TDM: April

[moustre]

Test Drive: April

Welcome to aefenglom's test drive! All threads can be considered game canon, should you choose to do so; regardless of if you pick specific threads to remain canon to the game, the prompts and test drive itself will be. This will be touched on later in-game, so it's fairly important to note! Aside from that, here are some quick reminders:



• Reserves Open Today! If you're interested in securing a spot, put one in! We accept applications without reserves too, of course. Reserves will expire three days before the end of the application period, on the 28th.
• Applications Open The 24th! These will last until the end of the month, the 30th, with the game formally beginning on May 1st. The application page can be found here.
• If you have any questions about the game or the world, please refer to the FAQ page; if you still have questions, feel free to ask them! For questions specific to the test drive, please ask them on the appropriate thread.
• For the purposes of the test drive, your character will have access to all magics taught by the Coven if they're a Witch, and as much of their shifted form as you'd like if they're a Monster. Feel free to play around and experiment with each!
• Test drive threads can be used as samples for your applications!



With that taken care of...

You feel like you're floating. Around you, colors and sounds and smells swirl as if trapped in a whirlpool, vibrancy and hue ever shifting. The more you watch them, the less solid they are; they only become clear out of the corner of your eye. The area around you begins to feel more solid as well, until your feet are on the ground, the wind brushes playfully against your face -

and you know one thing, and one thing alone: this is a dream, and an incredibly realistic one at that.

The Tea Party

The air turns a sweeter smell, almost like a bakery; the gentle laughter and chatter of living creatures filters in through leaves that brush against you, hanging from winding vines that hang from above. Flowers in shades of orange and red glow faintly among the greenery, their petals curling in shyly once they're paid attention to. As the area comes more into focus, the shadows of insect-winged forms become clearer, flitting about - talking about some kind of party, about a Queen, about the Courts meeting on neutral ground for the first time in a thousand years.

You're not entirely sure what's going on, and it doesn't seem as if anyone's noticed you've arrived - but three different paths unfurl in your mind's eye, vague in shape and meaning.

A Taste of Faeryland... Following the voices, you find them: smaller-than-average humanoids with thin limbs, a variety of wings (prismatic butterfly, fuzzy moth, delicate bee - all of it), large, glittering compound eyes, antennas fitting their winged insect-type... Those familiar with the tales of the fae might recognize these Monsters as something similar. They greet you as if you were an old friend regardless of your appearance, inviting you to sit down at the table - which seems to go on forever in the large dining hall-esque canopy of nature they have set up, lined with elegant porcelain tableware and shimmering orbs of magic. The food is similarly endless, ranging from the familiar to the unusual, and careful observation (or just plain digging in) shows the following effects: breakfast foods make you glow and emit colorful sparks, brunch foods get you floating as if filled with bubbles, lunch foods will make you feel as if you've taken part in happy hour, dinner foods will make you insatiably hungry, and dessert will make you feel as if you should simply stay in Faeryland forever... It's possible to mix and match these with effects, but do be careful. The creatures present speak in high, lilting voices about nothing in particular at all - if asked anything serious, they merely give the character a curious if disproving look and say it's impolite to speak of politics over a meal. Ask something a little more lighthearted though, and they laugh and still... don't quite answer, patting your hand and asking if you'd like an extra slice of buttered bread and jam. The tables aren't exactly the best place for eavesdropping and learning what's going on, it seems - but there are plenty of exits out of the dining hall. Large, beetle-like Fae stand guard at the entrances of various hallways outside of the hall in the castle though, preventing anyone from entering them. When asked, they simply reply these are to private quarters that ordinary guests aren't allowed into and refuse to budge on the matter.

