☆ TDM: MARCH

[faileas]

Test Drive: March 2021

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. Aside from that, here are some quick reminders:



• The Application Queue is open. Applications run on a rolling queue system. The application page is always open to submissions, and applications will be processed in order of submission. Verdicts will always go out by the final week of a month, though we can't promise an exact date -- we'll get to them as quickly as we can throughout the month! If your application is submitted during the last week of a month, it may be rolled into next month's batch of applications. The application page can be found here.
• We have a brand new Game World Wiki created with the immense help of our Wiki Bards: Noa, Prince, Maruah and Ran. Thank you so much! It's still being updated, but most of the main game info is there for you in an easily searchable manner. All other info can still also be found through our Navigation page!
• 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!
• For current characters, TDM threads can be used for AC.
• And finally, since this is part of our event, characters already in-game ARE allowed to top-level on this post.



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 Calamity


The taste of magic in the air is electric on your tongue, supercharged, bright, a little tart and fizzy like popping candy. The settlement you find yourself in is unfamiliar to you, but you can tell it is bustling, beautiful, a center of culture and activity for its bygone era. The architecture blooms with elaborately carved flourishes, but you cannot shake the feeling of... otherworldliness that it brings to mind. (Perhaps you are a veteran of these dreams and remember a ship with similar embellishments from far away, that came bearing invaders, in a time long ago.) It is nearly impossible to tell what season you find yourself in - pockets of spring bloom with new life, right next to pockets of winter snowstorms; playful fall winds laden with leaves tug at your hair, and in some spots, it feels hot and muggy like the middle of summer. None of these patches of seasonal mayhem are very large, a few city blocks’ worth at most, and they all butt up against each other, tumultuous, fighting for real estate in a place where the magic bubbles freely up through the ground like a wellspring, uncontrolled. In a way, it seems like a wilder version of Aefenglom’s seasons always being opposite the season in the Wilde, similar but more widespread, more disharmonic.

Fit to Burst The settlement is bustling and full of that otherworldly architecture, spirals and tendrils and vaguely floral embellishments, except... If you look closer, you can see that only a few of the buildings are really made that way. An illusion covers the rest, purely cosmetic, a glamour; it's a shimmering image laid over reality until you look beneath it at the squat, simple houses made by mortal hands out of rough hewn wood or bricks of packed mud. The people are just as disparate as the buildings beneath it all - glittering-eyed Fae, taller, more elongated and insectoid than those seen around Aefenglom, though many of them use glamours to appear more fantastical and beautiful; humans teeming with magic, who use it freely for anything and everything; other bipedal Monsters with rougher, more bestial features than longtime residents might be used to, more in tune with their natural abilities. It wouldn't be a bad idea to explore your new surroundings, though you're likely to garner attention. Unless the world you come from is a more medieval time period, your clothing, perhaps even your hair or other aspects of your appearance are likely to stand out. What will make you stand out even more, though, is not drawing on your abundant new magical powers, or strong new Monster abilities. That shop there requires flight to get up to the second story front door. That home down the street can only be unlocked with a burst of flame. Torches when it grows dark? No, don’t be ridiculous, you can't light your own way? Your hair looks hideous, darling, why haven’t you put on a glamour? Reluctance to use these abilities abundantly and freely garners frowns of scrutiny and disapproval from those natives around you. "We're free here under the Fae folk. They've taught us so much, we never go hungry, we’re never beaten down by the weather." Their words hold truth - their twisted-trunk trees are bursting with fruit, their haphazardly laid out crops flourish in a matter of days rather than a season, rain and snow can be directed at will with just an application of the wild, free magic bubbling up from the ground in rivers. There is a hierarchy in this settlement. The Fae are above all, and can often be found partying into the night with sweet wine and hallucinogenic mushrooms, teaching humans and Monsters to harness their natural talents and the magic of the land by day. Their attitudes are condescending toward these lesser beings they’ve granted their favor to (including you, now, and aren’t you just the most interesting, darling little things?), delighting in spreading their knowledge. The humans and Monsters still seem awestruck by their benevolent masters - a word they mean in the sense of 'teachers' - accepting their gifts, using their magic, and none of them will so much as whisper a complaint. Not when it’s safe here. Not when all is well. It's more than they can say for the lands outside of their paradise, even if things do happen here that the Fae do not like to hear them speak of. Gain the trust of the natives, and you might hear rumors, whispers of a rotting pox hitting other communities far from here, or first hand accounts of how so-and-so witnessed another death just last week, a human woman blew up in town, and some of the Monsters, they been goin’ right bestial. Shh, shh, you didn’t hear it from them! (Don’t let the Fae catch you gossiping. They might just take you and the native both aside, whisper in your ears, let the magic wind its way around your brain until you don't remember any longer what you were talking about or even who you are, where you come from. You were having a good time though, right?) You can try to leave the settlement, to explore the woods that surround it, but you’re likely to be noticed and warned: "You should stay here, make sure you don’t run into any of the unfriendly locals - they don't care for our masters."

