧ Vanish Like The Warm Stove | CW: Possibly graphic memories, thoughts of death

[Dean sat on a bench viciously rubbing his hands together and breathing into them for any relief from the cold but it seemed futile. He huddled closer to himself in his jacket. This cold felt unnatural. Nothing relieved it or took the edge off the icy blades creeping into his skin. He came back for this? To freeze to death in a nightmare world? Sounds about right.

He plucked one of the matches from his jacket pocket and looked it over suspiciously.]

Fine. You know what? It's fine. Just friggen dandy! [Who was he arguing with? Yeah, there's no one there, Dean. With one final grumble, he struck the match on the bench and almost immediately felt the cold seeping away.] Oh. Oh! Just like that, then? That's all it takes?

[But how long was it going to burn? He only had three. God, just send him back to purgatory! At least he felt like he was in more control there.

He doesn't look up from the match when he hears someone approaching. He's already burned one completely. The thought of the Impala had slowly faded away with its warmth. Whoever walked up would see Dean standing by the bench, a woman with medium-length blonde hair stood before him smiling. She held out a hand and all he could do was stare.]

....mom? [It was the quietest of whispers that you might just miss if you weren't quiet.]

⛧ Better Watch Out |CW: Violent memories, mentions of minor character death

[Dean Winchester was a hunter. He's been followed and stalked and ambushed his entire life. So when he felt the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that someone was stalking him, he did what any reasonable man would do: he turned and glared at the expanse behind him.]

Don't know who you are or why you're stalking me, but it'd be smarter for you to back off. I'm not some poor idiot you wanna mess with. [No response. Well, not that he really expected one. So, he turned back around and continued down the street.

Some hours later, Dean felt that presence even closer. Like it was almost right behind him. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He pulled the knife from his waistband and whirled around again. This time he saw a shape in the shadows briefly, but then it was gone. He woke his Fluid and shot a text:]

Outside the diner. Might need backup.

What's wrong? Lose your bridge, Goatman? I think you should've stayed in Maryland.

⛧ Wildcard! |

[OOC: Pitch a starter at him! I'm open to Arrivals as well. NOTE: This is a tentative decision. If you're looking to app Dean, lemme know and I'll bow out. <3]

A. Vanish like the warm stove
[CW: Reference to experimentation.]

[All she wants is a damn break. Helen has fought for her life, and for the lives of her comrades, and she has finally won. It's all over. She once lost her humanity, thanks to those torturous experiments. She’d gained it back through friendship, love, loss and a myriad of other emotions and experiences -- human experiences that she wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. She loves the thrill of the battle, and she loves her comrades despite her tendency to give them a rough time.

But she really wants her damn break.

She was heading to her hometown, where she’d hoped she’d meet people who knew her late family. She had tentatively hoped that she might even find a distant relative. She’d had plans; she was going to reopen her father’s tavern (presuming it still stood) and live as a real human until she got bored of it. With Deneve by her side, she was sure she'd never get bored.

She remembers having a few too many drinks, before curling up by the campfire to sleep. Deneve had berated her for drinking most of the beer, but Helen had been much too drowsy to care, watching the campfire crackle and burn in front of her. Deneve’s voice fading into the nothingness of sleep. Her eyes had fluttered shut; she’d had the strangest dream and then….

It’s freezing.

And that’s the first sign that there’s a major problem because Claymores are usually capable of regulating their own body temperatures. Claymores simply do not feel the cold. At least, they're not supposed to feel it. However, this icy and relentless weather cuts through her, sending chills from her head to her toes. Her fingers feel numb and her teeth ache and nothing she does seems to be able to warm her back up.

She purposely ignores the box sitting by the bed that she awoke in. Instead, she snatches up a fluffy, grey blanket, and snatches up her sword and decides to try and figure out what the hell is going on.]

What is this?! The North?! H-How?! You can’t just get to the North in a day!

[Now, she’s pacing up and down; the blanket has been discarded in the street, and her arms are crossed over her chest. That ridiculous sword? Strapped firmly to her back. Anyone who sees her might notice her eerie, silver eyes; they’re a trademark of her kind, but they tend to freak humans out a little bit. She abruptly pauses, staring wide-eyed at a park bench.

That fucking box is back.