A Coalition of Interests... The Seelie and the Unseelie Courts of the Fae - whether you know them or not, evidently it's a big deal that they're meeting tonight. Or over several days and nights; the Fae themselves seem to be in a bit of an argument over how long they actually want to stay in the same company as their counterparts, neutral ground of the Dewaint Forest. Regardless, there are no marked differences between the two physically, and they all speak of a singular Queen heading them; behaviorally, though, that's another thing entirely. Those of the Seelie Court are quicker to engage in conversation and prefer it one-on-one, hardly allowing a word in edgewise and getting irritated when interrupted; their pranks are usually mildly malicious, with spells causing uncontrollable laughter, color changes, and charms to make the charmee fall in love at first sight with whomever they see first peppering their repertoire. Returning to their good graces is fairly easy - the gift of something pretty as an apology tends to work, but each Fae has their own very particular gift they like. If it's messed up even a little bit, they won't accept it, and will merely play another trick upon the giftee. Those of the Unseelie Court, meanwhile, are a little harder to talk to; they prefer to prank and trick first to test those they might be interested in as a group, not unlike children trying to get the attention of someone they like by pulling their hair. Their pranks usually range from genuine hurt (such as pulling hair, stinging nettles, or simply beating them with bound vines) to curses (losing one's voice, the head of an ass, or full-scale animal transformations). Withstanding these, or standing up to these Fae, earns as much of their ire as it does their respect - the truly respectful human will be subjected to headpats and collars, like a pet.

A Treacherous Adventure... As beautiful as it is outside of the main dining hall and newly-grown castle (just for the momentous occasion itself, going by the rumors!), Faeryland as a whole is mired in danger. The wrong step sends one tumbling down a rabbit hole full of interesting sights, landing in a wide field of drooping flowers that snore softly and scream bloodcurdling loud when awoken. No matter how long one walks, discovering both familiar and unfamiliar sights, never ends in finding the castle again. In fact, it's much easier to find yourself accidentally going deeper into the woods. The exceptionally tall trees of the Dewaint Forest show hints of decay and rot, the smell of the dead barely covered by the flowers desperately growing across the blackened bodies of Fae and other animals that wandered too close to the growing infection in the area. What look like corpses will tremble and rise when they sense someone is close by - their eyes and mouth are pure white, contrasting with the darkness around them, and throughout the shell are cracks of a similarly pulsing whiteness; it smells magical, it feels incredibly heavy and overpowering, and it might just be too powerful for those most sensitive to the corruption and to magic. The shadowy creatures' wings are larger than normal and monstrous, with their bodies held up by the dew-crying flowers that simultaneously hold them back yet sneak their roots closer to grab those who awakened them and drag them closer. Where the monster begins and ends with the corrupted nature it's made its bed in isn't completely clear, but one thing is: it's very, very hungry. Thankfully, it's a good thing some of you have new abilities at hand, and some of you have a few neat changes to help. Teaming up makes things go quicker, and once defeated, these creatures bleed white magic and disappear in ashy smoke, shell breaking off in bits to reveal a dried-up corpse of a Fae. Nothing else remains, not even a hint to their identity, and the more of these monstrously-turned Monsters characters meet, the bigger and more terrifying they get.

Comments

Solas | Dragon Age

[veilfires]

i. seelie
[The first fae he approaches has glittering, oversized bee wings. Solas begins by complimenting its tiny flower garland. When it responds by beaming at him, he thinks it safe to proceed with a few pertinent questions about its people and the purpose of their gathering.

Glowing (literally), it answers the first of his questions. (“We are the courts of the seelie and the unseelie, dear guest, come to convene.”) It then continues chattering. And does not cease chattering. He makes a valiant effort to nod at the right places and gasp when required. But it picks up a topic then flits to another at a pace so rapid that he soon cannot follow its train of thought at all. Four full minutes wear by as he goes from finding it amusing, to tedious, to outright vexing.

When he notes it’s begun to go green from lack of breath, he breaks in loudly and firmly:]

Excuse me. Regardless of what your thoughts are on spiderweb caps having come into fashion, I cannot make out the slightest relation they have to Madame Featherdane’s new donkey. Never mind my questions.

[The fae falls quiet, wheezing. Then it shoots him a venomous look, and in a cloud of glitter puffs up to twice its size. It buzzes off into the crowd, like a giant, mortally insulted wasp.]

...As though it were a spirit of inanity.

[He chuckles to himself. And then finds he cannot stop chuckling.]


ii. unseelie
[Unable to get intelligent conversation from these unseelie fae, Solas has evidently decided it his beneath his dignity to further engage them.