The Emergence Time passes strangely in a dream. It might feel like a handful of hours, or even a few days, before a change can be felt all throughout the strange, unsettling paradise. If you’ve had a recent brush with it in the waking world, you might recognize the signature of it - the Cwyld. Something in the air feels very wrong, like a chill in the middle of summer, a sudden warm wind in winter; the plant life beneath your very feet begins to blacken in color, with near-indiscernible white lines marring their surfaces, and no matter who you are, no matter the pride you may take in your courage, a shiver raises every hair on your body without fail: Something wicked this way comes. The wellspring of magical energy flowing like a river beneath your feet takes on a new feeling when you try to draw from it, a dark and heavy sensation, oily and creeping. Reaching for the magic, it feels as though you're reaching into hollow darkness, dried up and consumed, and the disparate plants of different seasons, growing alongside each other, begin to bulge grotesquely and burst, splattering an unknown black substance over anything unfortunate enough to be in the splash zone. Possibly even you. Don't pass under the fruit trees. The infection has seeped into the overtapped leyline, and it bleeds through the settlement quickly, much quicker than it seems to move in the current-day waking world. The plant life, with their roots dug deep into the earth, are only the first casualty, as it spreads rapidly to the animals, and then the natives, blackening and tainting everything it touches. The village is thrown into chaos. Fae and any who seem to have Dragon in them are the first to show signs of infection, blackened veins visible under paling skin and white film growing over the eyes. Bodies grow brittle and twisted the more it spreads and settles in. Humans with an abundance of magic are the next to lose themselves to it, quickly followed by other Monsters. While in the waking world, infection spreads more slowly, here, it can be almost instantaneous, the process of becoming a Shade, losing all sense of self. They have no resistance to the Cwyld, and in this dream, neither do you. You're just as susceptible to the infection, and some may find themselves succumbing to the infection spreading to the heart and pumping itself through their veins. Becoming a Shade is a painful experience, a painful existence, as the life is snuffed out of you and your body keeps going. In this dream, you might be lucky (or unlucky) enough to keep your wits about you, to remain sentient and somewhat yourself - or you might become one of the mindless, violent many whose only directive is to spread the Cwyld to everything that lives, including your fellow dreamers. Even if you do stay aware of yourself, it is hard to resist the pull of the Cwyld on your mind, urging you to spread and infect, to leave nothing whole and living. Before your eyes, the settlement begins to die. You can't help anyone who is already infected, even if you know healing spells that work in the waking world, unless you're willing to put them out of their misery before they become a Shade corrupted beyond all assistance. You might be busier trying to save your fellow Mirrorbound, though, as they try to avoid that fate themselves or fall prey to it in front of you. And while the earth and plants and people around them turn black and fall to ruin, any of the Fae who managed to remain untainted simply flee, running from the settlement without stopping to help anyone in need, not even the students who so looked up to them. Note: Becoming a Shade in this prompt is optional, and Mirrorbound Shades may keep their minds or not at player discretion! Infection will not carry over out of the dream. Dying in the dream will put your character back at the edge of the village, uninfected and alive again, to witness the rest of its downfall.