So she does what every mature adult does in this situation. She grabs it and throws it into the air.]

I don’t want it!

[…And then she watches in horror as it descends and hits (or almost hits) someone on the head.]

Oh crap! That didn’t go as planned! Sorry?

B. Better watch out

[She knows she’s being stalked. It’s been going on for a while; she can hear heavy footsteps thumping against cement and she can hear nails scratching the ground. She can’t sense a damn thing, however. Her senses haven’t been too sharp since arriving in Deerington, but she can’t sense this ‘whatever it is’ at all. And it’s frustrating her to no end.

She’s been walking everywhere. She’s pretty sure she’s passed through most of Deerington by now, but the thing hasn’t stopped tailing her. She hasn’t been able to lose it, even after drawing her sword and making threats, and now she’s beginning to feel unsettled. Nervous, even. She hates that.]

Hey, asshole! Show your face! [She yells, holding her sword up in the air. She knows how it looks: a woman, in black armor and leather clothes, waving a sword at the sky while yelling at it. Not a good look at all.]

C. Network
UN: applehelen

Hey, Deerington! Here's a really important question for you: What is the best beer and mead in this place? And where do I get it? I'm going to try and hunt down a rabbit, and I need something good to go with it.

Oh, on another note: if you see a woman with a blonde bob cut, silver eyes, and absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever? Send her over to me. Her name is Clare, and she can't be left unsupervised or else she gets herself into these ridiculous situations, and someone always ends up losing an eye. Or an arm. Or a leg. Thanks!

content warnings for heathers in general: Heathers, and the movie that it's adapted from, is a black comedy about two teenagers who murder people and then stage them to look like suicides. Veronica's tags may mention murder and suicide (faked, attempted, and real) of teenagers, but she and her narration may also mention and treat in a mostly flippant fashion: self-harm, bullying, peer pressure, mental disorders, eating disorders, slut-shaming, homophobia, violence, unhealthy relationships, and attempted school bombings. let me know if any of this subject matter is sensitive to you and I'll write around them instead.

[one: vanish like a warm stove]

A. [It's fucking cold.

And not just the sort of cold that can be warded off with enough layers, no. Veronica's wrapped herself up in three layers, topping them all off with a warm blanket and it's still, somehow, not enough. This is the kind of chill that's settled into her very bones, determined to sap even the memory of warmth from her. She tries to keep it, anyway, wraps a scarf around her face and rubs her hands together, blows into them as if that'll help warm them up.

She didn't come into Deerington in winter wear, so she's been making a lot of trips to Main Street to pile on the layers, blowing through the department store and the thrift shop with a shudder as she makes her way over to the winter wear section. She makes for an odd sight, keeping her blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape, but Veronica's stopped caring what she looks like and started caring more about not freezing to death, so she's trying to scrounge through what remains with a determined look on her face.]

Come on, there's got to be something left—huh?

[She frowns down at something, then pushes aside the (very few) sweaters left to take out a box. When she opens it, her eyebrows knit together.]

Just three matches, huh? [She shakes her head, then closes the box again, tucking it away under her innermost jacket.] Later.

B. [It's later.

Veronica's first match is burning. She cups her fingers around it to shield it from the elements as she pushes through the streets, taking careful note of how it seems to react to other people with lit matches around her. She doesn't know how long hers will last, but she doesn't want it to go and leave her cold and exposed, so she catches sight of somebody else with a lit match, she decides: well, fuck it, right?]

Hey! Hey, uh—d'you mind if I take a seat here? Just for a little while. It's pretty cold out, [and she winces at the understatement,] and I need some warming up. Just until I can get back home.

[Not home home, back in Sherwood, but just—home here in Deerington, where hopefully there's a warm fire waiting for her. (But god, does she miss Sherwood all of a sudden, despite all the shit she's gone through.)]

[two: network || un: veronica]

Dear network:

If you're trying to rent a movie in this town (not watch in theaters, rent for home), where would you go? I've been looking for a copy of The Princess Bride to watch, but so far the most I've found is the book version in the library. It got a little glitchy at the end, so I didn't try to check it out.

Also, do you really need to go to high school in this town? Because I went once and it was hell. [Which is saying something considering that how Veronica's year has gone lately.] I can't help but feel that high school in a nightmare dimension should be optional, considering there's no way anyone back at home will be able to track my grades here.