Ear-tugging, dropping ice cubes down the neck of his cloak, enchanting his nose so that it is bright blue? No matter: even in the face of the most truly immature pranks, he can maintain impressive calm, built up by a year’s exposure to Sera. Thanks to his display of haughty indifference, he gains an adoring entourage of unseelie fae. Or rather, his bald head does. Sigh.]


iii. tremble and rise
[Curiosity draws him beyond the perimeter of the tea party, into the hanging trees and twining tunnels of the labyrinthine forest beyond. Here the air hangs heavy with humidity, decay, unknown magic - and peril. With a wrong step, what looks like ivory-skinned undead emerge from the undergrowth, silhouetted by glistening wings. They proceed to attack.

There’s another guest behind him, and he twists to check on them as his first priority.]

Be wary! Thoughtless action may rouse more of these creatures.

[Solas makes a swift sweeping gesture at his fellow guest, his arm blurring unnaturally. For a moment, his expression freezes in a look of utter shock. Then he spins back, attention firmly affixed on the threat at hand, already beginning the motions of another spell he should neither know nor be able to cast.

Whether they use it to fight or flee, his fellow guest will find they are under the effects of Haste.]


iv. wildcard.
if you have something else in mind, hmu! if you want, please feel free to PM me here or at shroomish. i’m happy to write a new starter for you, too!

i

[haillenarte]

[francel has never been one to engage others at parties such as these, but he's always been one to eavesdrop. as he has nothing better to do than look over the pastries table and pretend to consider eating something there, he starts listening in on solas's conversation with the fae somewhere around its ruminations on the illustrious madame featherdane and her new pet.

when it puffs up in a fit of rage, its cloud of glitter catches the brim of francel's cap. frowning, he removes it in order to dust it off, looking up briefly as solas begins chuckling.]

They are rather ridiculous creatures, are they not? But they'll not tell anyone much of interest — believe me, I tried.

[veilfires]

[Solas keeps chuckling as he glances over at the man who’s witnessed his little altercation with the fae. Though an elf, the man has an aristocratic bearing. Pleased at the prospect of having found a more capable conversationalist, Solas nods in acknowledgement and smiles at the commiseration – though his etiquette is undercut by his giggling.]

Quite. Amusing [though surely not this amusing he thinks ruefully, as he laughs through his words] but frustrating if one seeks to learn of their people beyond frivolity. Though knowing the Seelie queen has not been seen a single-leaf dress in over seven autumns is insight into the fae… in a way.

[Then he closes his eyes and takes deep breathes, trying to suppress his giggling. He manages quiet for a moment. Then he actually splutters as the laugh bubbles out of him and carries on. Well – he knew he had no tendency for excessive laughter. The fae enchanted him, then. Annoying - but interesting.]

[haillenarte]

I thought much the same. Their chief concerns appear to be the latest fashions, passing amusements... And they have few moral scruples, at least by conventional — I say, my man, are you all right?

[he'd dismissed solas's initial chuckling as a simple display of mirth at first, but then the elven mage keeps laughing, and it soon becomes apparent that the laughter is beyond his control. with a slightly bemused tilt to his lips, francel comes to the same conclusion — that the man must be under some fey enchantment — but he is less certain of the origins of the curse.]

Did you partake of their food, perchance?

[veilfires]

[He sighs, or what can approximately be taken as sighing if you’re actually laughing.]

My apologies. I wished to maintain sobriety, and thus did not partake – though the frilly cakes were tempting. No, I fear my words caused offence to that fae, and this is to be my punishment.

[He puts up a hand, wanting to forestall any undue worry off the bat.] This is not painful - merely, aha, uncomfortable.

[haillenarte]

[indeed, francel's lips are pursed with concern, but solas does not seem in distress, despite his perpetual giggling, and the young lord supposes that things could be worse. the laughter doesn't seem to interfere with his breathing, after all, and it's simple enough to ignore in conversation.]

...Then I shall make no further comment of it. But pray inform me if you should require that I send for help.

[not that francel knows anyone who could help — but it's the thought that counts, surely?]

[veilfires]

[Solas is pleased by the elf’s good manners. Ordinarily he would seek to engage such a man in deeper conversation, but his present predicament demands his attention before that can happen.]

