dagung | ☆ TDM: SEPTEMBER

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* tdm

☆ TDM: SEPTEMBER

Test Drive: September

All threads can be considered game canon,

the prompts and test drive itself will be

• 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 27th.
• Applications Open The 24th! These will last until the end of the month, the 30th, with the intro log going on up October 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!

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 Wilde

For once, the forest that comes to view isn’t flecked with autumnal colors, with leaves that fall without the touch of wind. Each branch blossoms with life, flowers of all shades dotting their surfaces as spring rears its head, and you’re tugged from the edge, through a worn path, and deeper than ever before. The gentle laughter and chatter of living creatures filters in through petals that you brush past, hanging from flowering vines winding downward like delicate curtains.

There’s something new to this though, eyes that see and a growing excitement among the forests’ inhabitants: You’re more known to them than you might guess, it would seem.

Outskirts
The meadow where you find yourself is fresh and green, an explosion of color and the sweet scents of flowers and rain. Wildflowers dot the grass, all beginning to open, in sprays of purple and pink and orange. To one end, the stream flows clear over smooth river rocks into a small pond dotted with vibrant blue fish and turtle-shelled ducks floating without a care in the world. To the other, the forest begins with tall, white-barked trees and saplings in various stages of new growth, pushing out tender green leaves. It's pleasant, but strange, because... There is next to no sign of the Cwyld here in this idyllic patch of the Wilde, no blackened foliage or shadows hiding white-eyed Cwyldtid.

The wildlife seem similarly unaffected, even thriving - watch out for the mama petalwolves with their brilliantly-colored floral coverings. Most of them camouflaging themselves in the thickets of wildflowers are followed by bushy, green-leafed cubs, and they're widely known to be aggressive when threatened.

The most inspiring sight, however, is one not seen in the Wilde of Geardagas for many years, due to the wide spread of the Cwyld. A silvery, equine creature emerges from the treeline, trotting slowly toward the pond on iridescent hooves. A single white horn protrudes from its head, and its mane shimmers pearlescent in the morning sunlight. Following it is a smaller, clumsier unicorn with a gold-tinged coat, happy to be out and about. Unicorns are known to be exceedingly rare - to spot a foal in the Wilde is unheard of. You're all very lucky to see the way the forest is healing.

While some may know that the Coven itself has a unicorn in its stables, this wild one is unused to the hands of humans and may hold her ground in protection of her baby, threatening with her horn and performing small feats of magic to that end -- illusion and physical enhancements are its more core offensives, though it can do healing and shields on the other side. The foal, for the most part, doesn’t seem to have a lick of self-preservation (perhaps it’s been living in safety for too long) and won’t mind bounding up to something, or someone, new and interesting, nickering in asking to play.

The Path Through
Onward and inward, traveler. The healing forest is vast, but a particular route is clearly outlined to lead toward something. As you head past the treeline, more saplings of varying heights and ages shoot forth from the ground between the large-trunked trees that survived. Warm sunlight dapples the ground in an irregular pattern of light and shade, and shines off a series of mirrors, each about the size of a large hardcover book, hanging from the tree trunks to either side to form a path.

No two mirrors are alike. Similar to the mirrors within the Looking-Glass House, each is framed in different decorations and different materials, with different engravings or embossings, but unlike the Looking-Glass House, all the mirrors' decorations are visible to passersby. They're well-cared for out here, polished to a shine and picked clean of leaf-litter and outdoor debris; distant, happy voices reveal that the area is far from abandoned.

Each of these mirrors is placed in honor of a Mirrorbound, and all contain an enchantment that, when the surface of the glass is touched, causes it to display short, silent 'moving pictures' of that Mirrorbound's heroic deeds, in Aefenglom, in Dorchacht, or maybe even from the character's home, whatever they may have done to earn this high regard. Whether the retellings are true to life, or completely dramatized, it's clear that much care was put into remembering their individual stories and personalizing the frames of their mirrors.

The path between the mirrors serves the dual purpose of memorializing, and leading the way deeper into the forest...