[three: wildcard]

[if you have an idea for a scenario not covered by what's above, this option is for you! alternately, hmu @

robbstark, and we can work something out.]

♦ BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE ♦

[ He's had worse than this.

Nate likes to think he has, at any rate, and at the time he also hadn't been nearly as prepared as he is now by comparison. Bleeding out in Nepal in a thin shirt is a lot less attractive than showing up in a strange place with an equally strange climate after the searing, sticky heat of a remote island in the Indian Ocean. By all accounts he should be more bothered by the abrupt shift in environment but seeing as Nate spent a good couple of years in a goddamn pocket dimension with shifting locations before being shunted back home, and now to here, well. The best he can do is push the events leading up to this circumstance into the very back of his mind and spend all this valuable new time searching for a coat before he freezes his ass off.

He finds the box once he's scrounged a decent jacket from the local off-brand department store - Stacy's, ha - and it's obvious it wasn't there before: sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, plain as day. It's long and thin, the sort of balsa wood contained he might find an ancient scroll in, a tag bearing his name tied around one end that makes him immediately lock up. New town, same old shit.

Sliding the lid open and seeing the contents he snorts just as the temperature seems to drop, and he tucks the box away before heading one store over to see what kind of supplies he can get his hands on with the damp cash from his wallet. ]

Well, the good news is that if I need to light myself on fire, at least I'll be warm for the rest of my life.

♦ DINERS, DRIVE-INS AND DIVES ♦

[ It looks like a piece of streamlined, mid-century architecture that's seen considerably better days, but it's a welcome respite from the chill that seems to suffuse the air outside. Nate runs hot, but even he has his limits.

It's lunchtime (he thinks) but the place is pretty desolate, the aluminum trim rusting at the edges, the smell of slightly-stale coffee hovering like a dense cloud over the formica. The kind of place in a small town where people generally turn to look at you if you don't belong and Nate moves to the counter top, sliding onto a stool next to the first person he sees and waving a hand at the staff at the far end. ]

Any recommendations before I order something I regret?

♦ (BRING IT) AROUND TOWN ♦

[ Nate is on top of Town Hall.

Not senselessly, or without reason, as can be ascertained by the notebook open in one hand, the pencil in the other, the clear attempt at giving himself a better frame of reference for the purpose of exploration (it's not that he doesn't trust the map he was given, but...he doesn't trust the map he was given). The Art Deco building was really a victim by virtue of its tallness, which it certainly can't help, and he made a point not to pass any windows on his climb up while the employees are still inside, fully ignoring any passers-by in the street who might witness the ten seconds it took to scale the painted, cast concrete. Legs dangling over the parapet he pauses briefly, reaching for the weird, flat "phone" he'd gotten in his special delivery. ]

un: indy

anyone know why the books in the library look like they're all cold war editions or earlier? or why the history section is full of redacted material? asking for a friend, who is me.

♦ WILDCARD ♦

[ If none of the above scenarios are of interest, Nate will spend the majority of his time exploring at length and asking questions of any residents. Please feel free to PM this account or hmu on plurk at uncalendula if you want to discuss anything first! ]

[ ooc: AK-12 is an android btw. Her eyes are almost always closed but she can see alright. She also carries the weapon she's named after with her, of course. ]

VANISH

Hmm.

[ AK-12 can be found standing by a bench, holding the box with one hand while the other rests on her firearm. She seems to be staring at it, even though her eyes are closed. ]

Can't seem to get any sort of unique read on these, but I'm sure it's the same box that has been popping up everywhere for the last hour. An invitation to seek warmth, perhaps?

[ Her lips curl on a soft smile. ]

Too bad, though. I've yet to succumb to this cold. I am Russian made, after all. This is just another day on the field for me.

BETTER WATCH OUT

[ As she walks the streets, AK-12 grips her firearm tightly. She keeps finger discipline, of course (she's not an amateur), but her frown is burrowed and her usual placid smile is a flat line at the moment. ]

What is this feeling? My instruments can't detect anything following me, and yet...