It is a problem of my own causing. I would not like to trouble you when you have a party to enjoy.

[He scans the fae drifting about them, thoughtfully: his own fae is vanished into the crowd, but perhaps another could point him in the right direction…? It’s doubtful they’ll be helpful, but likely all the fae share social rules, such as they are, and will thus be a fitting place to start.

Solas points out two fae of notable appearance to the elven man, and giggles:]

Do you recommend I try my luck first with the one garbed in pearls and rubies, or the other with the head of a frog?

[haillenarte]

[francel's gaze follows solas's gesture towards the two fae, who are both engaged in conversation, though not with one another. the fae clad in silks and jewels seems to have a prissy, haughty demeanor, and clutches a (one assumes, utterly useless) fan in one of its six arms; the frog-headed fae, on the other hand, boasts a more calm expression, with far more subdued body language, but francel also knows that appearances can be deceiving.

he tilts his head to one side for a brief moment, and then emerges with his conclusion:]

If you've any sort of valuable trinket or bauble on your person, I would try to bribe the one in pearls. If you've more confidence in your rhetoric, then engage the frog in a conversation — it seems like to hear you out.

[veilfires]

[Solas is impressed:] Well-considered. The frog-fae, then - I fear all my possessions are as humble as my clothing.

[Because he is indeed dressed as a humble traveller, not shabby so much as makeshift.

He makes an open movement with his arms and shoulders, halfway between a beckon and a bow. It expresses: if he would like to accompany him, he would be welcome - and if he doesn’t, that is fine too. Then without further ado Solas proceeds to approach the frog-fae.

The frog-fae’s friends have left it alone; it remains floating in place, legs crossed as though it were sitting. As Solas approaches the frog-fae, it revolves in place to regard him. Its bulbous black eyes are limpid and twinkling, and it wears a single daisy on its head as a hat.

After a beat, in a tone of thoughtful regret, it says, “It’s rude to laugh, you know.”

It sighs. “What is yoooour name?” On the long vowel, its vocal sac expands to full.

If he chose to come with Solas, the frog-fae will turn to him as well and say, “And yooooours?”]

[haillenarte]

[francel does accompany solas towards his conversation with the frog-fae, mostly because the unappealing alternative would be to continue staring sullenly at the tarts he knows he shouldn't eat. he expects simply to stand on the sidelines and observe; it's a surprise, then, when the frog chooses to address him directly.

none of the books that francel has read have ever advised him not to give his name to members of beast tribes, and so he gives it freely, unthinking.]

I am Francel — [a sudden flight of fancy overtakes him; there is something about the frog's daisy that reminds him of the archbishop's mitre] — Your Eminence.

[the frog's eyes bulge. it seems to be attempting to do something, but there is nothing that it can accomplish with only one of francel's forenames, and it soon becomes distracted by its new title. "hmm. hmmmm. eminence. yooooooour eminence. a fine sound. better than featherdane — less than her highness. your eminence — indeed, indeed."

solas's incessant laughter rouses its attention — its head swivels towards the sound. "is he having, shall we say, a good time?"]

( tremble ) shrugs

[virabelas]

[ he was a mage, and even with his abilities stolen from him and his body changed, altered without his permission in a way he'd hoped never to experience again, he knows the feeling of a spell when it hits him. knows the caster, in fact, though he has no time now to address that fact.

mythal is gone and the wolf must live, and that is simple fact. abelas owes him allegiance, and so he shoots past the other elf, ignoring the way the creatures' otherness tears at his senses, throwing himself into the fray with dagger and tooth and claw. he doesn't have his magic, but he has never been helpless, and isn't now as he snaps fanged teeth over the back of one undead neck. gold eyes flash, catching solas's over the creature's shoulder. if the wolf has a spell for this, now is the time. ]

!!!!

[veilfires]

[Solas’ shock is twofold. Predominating is one awful realisation: This is not the Fade, this is a dream but this not the Fade. He is thinking frantically, how can this be? He cannot even reach across and feel it: that suggests this is not merely a pocket dimension but another one entirely. He should not be able to cast magic. It is as though – his arm has been cut off, and the limb of another grafted in its place. This is not his arm, his magic. Whatever is happening, it is grotesque and alienating.

