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TDM: MARCH
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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 character, put one in! This time around, reserves will expire after the first 48 hours of applications being opened. Those first 48 hours will be open to those who have reserves only, so we recommend placing one. It will not guarantee you a spot, but it will guarantee you can post your app immediately when they open.With that taken care of...
• Applications Open The 24th! There will be a cap of 30 applications accepted this round, and apps will close whenever we've reached that cap. If there are slots left after the reserves-only period, apps will open to those without reserves. 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 Underground
Take a moment. Let your eyes adjust to the dark, your ears to echoing silence, but for the steady drip of condensation down the stone walls that surround you. The tunnels down here are wide, the ceilings high, but they are dim, devoid of sunlight and breeze. The only light, in fact, comes from the shards of softly-glowing shards of quartz lining the ground and the bio-luminescent algae that smears the stone in long, blue veins, pulsing gently, pushing breathable air into the otherwise-stale passageways. The air is damp, but the temperature is moderate - almost comfortable. The tunnels fork off and meander from where you are, some narrowing and some widening, but none seem to lead you to the surface, no matter how long you wander. Is it a trick of the light, that the algae glows a little brighter, pulses a little quicker, when you head in a particular direction? It's hard to sort your senses so deep underground, far from the world above where things make sense. Hopefully you've found a friend by now.
 The Crystal Cavern Many of the tunnels, both wide and narrow, lead to the same place: a massive chamber hewn out of the stone by time, and the drip-drip of water from the ceiling into the central lake. Perhaps you came out toward the bottom, and the ceiling is a thousand feet above you, or maybe you came out toward the top, and the lake is a thousand feet below. There are a hundred or more holes in the sloping stone walls that lead to more tunnels, and something like natural steps down from most of them. In a way, it resembles a beehive, this room acting as a central hub of sorts. This is also the first place you find signs of life. Short, tough little tufts of grass growing from the thin soil, bone white in color, having long abandoned photosynthesis and chlorophyll. More of the glowing algae. Small, skittering insects - beetles, grubs and worms. The occasional albino rat, much larger and louder than rats have any right to be. Ruffled and capped fungi growing on the wet rock like parasites, some as large as a grown man. Blind, slimy cave fish wriggling around in the still waters of the lake. And milling around the great stone cavern, slurping up the glowing algae that covers the rocks and grows in lacy sheets across the water, are dozens of great beasts, bigger than horses. Shaped like worms, but with dozens and dozens of stubby, fleshy legs, these creatures are huge, with velvety, multi-colored hides, and though their antennae wave in curiosity when approached, they don't seem aggressive. At least, as long as you avoid the big silk-wrapped bundles stuck to the walls and ground all over the cavern. These are their egg sacs, and if their young are threatened, they'll quickly shoot jets of viscous slime, a quick drying adhesive, that can slow and trap even the strongest adult. If you find yourself in a sticky situation, you better hope someone can wrench you loose - the worms seem content to eat algae, until they've caught prey. Each worm has a long, hooked, chitinous blade concealed within its fleshy jaws to tear and shred, and a nightmarish round mouth full of multiple rows of teeth. Navigate carefully. There at the bottom of the lake, where it feeds into an underground stream that leads down another wide tunnel, there are a few small rowboats, some missing oars, certainly not enough for everyone. You'll have to share if you want to get out of here. Or you can keep hanging out with the giant wormipedes. |
 The Procession As you proceed down the stream by boat, the lighting grows just a little brighter, seeming a little more purposeful in how the glowing algae is planted, how the softly glowing crystals are placed. You start seeing a new type of moss, greyish-green and growing in ragged sheets from the ceiling of the tunnel. Watch your head - it's near impossible to cut through this stuff should you get tangled. For a while, you only hear the soft splashing of the gentle stream, but then... there is a flash of torch light, up ahead. The boat ahead is longer than the one you use, better kept, and full of people - three Monsters, all whose forms are based on creatures that thrive underground, in pieces of armor, holding spears, and one very elderly Witch woman, seated in the middle, wrinkled hands folded primly in her lap. Her milky gaze stares straight ahead, with something soft and proud in the set of her face. One of the Monsters holds the torch, the other rows the boat, and the third settles down next to her; they speak in hushed voices, with little smiles. After a while, the rowing Monster slows the boat, before they can bump into a thick, heavy, impenetrable curtain of grayish-green moss that stretches across the whole tunnel, blocking the way, like a gate. The other two help the woman to her feet, and guide her toward the front of the boat - and the curtain of moss. She reaches out for it blindly, and they help her step onto the edge. There is something almost ritual or reverent