[ And yet, the feeling it's there. It's an instinct, not unlike others she's had before, but this time her detection systems are blind to this threat she feels in her gut. ]

Could I be malfunctioning? I still have no idea of what's going on here.

NETWORK

un: Калашников

If this is a simulation, I must apologize, but whoever coded it has read one too many children's books. Not quite my style, to be perfectly honest.

If it's not, I have to praise whoever managed to both intercept and relocate me. I praise myself of my hacking abilities, but apparently I've met my match.

If there's any other T-Doll around, I would recommend we reconvene and share intel.

To the humans here, I must ask: did you guys have your third world war yet? I'm inclined to think you haven't. Most curious~

Edited 2019-11-25 01:44 (UTC)

1 / THE LIGHT WAS BRIGHT AND CLEAR AND COLD.

[ there's a goddamn reason herbert west applied for a transfer to miskatonic medical school in massachusetts and not UNE in maine. granted, that reason was primarily academic rigor, but mr. west isn't particularly fond of maine's climate, either. deerington has over the past twelve hours shown itself to be far worse than biddeford and presumably also much further north, but there seems to be more to it than that: this is obviously some kind of an afterlife, a universe governed by different laws than the one he'd so violently exited the previous day.

his body heat is leaving him more than it should be, even when he's indoors and insulated by multiple layers. his fingertips are even beginning to show early stage 2 frostbite — and being that he lacks the regenerative abilities of many salamanders, this is a tremendous concern.

herbert's a naturally suspicious person, but he's also a realist, and as such, he's able to recognize that he's in no position to turn down the matches someone seems to have left out for him. when the first burns down and shows him a vision of—what else?—himself speaking into a microphone as he revives a deceased patient onstage, looking out at a sea of faces in a dimly lit auditorium like something from a hans christian andersen tale, he saves the tiny nub that's left in the hopes of later testing it for psychotropic properties but lights the second anyway. he'd like to keep his extremities.

he uses the temporary blessing of warmth to get a better sense for his surroundings; while he notices that the presence of others seems to amplify the warmth it gives off, that's not enough of a draw to entice herbert west to seek out the company of others. he has things to accomplish and a limited window of time to do them in, so he continues around the perimeter of the town, weaving in and out of buildings, asking what he can when it suits him.

when he realizes that the second match is burning down, herbert deliberately makes his way to the edge of this little civilization and sits down on a snow-sheeted birch log to wait for its death. it he's going to hallucinate again, he would prefer for that to happen without an audience. but it doesn't.

the match burns out and his surroundings remain the same, quiet, indifferent to his presence as the warmth fades from his body. he's reaching for the third when he hears the dull crunch of fresh snow under nearing footsteps, followed by a voice he'd come to know well.

"West?"

herbert sets the match down and looks over his shoulder. he doesn't recall getting up or leaving the box on the log, but he's standing when he grasps dan cain's bare arms—bare, given that he's wearing his green surgical scrubs in the 12 degree weather—and greets him. ]

Dan—I thought you lived! Now, listen, this is a setback, but this place seems developed enough for it to be possible for us to continue our—

[ "Herbert, you're not dead. Neither am I. You're drugged up from surgery and you're cold because they didn't bring you enough blankets."

well, that's a tremendous relief. he supposes it makes sense. dan squeezes his shoulder through the weight of the parka he's presently cocooned in; herbert smiles at him.

"Take that ridiculous thing off, will you? It's time to go wake up. We have work to do."

maybe all those stories about patients being told to get up weren't just spun to make themselves feel better about nearly encountering death. it occurs to him, dimly, that on the off chance this isn't a dream, fumbling with the icy zipper of his parka and shucking it off into the snow would be a terrible idea, probably close to paradoxical undressing in victims of hypothermia, but he does so regardless. the cold is terrible, bone-chewing, enough for his teeth to ache when he inhales.

the second set of tangible, very much real footsteps behind him go entirely unnoticed. ]

2 / RASKOLNIKOV FELT SICK. | warnings for body horror/gore/eye trauma.