And Abelas is here. That is a shock of another kind.

Abelas leaps past him in a blur of Solas’ new magic, and with immense speed lashes out at the monster with all the familiar grace and power befitting a sentinel of Mythal, but with a ferocious power that is bestial and as unknown as Solas’ new magic. The sight is courageous and pure and inspirational. It bolsters Solas from surrendering to confusion, redoubles his drive and focus

The corpses number seven. Solas raises not-his arm, palm facing upwards, whereupon sits a piece of obsidian. It begins vibrating, and in answer the very earth underneath the three corpses at Abelas’ right flank begins to shake and erupt.

If Abelas will fight for him, he shall do no less for Abelas.]

[virabelas]

[ he snaps through rotted muscle and bone, tearing at the undead thing's spine, and at the first rumblings beneath his feet, leaps away, flashing from that creature to the next, dancing from corpse to corpse as the earth erupts and drags them down. his blade flashes as he goes, severing tendons, tearing through wings, giving solas's spell the time to work.

he's not surprised that the wolf already has handle of this foreign magic; he was always too clever by far, was he not? mythal would not have given her trust and friendship and magic and life up to anyone else, he thinks.

spattered in corpse-blood, white hair and mouth stained, he escapes the heaving earth and the last of the creatures, spinning in front of solas and dropping into a crouch to face their attackers, poised to spring back up at a moment's notice if one of the corpses manages to stagger through the spell. ]

[veilfires]

[Abelas attacks with fangs, precise as a sword and thrice as brutal. Swift and cunning he coordinates his new powers with Solas’ own to brilliant effect. Blackened, unnatural blood coats him: eyes as golden as Mythal’s scan always for the next target.

Solas watches with widened eyes. He thinks it recalls days when elves would shapeshift into animal form simply for the pleasure of the hunt. The chases could last days: the prey fleet at first but losing the battle of endurance, becoming paranoid and stumbling. And then the predator-elf would win its final advantage and strike. Crush down on its pulsing neck, tear through ligament and bone, feel its lifeblood leech down your throat.

He thinks: That is my people: bloody and monstrous and majestic.

Abelas finishes in a crouching stance before him, affording him time to deliberate how to proceed. The battle is not yet won. Three corpse-flowers are intact, and one is so close it’s begun to lurch for Abelas with lashing vines. Another corpse-flower, half-crushed by rubble, appears to revive, and then starts to scream as though it has realised it will be its last.

Whatever this sick corruption, these creatures are plants. With a certainty that is and is not his own he knows what to do. He steps forward with assurance and places a palm on Abelas’ shoulder: a ferocious heat flows from Solas into him.]

Let them burn. [Let this sentinel of Mythal fight with her breath.]

[virabelas]

[ his hand tightens around his blade as the creature stumbles forward, prepared to rip its limbs from its torso if need be, but the hand on his shoulder stops him. immediately, magic washes through him, and abelas gasps, a bonfire flaring to life in his lungs. his breath burns, and he exhales steam and smoke as it hisses through his teeth.

yes, he thinks, faint and distant and certain, this is as it should be.

he thrusts his dagger back into its sheath and shoots upright and forward, grabbing the monster by its head in both clawed hands. it struggles in his grip, but he's stronger than he's ever been now, and there's no breaking his hold. with the otherness still battering his senses, with the wolf's spell sending fire licking along his veins, with something terrible and animal overtaking him, his lips draw back from his teeth in a snarl-- and flame erupts, scorching the shrieking plant and corpse. it goes up like tinder, the flames white-hot, and he turns it on the next, even as the blood dries on his face in a flash, flakes off like ash.

the last dies in his hands as well, fire pouring down its white throat, burning it up from the inside. only once it begins to crumble between his fingers does he release it.. and stagger back, suddenly exhausted. he doesn't let himself falter, though, hand going to the hilt of his blade again as his other sweeps loose strands of pale hair out of his face. his glance darts over the area surrounding them, searching for other targets, before swinging at last to solas's face. ]

... Wolf, [ he greets, hoarse and respectful, and carefully, wearily drops to a knee before him. ]

[veilfires]

[Solas regards him from above.]