Within the Wilde
... Where the sound of creatures grow louder and more plentiful, shaping into actual words as characters step into a clearing, more familiar to those who’d dreamed the first dream than most: There may be no long tables set up with food and drink, but the sight of Fae flitting about and gossiping is certainly something all its own. They, along with Dryads, seem to be plentiful in comparison to the waking world, and once they’ve taken notice of the new faces... immediately begin to ask questions. From whence did they come? Were they filled with new magic power, or had they already begun to change? It’s exciting -- they haven’t had new connections to the world in some time, most of the old Bound having returned beyond their glass some time ago, and while it could mean there was trouble on the horizon they don’t seem too bothered by that fact. “Most” returned, it’s said, because there’s plenty of creatures who claim to have been descended from those who helped to restore the balance of the world, proudly claiming so to any who spend half a minute with them.

While they can be spoken to in a sense, characters won’t get anything too crazy out of them -- they’re willing to speak on present happenings (or what’d be present for characters in game) and how that played out, such as how Dorchacht was far more free than it had been centuries hence in example. Anything more pressing, such as how it may have come about, is unable to be understood despite everything else being able to. They tease new dreamers that those of old were brought here, as far as the stories go, to help cleanse the world and return it to what it once was, and joke that they’d better prepare for the same trouble -- what a laugh, their Wilde as it is now, desecrated once more.

But the Fae in particular are tricksy and prefer pranks to actual conversation, picking on anyone in sight to see how true it was that Mirrorbound -- you, apparently -- had powerful magic and amazing abilities as Monsters: Give it a shot, cast a spell or two, show off your more Monstrous talents, they’ll find it a genuine hoot.

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This is the dream we all share, but it is a reflection of a world apart from your own, or even mine. [ Scathach kept her tone even, taking her gaze to the treeline. ]

For what purpose we are here, none can say with any certainty, but for me, I've already decided. I am a warrior, and heed the warrior's call. And that call beckons me to fight for these people, protect them, from the blight that threatens them... a thing they call the Cwyld.

These are not my people.

[ For once, she doesn't mean to snap at her. She takes a few steps forward, panic rising in her once more. All of her life, she was destined for something more, something that she had no real control over. Anything that threatened that was overwhelming, inconceivable.

To think she had pleaded and begged for something so much more than herself. ]

I am no one special, I wouldn't be helpful here, I have already given my life to my people.

Some force greater than either of us disagrees with you, my lady. But to what end, I cannot say. [ Scathach sighed, shifting her weight some and re-crossing her legs. Her eyes went back to the woman before her. She no longer had access to the Wisdom of Dun Scaith, but her intuition told her a great deal... ]

So... should I be calling you "your majesty" instead?

[ Those words hit her like fists as Gwenhwyfar stands away, back to her, only to glance over her shoulder, nostrils flared. She takes a deep breath, bottling down a wave of anger that captivates her upon hearing the moniker "your majesty".

Even with her birthright, Gwenhwyfar can't stand to be referred to as such. Even with Lancelot's insistence of calling her "my lady". Weariness accompanies anger -- knowledge of her bloodline always cost her too much grief.

All because who she is associated with. ]

No.

[ She is assured in her speech, too. Thank the gods for her long cloak, that mask her trembling. ]

I am no one, just a girl that would much rather be among my own people. I serve no one -- no man or god can tell me what I will do.

[ ... Well. Intuition correct, she assumed, despite the woman's protests. But also it was very clearly a road she had no business walking down. She had no desire to antagonize... but curiosity pulled at her consciousness all the same. Maybe some other time... ]

I'll keep that in mind. [ Scathach's response was calm. She kept her eyes on Gwenhwyfar, focused but not judgemental. She spends a moment, pondering what she should do next. She had a feeling she knew exactly who this woman was. There weren't that many Welsh queens of note, particularly those who would make such a declaration...

So she supposed it was only fair not to dance around her own identity. True names still held weight within this world, but her intuition once more was telling her that she was better suited speaking it here, to this woman, than any other moment prior... ]

Either way, you may call me by my name... Scathach.

Gaelic.