[ herbert isn't fool enough to do anything but dive behind the trunk of a massive elm the instant he sees the beast — it looks like something out of a low-budget slasher film, dripping and panting and full of jagged teeth, and west, having very recently died himself, has no interest in tangling with any more creatures than he already has over the past thirty-two.

he's got nothing to fight it off with, and despite the horns at the top of its head, the thing's dentition and front-facing eyes both suggest it's a predator, not anything within a million light years of the nearest artiodactyl (phylogenetically speaking, at least). not good. he scans the blanket of snow in his periphery for something, anything—a fallen branch, a chunk of granite, a rusted animal trap—nothing.

the thing takes a loud step in his direction, compacting fresh snow under the weight of its feet. it seems much more interested in him— maybe it can still smell carrion on his clothes; the flare of its massive nostrils would support that theory.

it's approaching. herbert west isn't idiot enough to run; he's under no delusion that he's faster than whatever this thing is, and fleeing will undoubtedly only cement him as a prey animal in its primitive brain. so he stays completely frozen even as it approaches, deliberately slowing his respirations to keep his chest as still as possible. as for his pulse, well, there's nothing to be done about the frantic speed of his heartbeat, nor the perspiration gathering between his spine and dress shirt. ]

[ to this scene's sole witness, he grits out: ] Kill. It. The base...of the skull.

[ that thought, along with every other thought racing through his head, is wiped away the second the animal turns its heavy skull in his direction and meets herbert west's own front-facing eyes. he's there again, in switzerland, breathing in air thick with formaldehyde and ethanol and old paper, and somehow, he's aware that he's not alone as the memory seizes his consciousness.

« stopping CPR. the inert surface of his PI's jugular vein against his index and middle fingers. pulling his own tie loose with one hand and fumbling for the shatterproof plastic bottle of reagent he'd snatched up and brought with him when the man collapsed with the other. filling the syringe, the gentle resistance of the plunger as he pushed the reagent into dr. gruber's cerebrospinal fluid. and then nothing.

eight seconds. nine seconds. ten seconds. nothing. twelve. thirteen. nothing. now the sweat glistening on his skin isn't just from the exertion of two minutes of chest compressions. get up. doctor gruber, get up.

he fills the syringe with another five ccs. injects them.

hans gruber's fingers begin to twitch. he starts screaming like an infant that's just entered the world, or re-entered, as it were. herbert fumbles for a pen and starts writing notes he can translate into german later with the wrong hand. it's working. he stabilizes the man's body with the hand that's free—and then there are voices on the other side of the door: doktor gruber? herr doktor? herr west! herr west!

no, no, no, no, no, not now!

glass shatters. polizei and dr. fleischer from across the hall and the laboratory coordinator who presumably called them here rush him, start pulling him away, as though they're in any place to guide dr. gruber through his re-entry into the world of the living, as though they've completed three years of medical school and two years of graduate research on this very procedure.

gruber stands up. frantic hope surges through herbert's chest at the same time the officer's grasp weakens and he seizes the opportunity to run across the room and stand before his adviser, squeezing both forearms to keep him stable.

Doctor Gruber!

[ there's no response. there's no indication of name recognition or higher brain function. he grasps his head and screams louder, bearing his blood-flecked teeth in a snarl of agony as his eyes begin to bleed and bulge. blood geysers. herbert hears himself scream right along with the rest of them as his adviser dies a second time, this time barely resisting as the polizei rush him and haul him back to the edge of the room.

dr. fleischer steps forward and checks his pulse as though what he'll find is any mystery to any of them.

'er ist tot.' as though they don't all already know this. as though herbert's fatal mistake hasn't already been laid abundantly clear. ]

Of course he's dead, the dosage was too large.

[ i didn't wait long enough. i wasn't confident enough in our work. ] »

[ the memory ends as abruptly as it began, leaving herbert stunned just long enough for the beast in front of him to wrap its tongue around his arm with crushing pressure, then his trunk. he thrashes, tries to turn his head in such a way that he might be able to bite it, all to no avail. ]

A rock! Give me a rock, something to slice it with!

3 / NETWORK.

UN: HERBERTWEST

I am looking for a suitable laboratory space to continue the research I was performing before my death. Nonporous floors, running water, electricity, and ample counter space are a necessity. I am quiet and considerate. Send me a message if you are interested in negotiating a lease agreement or know of a space which might fit my needs.

4 / GOING TO MAINE.