about the movements, the way they regard the Witch as she touches the curtain of moss... and is wrapped into it quickly, swallowed up, absorbed. After twenty minutes of gentle pulsing, the lump that used to be the Witch is no more, and the whole of the moss pulses with light and magic. The Monsters watch this whole process vigilantly, and once the lights die down, they continue on. The moss parts to allow the boat through, brushing against the Monsters but not swallowing them. The procession happens a few more times, in separate boats, with separate victims - but all are very, very elderly, and seem proud, even happy to meet their fates. Trying to follow them further after the ritual will have the same thing happen for your boat - the moss will part, and brush over those in the boat without causing harm. If you happen to be infected with the Cwyld, however... you might meet the same fate as the old woman, with the moss reaching and grabbing for you. The procession can be stopped, but drawing attention will draw the ire of the Monster guards, and, strangely, the victims themselves, who will fly into a distressed rage at the interruption. |
 The Marketplace Beyond the veil of moss lies... civilization? The cavern is enormous, big enough to contain a city at least as big as Aefenglom, if not larger, though the population at a glance seems to be much smaller. Twenty thousand people, perhaps, give or take. Buildings have been carved out of huge stone spires, or formed by draping cloth around and between the natural stalactites and stalagmites. Monsters tend to be quite tall or bulky, possessing obvious physical strength, while Witches and humans tend to be shorter than in Aefenglom. They all mingle on the streets together, with no immediately obvious class difference. Since there is no weather to dress for, some don't bother to dress at all, though humans at least tend to wear flowy silks or simple clothes made from wormipede hides. The streets are wide and the buildings far-spaced, and many get around on the backs of those worm creatures, having made them saddles and reins. The stream ends in a lake right next to a marketplace, with many small boats docked on its pebbled shores. The stalls sell all kinds of goods: clothing made from fine silk and worm hide or rat fur, skewered meat (It's bug.), weapons, armor, jewelry made from chunks of beautiful stone. Your arrival is bound to cause a stir though, so keep your head down, and maybe it's time to snatch a disguise from one of the clothing stalls. Monster guards, occasionally flanked by Witches, patrol the streets and keep the peace, and stopping to talk to anyone will make one thing clear: they are not at all used to outsiders. They won't believe a word you say about being from above ground, and they've never heard of your world or Aefenglom. You're nomads from the tunnels, right? Of course, don't be ridiculous, you can't fool them with tall tales! At least they're usually willing to talk - briefly, of course, everyone is very busy down here, it's morning and many will be heading to tend to the herd soon. Those who are subtle and pointed in their questions can learn a lot about the vast but also small civilization below the surface of the world. Strength is valued here - the stronger the Monster or more powerful the Witch, the higher their rank in society, and the closer they live to the center, largest spires of stone. Monster-Witch Bonded pairs are the be-all-end-all, and often wear matching wrist-guards or pendants proudly. Pretending to be Bonded to another will put many of the natives at ease, though Monster-Monster pairs get snide comments about how you have to team up to find a good Witch, and Witch-Witch pairs will get odd looks and assume you both have a very strong Monster partner somewhere. It must be quite rare for Witches to go un-bonded here, and any who pass through without an obvious partner may be propositioned by young Monsters showing off their various talents. Unbonded Monsters may be nudged in the direction of any strange, unbonded Witches - usually fellow Mirrorbound - in a poor attempt at matchmaking. Those poor unbonded Witches need protection, right? Or so the locals think. It's too bad trying to go any farther than the Marketplace will get you stopped by guards and turned back, however. They don't allow nomads into the inner city. |
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Okay.
[He falls into step with Giorno immediately, and it should be funny how easily he came to trust Giorno, when all of them had resisted the idea of someone new when it first came up -- but perhaps it was inevitable. He trusted Buccellati in everything, after all. It only made sense that he would come to feel the same way about anyone Buccellati put his faith in.
Once they're a decent distance from the bulk of the crowd, he pipes back up--]
So you know what's going on, right? [There's a beat.] Your ears are different.
[That's weird. Explain that.]
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[He blinks, one hand coming up to cover his ear instinctively. It's a stupid tell, incredibly self-conscious, but he genuinely can't help it. His ears look weird now, and people here are very tactful about it, for whatever stupid reason. Narancia is not tactful.]
I'm . . . going to start from the other questions, if that's all right. And then answer these.
[Okay. He exhales quietly and starts at the beginning, counting on his fingers.]
"Where's here?" There are two parts to this. We're in a dream right now, but the dream is most likely a vision of some part of the past of the world I am currently in. You're dreaming from our world, I think. Sometimes people who have this dream come through to the world that I'm in, sometimes they don't.