[ Granted, most of her time in Eire had been stuck in Tara, but she liked to think she knew of important figures by their names. Nobles, royals, Fianna, and even chieftains that she had made a point to mentally note during her time there. It's an odd name -- interesting, yet odd name. Befitting of how she seemed to slink out of shadows to sit beside Gwenhwyfar.

For a moment, she debates giving out her true name. Anxiety beating in her chest palms, sweaty as she continues to grip her spear. Perhaps she can catch the scent of blood and iron that often accompanies a warrior to a highland or battlefield.

Then again, the likelihood of her knowing who she is, she thinks, is minuscule. It isn't as if she looks like she's nobility; dressed in soiled clothing, torn and worn away from her fleeing into the wilderness. The only slight indication of her being of higher birth is the golden torc around her neck, covered, thankfully by a a wolf's pelt. Gwenhwyfar looks like a mess and she is content with that, it offers her safety. ]

Perhaps I should be speaking Gaelic to you. Which is it where you come from, Alba or Eire?

[ Gaelic being the language of invaders and her imprisoners, she's content speaking her Cymraeg. But if this woman is from Eire, Gwenhwyfar may have a problem with it. ]

Gwenhwyfar.

[ Not important, at all, despite how clever her mother was in naming her. No one but a wandering geilt, at this rate. ]

[ That name confirmed a lot of Scathach's thoughts. So this was indeed her, the Queen of Knights. But she knew well that the woman still thought herself disguised, that she was no one of note or name. And Scathach wasn't about to shatter that comfortable assumption of hers... she had no intention to antagonize, after all.

But as for herself... ]

Alba... the Isle of Skye.

I am not simply some celt, and my name holds great meaning to those who listen to the old words.

Scathach, Master of Dun Scaith, master of the Gae Bolg, the God Slayer and Queen of the Land of Shadows and keeper of its Gate...

And all of this I stand before you, a willing guide to you or any who'd have need of my strength. My days as a teacher of heroes are long behind me, but my heart still beats for those with courage...

[ Always expecting the worst, Gwenhwyfar eases with her reaction.

At the very least, she has awakened to a place where someone doesn't clamor over her because of her name. Sure, Gwenhwyfar bears the title of the Princess of Cameliard and soon-to-be queen but she's comfortable looking like the worn, dirty wanderer that she is. ]

I have faired well enough to handle myself. [ Scars and missing right eye aside. But it's a kind gesture, so she cannot snub completely. ] Unfortunately, your title and your realm are not familiar to me, not to a Briton.

I have to ask, why do your offer your aid to someone like me?

Because that is what those who listen to the old words do. We are flames to guide the lost, to shelter the cold. You may be a Briton, but those who speak the old words have come to your land.

I believe they call them druids, in your time.

I was raised by the most skilled druid in my lands.

[ Who she as well decides not to omit in the conversation. With a bit of confidence coming back into her, Gwenhwyfar feels more emboldened to speak her mind and less likely to threaten violence to Scathach. ]

In my experience, no one offers a hand to another without a stipulation. I'm armed, I have my own spear, and I am not afraid of receiving another scar.

We are not on a battlefield, Gwenhwyfar.

[ Scathach's spear was at rest, almost as example. Certainly it was still present, but she felt she didn't need to explain to this woman the nature of a warrior finding comfort in having their weapon near. She had a feeling she got that much, at least. ]

[ And here is Gwenhwyfar, standing the opposite, her weapon clutched so close to her like a child holding a security blanket.

The wind is knocked out of her momentarily, as hard as it is a reality check with her. Though, it isn't enough to relent the cold grip of her tainted memories or what she believes t be the incessant reminders that she is alone again and no one can help her. It almost seems like the King Melwas' words to her ring true -- that she had been abandoned. A shudder passes through her lips, sucking back a sob as her eye glints with what may be a tear.

She has to laugh, a hollow, empty laugh. Shaking her head as her lips curve into a cold smile. It's empty, she feels empty, followed by the constant thrum of pain in her body. ]

I have... been taken from everything I have known-

[ She feels breathless, taking in every bit of air she can to recover from the air that had been squeezed out of her. ]

Been used as an object... thrown aside. Promised by others who reassured me they would do me no harm... because of mere association-

[ She stops before she can slip a detail that she cannot discuss. She will not cry, she will not cry. She is not so weak-willed anymore to cower any longer. ]

And now I am here. I am positive that you are a fierce warrior and admirable queen in your own right. As for me?