[ wildcard! also i may end up dumping some other minor prompts here eventually. if you wanna plot something feel free to shoot me a pp @

bluehellgazette. thank you all for sitting thru...whatever this was ]

Edited 2019-11-25 19:32 (UTC)

(Content warnings: mentions of violence, body horror, eye trauma + spoilers for Repo! the Genetic Opera)

VANISH LIKE THE WARM STOVE

[Mag remembered dying. It had been over quickly, thank God, but she remembered it still. The world had gone dark, her face wracked in pain and blood streaming down her cheeks, and then a drop, and then a piercing feeling, and then -- nothing.

She knows she's awake when she can see again. The world around her is dark and strange and cold, but it's clear in a way that surprises her. Is this where people go after they die? Maybe so. But it feels too cold to be either Heaven or Hell, at least the way people have always described them. Maybe this is something else.

The air is frigid and Mag is alone, fingers shaking in the cold while she wanders, lost. At least she arrived in her long dress and cloak, but it still isn't nearly enough. When she finds the box of matches, she scarcely even questions them. After all, she's already been killed -- what else does she have left to be afraid of?

When the flame sparks and glows, she exhales in relief, smiling at the little rising light. The warmth soaks her slowly, and in spite of herself, she feels optimistic. All right. One problem solved. At least now she feels steady enough to handle the rest.]

VANISH LIKE THE WARM STOVE
Luke is not one to hesitate when faced with a mystery. Or mysterious box. Especially when the memory of Hoth looms so recent in his mind, the bone-deep cold causing healed scars to ache, thoughts of wandering forever surfacing though he can see very well he's still here.

Whatever that even means, under the circumstances. He's still not resigned to his existence here, but he's accepted it as real, as happening, even if he cannot explain it.

So he's discovered the matches, even used one, but he's been stranded before. He makes the connection between the warmth and the vision pretty quickly, aware that this is no ordinary heat. (The vision of his lost lightsaber chills him in a different way, but he shakes if off as best he can.) And it doesn't keep him from lighting the second one, exactly, but it does make him more aware of the need to conserve. If only he could confirm anything about this; has it happened before, is it connected to his arrival here, does anyone else know what's going on?

He approaches someone on the street, for his assigned quarters offer no relief from the cold, and he prefers to be moving, doing, to stationary. If the person he approaches has no match burning, he will offer to light one of his. If they do have a match, he'll notice its effect on him right away and approach to ask if they understand it.

BETTER WATCH OUT-adjacent deerFeed post
[There isn't much that he's done that Luke feels guilty about. It's more what he's failed to do, the death's he hasn't prevented. He's not a paranoid person, but the nightmares of his aunt and uncle's bodies, of watching as Ben is cut down, are starting to intrude on his waking life.

There's an argument to be made that he should feel guilty about the thousands who died on the Death Star, but as yet, no one has. As yet, the pervasive feeling of being watched seems somehow connected to watching his family die.]

Hey. Um. I know I haven't been here very long, so you don't know for sure I'm not just being paranoid, but... does anyone else have a weird feeling like... I dunno. Like we're being watched?

It's not like it's the first time I've had that feeling, but it usually means, you know. I am being watched. And while I already feel half crazy ever since I got here, this feels different.

[ CONTENT WARNINGS: for Vergil, they are not many; primarily death (fratricide), corruption of oneself, and just general assholishness. he's had a hand in the destruction of at least one city, but it was full of humans and also [spoilers for dmc5] so he thinks it's fine. I doubt it will come up, but please let me know if you'd like to avoid spoilers and I'll do my best! He's from after the new game, but I've tried to make these prompts as spoiler-free as possible ♥ ]

m1: keep yourself warm (vanish like the warm stove)

diverging path: a

[ He does not like it here. Far from the temperate climate of Red Grave City, even further from the tepid humidity of Hell, this cold is... unpleasant, in a word. Even despite the demon in his blood chasing off the chill, he can feel it settling back in seconds later, stinging at his ears and fingertips and leaving him just this side of uncomfortable.

Vergil hates it, and after withstanding it as long as he can manage, finds himself at a store picking out a rich dark blue scarf. ~~He's got an aesthetic to maintain, after all.~~ It helps, though not as much as he'd like, and he pulls it up close around his face as he steps back into the outdoors.

