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

[veilfires]

[Solas makes his way in the opposite direction, casting his gaze about until he finds the badgers, drifting only a short distance from where they were previously. The bee-fae is still among them. It notices him at once.

He approaches them slowly, adopting a sort of wary air that hopefully has the effect of infusing his laughter with contrition. The faery is so excited about this it begins audibly buzzing – then it remembers itself, and endeavours to look annoyed instead. In an undertone, it growls and yips to the badgers. They snuffle back in an understanding way, and flap away to give the pair of them space.

“Oh, you again?” Affecting boredom, it looks meaningfully at its sharp little claws. With an up-lilting, melodic voice it says, “We were sort of in the middle of a conversation? Y’know, it’s really rude to interrupt?”

Solas takes a deep breath.] Yes. And I ought – ha – to therefore apologise – both for doing so now, and for my most - pfft - discourteous dismissal of you earlier. I am remorseful, haha. [An inhale.] Deeply so, even. Such – such unconscionable decorum is ill-becoming of a guest ahahaha.

[It takes time to get through it, with all the giggling. Despite the difficulty, he’s laying it on very thick, and the laughter carries the sarcasm – but the faery doesn’t pick up on it. From its glow, it's clearly relishing this. Slowly, so that it might draw this out, it says, “I doooon’t knooooow...”

He casts his gaze back over his shoulder - and providentially, that's when Francel makes his return. He rejoins him at his side with herbs in hand. The fae watches Francel too, with intent, beady eyes.

In a quick transaction he accepts the rosemary, and then proffers one sprig in turn to the fae.]

Haha, but of course, I would not think to come and beg your for- hehe, forgiveness -- without a suitable gift for you...

[haillenarte]

[blessedly, the bee-fae's eyes light up before it can — presumably — stop itself; it has reached out for the herb before francel even passes it to solas. "ooooh, rosemary!" it gushes. "sweet sassafras, i love rosemary! rosie-rosie-rosemary!"

obviously delighted, it floats a short distance into the air, twirling, its glittering faery dust puffing out in small pink clouds beneath its wings. when it lands, it seems to be trying to recompose itself. "well, i guess since you've been soooooo apologetic, you know, kind of like when one of the badgers was playing mini-golf with the teakettle, and then madame featherdane stepped in looking for a bag of sweets, but all she found was a pile of lost balls — and do you know, she really hasn't been the same ever since her husband contracted the cwyld, poor thing —"

(francel accidentally inhaled a bit of faery dust when the bee twirled in the air — he sneezes several times, without sound. his apologetic, mournful sniffling seems to remind the bee-fae of what kind of audience it is entertaining.)

"oh, right." it adjusts the floral circlet atop its head. "well, what i mean is, i don't knoooooow. maybe if you kneel, i can accept your apology even with all that silly giggling."

...it says, as if solas's giggling were not its own fault.]

[veilfires]

[There is an Elven word, ‘fenedhis’, which he must occasionally fall back on in moments when the eloquence of the Trade Tongue will not suffice. In terms of its power of expression, he is yet to find its equal in another language. Elvish carries many subtle shades of meaning, ever shifting with the speaker’s tone, their emotional state, and above all the cultural context - much of it lost when Elvhen civilisation itself was. The modern linguist cannot hope to grasp even the simpler words in their fullness – translations invariably fall short. And fenedhis is a particularly storied, remarkable word.

Solas needs to speak this ancient, forgotten word now. It comes out as:] Fuck.

[He laughs.] Really?

[It scrunches up its little face: its wings begin to shift perceptibly from ‘happy buzzing’ to ‘angry buzzing’. He hastily holds up his hands.] No – haha, no. You are – right. [He briefly shuts his eyes, finding this more difficult than he himself knows to be reasonable, and begins to descend onto one knee. With still-dripping sarcasm he says:]

I, stranger and, haha, a guest – have imposed [Badly repressed snort.] upon your own g-gracious generosity and, pfft, welcome. I thanked you with - [Hahaha.] with awful rudeness born of my pride. I have just now very nearly committed that same insult again. [Laughing, etc.] Verily, I am humbled. Though a scoundrel such as I scarcely deserves it, I beg -

[He notices he’s stopped laughing just as the cloud of glitter falls over him. The fae holds up its hands, now itself doubling over with laughter.