"Where are the others?" The only person here with me on my side is Fugo. I haven't seen him in the dream yet, though. The others haven't come through.
"Do I know what's going on?" For the most part, yes. As much as anyone's been able to figure out. [A faint smile, kind of toothy.] I hope that's obvious by now? It isn't Stand-related, I can promise you that to start with.
[And . . . he switches to counting on his other hand, absently. Taps his forefinger and thumb together.]
. . . You've seen all of the people here who don't look like people, right?
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...Speaking of Fugo. It hasn't been that long since they parted ways in San Giorgio Maggiore, but it feels like a lifetime since choosing to betray the boss. He wonders what Fugo's been up to since then. It'll be nice to see him, now that they've won. Maybe they'll even be able to have a pizza together. It kind of makes him impatient to wake up already, except....if he's dreaming from Italy and Giorno and Fugo aren't, does that men they won't be there when he gets up? That earns a small pout as he sorts through the rest of the details Giorno gives him.]
The animal people, yeah. You mean you're turning into one of those?
[Thank all the gods of all the universes that the internet wasn't enough of a thing in 2001 for Narancia to know about furries. This conversation would take such an unfortunate turn otherwise.]
So I'm dreaming from Italy and you're not. But I don't remember you ever leaving.
[. . .]
What day is it?
[How long has it been since we fought the Boss?]
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I'm more or less done turning into one, yes. There haven't been any changes in some time, even though I don't look as . . . nonhuman as some do.
[He doesn't really want to use the word Monsters with Narancia, although he can't put his finger on why. He definitely doesn't want to talk about dying. Would rather stay a million miles away from that topic, thanks.]
[But in the end, there really aren't any safe topics, are there. That question is . . . it's complicated. Giorno tips his head up to stare at the cave's ceiling as they walk, cold hands coming to clasp behind his back.]
When I got here, it was November of 2001 back home. Here, it was May, and now it's March of the following year. So I'm something like . . . a year and a half ahead of you?
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[That's all he says, at first. Oh. It doesn't make sense to him, not really. Giorno is a year and a half ahead. They're almost the same age now, then. What's happened in all that time? Their whole lives turned upside down in a bare week. Is that why Giorno sounds so distant about beating the Boss? He never really thought about what their lives would look like, once they won, after all. Narancia just knew he wanted to protect Trish. And once they did, once the Boss was dead....what happened then? Did they go home? Did they have to fight the others that wanted that throne? ...Are they still all together?
He has so many questions, and that's only the first six months of time. The year following that is even more mysterious, and there's still dodges in Giorno's answers. He can feel the gaps in what's said and what's left silent, and it scares him a little. In the gang, sometimes you didn't want the answers. You kept your mouth shut and looked the other way if the people you trusted wanted you to, and he does trust Giorno. But he also fears the unsaid things becoming a gap between them, a chasm that becomes too wide to cross.
He watches Giorno walk, hands behind his back and he feels like he's lingering on a shore again, trying to decide whether or not to chase after a boat that's saling away, and then he just -- he takes the dive, dashing ahead to grasp at Giorno's arm.]
Giorno.
...Something happened, right? In Italy. You don't want to talk about it. It's okay that you don't. I don't need to know if you think it's better that I don't. But...
[It's a little hard, talking like this to Giorno, who felt almost larger than life. Someone who never faltered, but of course he did, right? He just never had time to get to know him that way.]
But you can, if you want to. You don't need to protect me from it, if it hurts you more.
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[Ugly as that is, it's the truth. From the first moment he saw Narancia in front of him here, he recognized it. He doesn't want to tell Narancia that he died, or that Buccellati died. That Buccellati had been dead . . . But even more so, that Narancia died because of him, in his body. That he was too slow, too weak, too imperfect to do anything about it, even at the very precipice of victory.]
[It's true, too, that he never expected Narancia to show up here. Dead is dead. Mista and Trish and Fugo, he can understand them showing up in these dreams, but despite the experiences of others proving the contrary, he never imagined seeing one of his dead. It's something he is wholly unprepared for. He's just not ready.]
[Not for Narancia to call him on it, although he should be. Not for the hand grabbing at his arm, or for the look on Narancia's face, stubborn and focused and just a little bit afraid.]
[. . . What is he doing, making Narancia do this work for him? A tremor goes from his shoulders down his back, like someone's walked over his grave. Walked over someone's, anyway. He holds Narancia's gaze until it hurts to do so, and then keeps holding it.]
It shouldn't be about me, Narancia. I don't want you to feel as though you need to protect me from this.
[That would be wrong. It would be sick. He doesn't think he could handle it if he let that happen.]