He is a son of the Legendary Dark Knight Sparda. Such a thing as a little cold is not allowed to bother him. This will be fine.

When he dips his hand into his pocket and finds the little box, it's with narrowed eyes that he investigates its contents. What foolishness is this? A few measly matches? Where did they come from? There's a sharp glare at the nearest person as he holds them up. ]

Did you put these here?

diverging path: b

[ Even more than he hates being here, he hates that he's giving in to this incessant cold. Try as he might to locate somewhere away from others, he finds himself pulling the matchbox out of his pocket and striking one of the matches.

Immediately, he feels a bit better, and there's a bit of a sigh as warmth courses through him. Vergil does what he can to shelter the flame from the surroundings, but when he looks up, his eyes go wide.

There, in front of him, is a man in a red leather jacket whose face is eerily similar to Vergil's own. The man in red grins, holds out a hand and makes that ever so familiar gesture that universally means "bring it," and Vergil grins as he reaches for his own sword. ]

Well, well. It's about time you showed your face.

[ And then he lunges to attack, match entirely forgotten. But is he really attacking who he thinks he is? ]

m2: i'm working on my backwards walk (around town)

[ Vergil is very much not happy to be here. He'd been doing things, has a score to settle and a count to keep. The fact that he's in some quaint little town instead infuriates him to no degree.

At least this town appears to be nothing like Fortuna, that he can tell: no giant statues to his father, no vaguely demonic presences to eliminate. More concerning is the fact that he sees no sign of the Qliphoth, a sure sign that he is much farther from Red Grave than he'd like, with little to no idea of how he got here.

That also means he has no idea where his twin brother is, a fact that rankles to no end.

Feel free to bump into him as he tries to get his bearings by imperiously walking into buildings he doesn't own and very slowly starting to remember how human societies work. What do you mean money must be exchanged for goods? If you're particularly lucky, you may also see him sneaking off to a quiet, empty space and pulling the sword from his waist. There will be two grandiose slashes through the air in the shape of a plus sign — and when nothing happens, he will be very unhappy. Feel free to ask why he's being weird! ]

m3: wildcard

[ if you'd like to interact with him in a different way, please feel free! I'm always down for anything, but if you want to run it by me first you're welcome to PM me or ping me on plurk at tieflings. promise I don't bite, though he may. ]

Edited 2019-11-29 00:31 (UTC)

( vanish )
a.

[ it's cold, and there's an unattended, opened box wherever you are right now. there might be more matches in it, right? the tag says basil, but evidently basil abandoned it.. didn't he?

except if you glance in, there's a mouse there. only not a normal mouse? this one is dressed very smartly in victorian style, and he's curled in the corner of the box making the most of his meager body heat, shaking too hard to light one of the rather large matches.

he glances up, startled by the face suddenly peering in, and shoves himself warily back against the wall of the box. ] I s-say, [ he manages, voice english-accented and clear despite his tiny size, and then cautiously gestures to one of the matches with a shaking hand. ] Would you b-be so kind as to light a fellow's m-match?

[ it's not normal for his world and the human world to intersect quite like this, of course. the humans tend to be oblivious of what goes on beneath their noses, and his people rather like it that way, and that's that. things here, however, must by necessity be different.

it's with that in mind that--seeing someone struggling with the cold--basil makes the choice to offer assistance. he can only imagine what dawson would say if he didn't, and really, the added warmth and potential for easier travel is tempting. as it is, basil's been struggling with the winds and the icy streets. he's small. days like this would normally see him curled in his chair by the fire, or at work with his laboratory equipment. not running about like this. ]

Hello! [ he has to cup his hands around his mouth and yell to make himself heard from his particular vantage point, which is some distance away by virtue of size difference or location. when he's caught the other person's attention, he points to the two remaining matches strapped to his back like staffs. ] Have you encountered a box with your name on it?

( wildcard )

[ idk man encounter him anywhere. arrival scenario/inbox spam/finding a home or work, etc. ]

Threaded | Flat

Page 1 of 2

DECEMBER 2019 TEST DRIVE MEME

VANISH LIKE THE WARM STOVE

BETTER WATCH OUT

Character Arrival

QUESTIONS

barry berkman / barry / ota, will match format.

katherine pierce | the vampire diaries