“Stop, stop, stop! I can’t take it anymore. I was only joking, you doofus! Ooh, awful rudeness born of my pride,” it mimics, rolling around mid-air in hysterics. “That’s what you sound like! Salamander’s teeth, I can’t believe you seriously KNELT to me! Oh, nobody’s going to believe me when I tell them all about this, which I am going to do, in great detail, to everyone I know.”

Solas stands once more, slowly, wearing an expression that often comes over him after he has been exposed to Sera for the entirety of a fortnight-long Inquisition expedition. It says ‘greatly irritated’, yes, but also ‘deeply, existentially wearied.’ Flatly:]

Yes. You got me. Well done.

[haillenarte]

[when the fae's giggling turns to laughter, and then when its laughter turns to near-shrieking, francel figures perhaps he should step in. clearly, the bee-fae has no real intention of forgiving solas, at least not without significant exhortations on his behalf, and francel has no voice to do that at the moment. what, then, is a young lord to do?

presumably, faes have no real concept of gender, but the frog-fae called this bee "the duchess" in passing, and it seems girlish enough. francel has never been especially successful with women, nor does he consider himself possessed of a handsome face, but it's an easy enough thing to step forward in solas's place. gallantly, francel drops to one knee, then reaches to take the bee-fae's hand, pressing a kiss to its knuckles as if it is just another noble lady he has been asked to greet at a banquet.

it stops rolling around in the air, staring at francel almost in shock. "oh?" it asks after a pause, deadly quiet compared to its squealing from before. "oh, the doofus has a friend, that's right. well, what do you want, mortal?"

wordlessly, francel produces the second sprig of rosemary from his pocket, and presses it into the bee-fae's hand before he lets go.

it — she? — stares at the sprig of rosemary, first in appraisal, then in approval. "oh, you've got a favor to ask, too, don't you. cat got your tongue?" its beady eyes squint, the compound texture in them suddenly more conspicuous in the morning light. "oooooh, no, i see it now. frog's got your tongue, hmm? well, i bet you want me to undo that curse of yours, don't you. one for the rude elf and one for the sad one. tee hee! well, maybe i could do that — put a bee in old frogmore's bonnet, tee hee! fine, fine. i accept the rosemary as payment. but do me one more favor..."

francel shakes his head — no. he stands, considering the party; it doesn't take long for him to spot the frog. silent, he points to the frog, then draws a circle around his own face. the frog's head. can't you undo that curse? you're the one who put it on him.

the bee-fae stops short. a bee's eyes cannot grow larger, surely, but it seems somehow stunned. "that curse?" it asks, in disbelief. "you want me to undo that one? not yours?"

francel nods, solemnly. he casts a glance at solas, standing by his side. and solas's too, of course.

the bee seems astonished — perhaps even dismayed. "well, i never," it declares, adjusting the floral circlet atop its head once more. "mortal goody-two-shoes thinks chivalry's not dead yet." its expression does not change, but its shrieking, spiteful voice softens into something formal and dignified as it was when it announced that we are the courts of the seelie and the unseelie, come to convene...

"a mortal has asked of me a selfless act for an unseelie fae not even his friend. very well — this shall not be borne."

dramatically, it spreads its glowing wings, then rises up into the air. with a snap of its fingers, all of their curses are immediately dismissed — solas stops giggling, francel gasps as he finds his throat cleared once more, and across the hall, the frog-fae looks like a dragonfly once more, its eyes wide as it clutches its de-frogified head in disbelief.

"the grand duchess of the unseelie court has rendered judgment!" the bee-fae announces gaily, giggling, and then disappears, in a cloud of faery dust.]