Abelas.

[His expression is mingled. There is satisfaction at a battle well fought, and gladness at again seeing this man he greatly respects.

But it all intermixes with sorrow. Yes, that is I: the Dread Wolf. He is bound to wear his old mantle of Fen’harel, however heavily it weighs on his shoulders: he has no right to shirk that name with all the injury and death he has inflicted to the world under it, and will inflict yet. He must unflinchingly maintain the necessary posture. His plans require it, and Abelas factors into those plans.

Still, how far flung have his plans been thrown now? This world is not Thedas: he does not know how he has come here, and he does not know how to leave. It has its own strange powers and laws and magics, all unfamiliar. It is not just his arm that has been replaced with an alien one: it is the very sky.

Speaking of your new magic, a voice inside Solas informs him, you know some of them have side-effects. He sighs, remembering the Haste spell that he sent reverberating through Abelas’ body. When it left him, his body would have been overcome by a stun experienced as weariness, some of which shows on his face. Solas begins to kneel himself, ready that he might help steady Abelas if need be.]

The exhaustion that overtook you was the effect of my spell leaving you. Though unpleasant, it is over now.

[His explanation rings with calm authority, and the unspoken: I regret to have inflicted that upon you, but it was necessary.]

ii

[holybeasts]

[Goodness, that's a lot of them! Maria herself hasn't quite learned the man's trick of ignoring them and she too has friends.

Well, friends who are all clustered in her hair, turning the knee-length of it into a variety of braids or other tiny, intricate designs.]

Here now, leave him alone.

[He might not ask for help or welcome it but she can't help it.]

[veilfires]

Thank you, but I fear that is only counterproductive. [He sighs exasperatedly.] Like naughty children, any attention will be taken as encouragement.

[To punctuate this, he swats impatiently at a fae trying to clamber into his ear.

Then, as though realising he is being unintentionally rude, he rearranges his posture to smile at her, warm and polite. The fae have made a nest of her hair; as bothersome as it must be for her, he thinks the long braids and curls they have made rather charming.]

And you have your own to contend with.

[holybeasts]

[If she noted rudeness before, she doesn't seem to show it. She huffs a little amused breath at his words.]

I suppose so. It does keep them out of other people's hair though. Quite literally, in fact.

[The last bit is said with a light laugh in the tone. She might not love what the fae are doing but if it keeps the creatures occupied, she doesn't really mind so much.]

[veilfires]

[He chuckles.]

Good point. Better they be occupied with adoration of us than with flinging stinging nettles at innocent passersby. I am Solas, by the by. What is your name?

[Solas’ fae appear envious he is talking openly to her; two of them actually begin waving their long stick-like arms in front of his face to draw his attention. He continues to ignore them, as much out of pride now as anything.]

[holybeasts]

[They're really trying their best, aren't they. He's stinging their pride a bit she imagines and it really would be inconsiderate of her to laugh at how upset they're becoming.

That and risk laughing continuously again. She chooses instead to lace her fingers together before her and bow her head a bit.]

Maria Renard. I've not had the displeasure of the stinging nettles thankfully. They did make me laugh quite a bit though.

[veilfires]

[Solas recalls his own brush with compulsive laughing when he first arrived at the party.]

Alas - you too? I thought I had caused that fae special offence... But of course these creatures would employ such enchantments liberally.

My fae only agreed to dispel my enchantment when I presented it with a copper ring. What was asked of you?

[holybeasts]

[There Maria's expression bears a healthy dose of chagrin.]

I ended up finding another fae that had a bit of a grudge against the first. They dispelled it for me.

[She steeples her fingers now, gloved fingertips pressed together as she huffs a bit.]

And then turned me green for my troubles.

[veilfires]

[Solas gives her a crooked side-long grin.]

You don't appear green to me, if it helps to know.

[He taps his nose, which inspires a round of excited “He noticed! He noticed!” chittering from the fae.]

Is this still blue?

[holybeasts]

[Maria gives the man a look when he asks about his nose. She honestly hadn't noticed but then with the variety of fae around, blue noses hardly seemed unusual.

Her smile turns light.]

A bit, yes. It's certainly not bad though.