[ She scoffs at herself, using every will that she has to bury her anger and grief, down to the deepest pits of her being, once more. There was no way that she would allow herself to crumble in front of a queen, who is so much more knowledgable and formidable in comparison to her.

A complete mes. ]

It has always been me, I have sought to my own safety, always. No one else. Everywhere is a battlefield, as far as I am concerned, not until I am home once more.

[ Which... as much as it seemed like this woman was falling apart before her very eyes, Scathach couldn't sour her reasoning. Metaphorically speaking, she wasn't wrong. But the problem with that line of thinking... ]

You have no enemy to strike. No territory to defend. No hill to die upon.

[ Scathach rose to her feet, posture still relaxed, even going so far as to set her blood-red spear aside, and approach Gwenhwyfar entirely unarmed, palms open. ]

Calm your heart... and allow it to bleed. Even if just for this moment. This is the wisdom of the old words...

[ Senses heightened, she stiffens as soon as she hears the shift Scathach rising, spear so tightly clutched into her pale hands that the ancient etchings carved into it by her ancestor are now bruised into her skin.

It's all a lie, everyone had lied to her. ]

I never asked for this. What good will that do?

[ Or to be part of it. She never once had a say in her future, always following it obediently without questioning it. Gwenhwyfar had liked to think, once, that the gods would reward her fealty to her family's plan.

And she never once had a say that night King Melwas had stolen her away. She had fought so hard to keep her tears from streaming down her cheeks but it's unavoidable. Hot, plump tears are making their way down her cheek and she hates herself for it. Despite everything, Gwenhwyfar longs to be by her mother's side, to rest her weary head in her lap. ]

I will strike down whoever stops me from returning home...! You're wrong!

[ She is nothing but a frightened girl, in the end. ]

And if that being never manifests, what will you strike?

Your fate, now your own burden, rests heavily on you now. It imprints you into the earth below, standing in this dream, and will not be sloughed away by stabbing at ghosts in the dark...

[ The distance between them was closing, until Scathach was standing right before her, arms open, a softness in her eyes that wasn't pity or sympathy but... someone that had needed to comfort many a frightened child in her time. Her students, her own daughter... the lost souls of children who had been sent to the Land of Shadows well before their time. Too damned many...

What was one more? ]

Let it bleed. The seasons are changing.

My fate is already laid out before me! My fate doesn't lie here-

[ Why not, she's about to reason, she's struck down Melwas all on her own. By herself, as usual, with no assistance of a knight or a king, to boot.

The mere gesture of this foreign woman opening her arms to comfort her isn't enough. It isn't the arms of her mother or Arthur's arms to assure that she's safe once again.

And she hates it. It won't be good enough for her, not compared to her beloved weapon that Gwenhwyfar chooses to press her forehead to openly weep. ]

[ Scathach didn't shift once she was that close. She didn't force the contact on her, and if it was better for her to cry into that spear, then Scathach wasn't going interrupt that. She'd still be there, should the woman change her mind about it, but it wasn't her place otherwise. ]

When this is done... then you can raise your head, and find your path again.

And when will that be?

[ She chokes, standing firm with her spear and her long white hair slumping into her face. It would have been a good opportunity to use that to hide the fact she's crying -- almost ready to double over from her agony.

Now came the task of trying to stop herself from openly panicking, stopping herself from sobbing hysterically. ]

How long? When those I love are long gone?

I cannot say, because I do not know. Even with the Wisdom of Dun Scaith, I could not give you simple answers. That's not the sort of comfort I could offer, and I can only apologize in its absence. [ A long sigh. ]

I've made a long career, left behind these days, of seeing if the spark of courage existed truly within others. And even through your despair, my intuition is telling me it exists within you.

Despite everything... you are going to survive. Of that much I am certain.

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☆ TDM: SEPTEMBER

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