[veilfires]

Well, then. [He stares at Francel - breathing a bit heavily, now that he can do so freely - for a straight-faced moment of ‘that did just happen’. Then it’s broken by a warm, grateful smile.]

Thank you. [He bows.] These Unseelie fae are most troublesome to deal with – but you handled that masterfully. It seems you are my rescuer from a most tragicomical fate.

[The frog dragonfly-fae drifts towards them, holding its cheeks (such as they are) in disbelief. Seeing its approach, he adds:] Let us see whether that will count here for leverage.

[Tears are streaming openly from its anthropod eyes. It’s mumbling frantically, “Can this be? Surely my senses deceive me. This cannot be my own beautiful face, restored, returned, resplendent once more. No, it’s another trick – the wicked Duchess, silver-tongued Lord Francel, and YOU, Solas, Lord of Tricksters, have joined in conspiracy against mine sorry personage!”

Solas frowns sternly down at it.]

No tricks, Your Eminence, save for ones imagined by a self-pitying mind. Francel has petitioned the Duchess on our behalves. We both owe him a debt of gratitude. Master yourself, and make the proper amends.

[The dragonfly-fae turns away, sniffling. “To be scolded by one such as you is almost too much to bear.”

It looks at Francel and adds, in a watery voice, “But now I have drawn close, I see your friend does speak true. He no longer laughs obnoxiously, and you reek awfully of rosemary. So you’ve braved rosemary and become my rescuer, even after I stole from you. Thank… thank you. You are a kind soul, after all.”

It fumbles through its overcoat pockets, searching for something. “Now – it falls to me to set things right. Where did I put that voice…? Ah!”

With pinched forefingers it takes out a firefly made of light, struggling to free itself. It lets it go, and it at once zips straight up, across and into Francel’s throat.]

[haillenarte]

[francel doubles over, coughing and sputtering, as his voice flies into his voicebox once more — but he soon recovers himself, wiping a bit of undignified spittle from his lip upon the back of his hand as he nods, wincing, blinking tears from his eyes. he straightens, clearing his throat.]

I... yes. I am gladdened only that you have been restored to your proper form, Your Eminence. Forgive me for the stench.

[taking a moment to flash solas a rare, genuine smile, francel bows toward the dragonfly-fae with a sweeping gesture of his arm, his limbs arranged in practiced angles.]

Three summers cursed is three summers too long.

[veilfires]

[The dragonfly-fae nods vigorously and tearfully. It continues to rummage through its pockets.

"But that was mere restitution, an equaling of terms! A mortal dreamer such as you will not be around long enough to see the end of these festivities, impressive though it shall be. As my curse lingered, it seems right you take from here something that shall linger as well..." It finds what it was looking for not in a pocket but hidden in a patch of his coat.

It proffers its palm to Francel, whereupon sits a small button with a pearlescent gleam. "A token - for you, friend Francel. I insist!"

Solas leans in to examine it with interest, disguising his suspicion that this may be a final trick.]

It is magical, Your Eminence?

[Its air becomes melancholy. "Yes. We are but beings of magic and caprice," it sighs, "our essence mutable, and shifts ever with the seasons."

It perks up with pride. "And so too does this gift of mine! Come winter it glows warm, red as a hearth - by summer the opposite." ]

[haillenarte]

[it's a strange gift, but then the dragonfly has been a very strange fae, and francel smiles as he gratefully accepts the button. it does not change colors as his hands close around it — he supposes that in this fae dream it is now neither summer nor winter — but it might be a useful enough trinket, particularly if in winter it provides enough warmth to supplant a crackling fire.]

I shall treasure it, Your Eminence, as I have treasured our interactions.

["so you should, and so you must!" it answers, in a manner that is both instructive and hopeful.

with its proper face, the dragonfly-fae cannot smile as such, and it has never seemed to be the especially happy sort, but its wings buzz with an emotion that certainly resembles joy. gradually — perhaps for the first time in the three midsummers it has been cursed — it, too, begins to emit a sparkling dust, then turns cartwheels in the sky as it flits off to parts unknown.

pleased with the way everything has been resolved, francel turns to solas, still smiling.]