[Another moment, his shoulders squaring as he braces himself against the weight of what he's going to say. Then, quietly:]
You died in Rome, Narancia.
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[He repeats, voice soft. It's a strange sort of thing, to confront your own mortality in this way. To mourn for your own future. Narancia doesn't have the practice the others do with distancing themselves from their emotions, the layers upon layers of walls built up over years for self-preservation. Perhaps ironically, Buccellati and Fugo had saved him from that. The moment of shock is clear on his face, but it's not something that devastates him, either. The truth doesn't crush him under its heel, and he's a little surprised by that himself, because he didn't want to die, remembers being so scared that day when Buccellati told them what he'd done and gave them all a choice. He wanted to go home and eat a margherita pizza with mushrooms and reunite with Fugo and try finally giving school a chance, like Buccellati always wanted him to. If this is it, it's sad he won't get to do those things. Maybe he'll feel that harder later, when it's had time to settle in.
But the thing is, he was also supposed to die when he was fifteen. He never was supposed to get the time he had with Buccellati and Fugo and Mista and Abbacchio and Giorno and Trish, and it was the happiest time of his entire life. There were so many people who spent decades upon decades as a living corpse, unhappy and unfulfilled and often content to simply drag others down with them so their misery had company. When he was with Buccellati's group, he felt at peace with the world and himself, and as much as he didn't want to die, he was okay with the possibility. It was like he'd said--he wasn't afraid of anything Buccellati ever had to ask of him.
For a little while, he's quiet, gaze dropped to the floor as he sorts through his own feelings. Then he looks back up.]
Is Trish safe? Then I won't have any regrets.
[There's a look on his face like he has more to say, but he hesitates for a moment, not sure he's overstepping his place, but...]
But I think it's okay if it's about you a little, Giorno. ...Abbacchio would've been pissed if he saw how much I screamed and cried back then, but I couldn't stop how I felt. It's only fair you get to feel what you feel, too.
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[The response, once it comes, doesn't make him feel any better. It's confusing. He doesn't know how to process it. That Narancia takes his own death, holds it, absorbs it, and is done . . .]
[He doesn't understand. He looks at Narancia with uncomprehending eyes, blue and blank, waiting for his body language to make sense. Waiting for some truth to come through it other than what's been said. How is he not — upset? Hurt? Afraid?]
[It doesn't come. Giorno stares too long, in the way that used to get him in trouble. In the end, it's Abbacchio's name that anchors him. Abbacchio would be pissed, all right. He owes it to Abbacchio, if no one else, not to make this his problem. He needs to just shut it off.]
[So he does. His expression shutters, lips thinning infinitesimally as he presses them together; then he nods.]
Trish is safe. The Boss is gone. We accomplished our goal.
[That's . . . all there is, isn't it.]
I don't have any regrets, either. [He can't.]
no subject
It's strange, seeing him say that when he looked so upset, earlier. It's not that Narancia doesn't believe him, because he believes in his friends to the ends of the earth. But he wonders, if the reaction from earlier truly was just that Giorno didn't know how to tell him about his own death when he didn't seem to know. If that's it, then he's glad he did say something, because he'd hate for anyone to be so worried about hurting his feelings. Thinking of Giorno as the sensitive type feels a little bit funny, when he thinks of him as the kid who walked right into their fold and proved himself by drinking piss. Giorno is brave and brilliant and confident and doesn't give a fuck what gets in his way, and those are all the things Narancia likes about him. But he thinks he's happy that he gets to know this about him too.]
Hmm wait, maybe I do have one, actually. Mista's the only one who got to try out a body with boobs.
[His voice lilts a little teasingly, with a snicker. The mood has gotten too somber for his taste, and also, if one has to be involuntarily subjected to a bodyswap, who WOULDN'T want it to be Trish. That's just good sense.
....Anyway. He realizes he's still holding Giorno's arm, so he lets it go with a little squeeze. He's happy to enjoy what time he has left in this dream with Giorno, but if it doesn't last any longer than this, he wants to be sure he's said one more thing.]
Giorno? I'm glad you joined us. We couldn't have won without you.
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[He doesn’t smile. His lips thin as the rest of his expression stays still, leaving something unreadable and wildly open to interpretation. Of course, Narancia’s right. They couldn’t have won without him. They wouldn’t have gotten involved at all without him. And he isn’t sorry to have won. He’d do it again.]
[But it isn’t a good thing, how it happened. By logic, it’s his fault. That’s all there is to it.]
[After a moment, he shoots Narancia a faint smile, despite everything.]
I’m glad that I met you, Narancia. [Despite everything. Despite how wrong all of this feels. It’s the truth.]