Well! That was quite the adventure, wasn't it?

[veilfires]

[In the wake of such a grand departure, Solas can’t help but to feel a sort of admiration for the dragonfly-fae. Well – not admiration, that is too strong. The fae are a remarkably imprudent people, squandering their magical gifts on frivolities, and he cannot admire that. But he can, perhaps, be charmed by them.

He turns to Francel as well, a matching smile on his own face.]

It would make a good tale, no? It had enough twists and turns to match any fanciful story. [He grins, thinking of Varric.] I daresay an unscrupulous author could write it down and sell it.

And the chance intervention of a kind stranger who proceeds to save the day – those are generally only found in storybooks, too.

[haillenarte]

[francel colors slightly even as he laughs, embarrassed by solas's assessment of the situation. it's not as though the praise is excessive, and it's not francel's first time being called kind, but, well...]

I did not intend to emulate some fairy-tale hero! Only, well... I suppose I just took pity upon the poor creature. Imagine having a frog's head for one summer — much less three!

[veilfires]

[With his cynical twist of mind, Solas had assumed Francel’s kinship with the dragonfly-fae merely empty flattery, a kind of manipulation – which he didn’t think less of him for. Manipulation can be heroic, too.

But a statement of empathy and fellow-feeling with a strange creature who would generally be thought repulsive – that’s something purer, rarer, and something Solas respects. So, he doesn’t tarnish it by poking at it. He merely inclines his head with an enigmatic smile.]

Indeed? Though if you had, emulation would not be amiss. [says mr posturing is necessary] Having found ourselves assigned parts in such a fairy tale, we’re obliged to act out our given roles well.

[haillenarte]

[francel cannot help mirror solas's tilt of the head with one of his own, peering genially into the elven mage's eyes as he tries to discern what may lie behind the man's enigmatic air. he's never been one to see through any sort of pretense, however; it's much easier for him to simply ask.]

And what is your usual role? You strike me as a scholar — but in another story, I suspect you would be our leading man.

[veilfires]

[He tilts his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, but raises his eyebrows at it with amusement also.]

Perhaps when I was a young man. Nowadays I am content to stay shadowed in the wings, watching those better suited than I take the spotlight.

[This is a tidy way to draw the conversation into a segue, so he adds:]

Unless, of course, narrative conventions of a good hero are different in your lands.

[haillenarte]

[for a moment, francel might have believed that solas was a man of ishgard, albeit one unusually slight of frame, but this comment at least establishes that he must be a stranger. francel shakes his head.]

No, no — there are none more heroic than the knights of Ishgard, ever ready to save the fair maidens of the realm from dragons most foul.

[or at least it was that way when they were less isolated, but at any rate...]

But alas, I am no knight. And nor, I suppose, are you?

[veilfires]

What a nation values in their stories says much about what that nation values in life.

[Ishgard, he says. It is a hard name, with a strong consonant – not Elven as he knows it. But a place where elves still dwell in castles and are yet the courageous knights and lovely damsels both – that is an agreeable dream.

He gestures with a hand to express ‘you’re right.’]

You said ‘scholar’. Your intuition is good. [In lieu of asking outright, he merely looks expectant and interested to hear Francel’s occupation in turn.]

[haillenarte]

Ah, I see!

[francel has no way of knowing that that might not be the whole truth. he lights up strangely for solas's praise, breaking in a smile too radiant to be anything but real — the plain happiness of a child who is rarely praised.

with a restrained sort of pride that is very far from pompous, he presses a hand to his chest and executes a formal ishgardian bow.]

It is my pleasure, then, to make your acquaintance. I am the fourthborn son of House Haillenarte and commander of the garrison at Skyfire Locks.

[he doesn't look like a military leader, but... perhaps looks, in his case, are deceiving. or, as is frequently the case, nepotism is the law of the land.]