Light It Up Help comes in an unexpected, unwanted form. Those unfriendly locals the residents of this village spoke of previously appear through the morning mists, shrouded in clumsy protections like masks and gloves, and practical, non-flashy spells. The group is made up of grim-faced humans and Monsters, a surprisingly cohesive unit of people who look out for each other as they make their way through the woods with torches held aloft. They are hardier than those indulged, magic-glutted folks who suffer now. These newcomers are dressed more practically, for working land or fighting battles, but they, too, have humans among them who can harness their magic. Their witches keep their torches lit, and work closely with their Monsters, helping each other in a way that will not feel unfamiliar. They've come today, they'll say if you get a chance to speak with them, however briefly (they're a little busy to answer too many questions), to try and stop this blight on the land before it can reach their village, some miles to the south. They've seen it before, though never this severe. This Cwyld will spread and spread, until there is nothing left. Best to burn it all down before its tendrils creep too far, before its roots dig too deep. They fight and destroy the Shades however they can, showing no mercy, though their spells are crude and simple, and their Monsters use their natural forms without any showy abilities, depending on claws and teeth and strength to do their jobs. Working together, with simple weapons in their hands, they are formidable. Even if you kept your mind, kept your speech, they will not let you live if you were infected - and may not let you live even if you weren’t infected, just to be safe. You may join them, if you wish, help them burn down the blackened trees or even Shades that were once people - or you may fight them, but they won't relent. They burn the whole settlement down, leaving wide patches of scorched earth like blackened scars on the land. It’s the only way, they say, from their limited experience. Everything must return to the earth. As the settlement goes up in flames fully, they retreat, only remaining long enough to ensure the fire stays where it needs to stay, and will not spread to uninfected forest. For those of you who were completely uninfected and may have thus been spared, they are still unwelcoming and will not allow you to travel back to their own village with them, threatening with swords and flames any who are too insistent. They aren't too keen to talk, but you may get a few answers out of them, the basics - some of their parents originally lived here, learned magic from the Fae, though when they saw the dangers, they left, believing that such power should be used more sparingly, more responsibly. Against the Fae, if at all possible, and against their destructive ways. It was just a matter of time, they thought, until calamity struck, and lo. You just saw what happens, what that much magic can call down in divine retribution. How magic itself fights back against the excesses of those who would abuse it.

Comments

[gynvael]

Away.

[ He only glances over his shoulder once before he turns to head out, steering clear of the path the arrivals are cutting through. He's hoping, in their distraction to fight back the creatures, they can slip by unnoticed. Even at the edges of the settlement, he can see the blackened stains on the grass, like splattered ink.

Geralt doesn't yet say he hasn't a fucking clue where they are. The two moons in the sky have always made it impossible to chart the stars and now none of the landmarks he recognizes, either. They're obviously somewhere in the same world—but he's not certain it's still the same landmass.

Too bad the man with him looks even more lost. His next comment isn't entirely a question. ] You've never seen the Cwyld.

fjord. | critical role. | witch.

[galasvar]

Fit to Burst

i: MODIFY MEMORY.
[Fjord's D&D-character getup may not be outlandish enough for him to stick out in the crowd, but the rest of him just may be. At least, compared to the humans who live here in the settlement—and some of the monsters, for that matter. Humanoid, but green skinned, gold-eyed, a pair of smallish tusks just visible curving over his lips. He's slim for a half-orc, if still tallish and broadish by human standards (just not remarkably so, in either case.) Dark haired, with a shock of white running through the forelock, scarred across his face in a few places, wearing a long coat and scuffed leather armor, a tricorn hat set aside against his knee.

And presently, he appears to be deep in conversation with one of the human locals over some fancy fey drinks of some sort.

Whatever they're talking about, it seems a bit hush-hush. And it seems to interest him intensely. ...but then a Fey floats on by and the human scatters before they can get caught gossiping. Gets up in a hurry and leaves, nearly knocking the table over with them when they go. And Fjord is left where he was sitting as the Fey leans down behind him and briefly whispers something in his ear. He goes rigid for a moment—(long enough for the Fey to look satisfied and pat him on the cheek and wander off)—before startling back to awareness and looking suddenly...very lost. Like he's not at all sure where he is, how he got here in the first place.

Realizing he's not exactly alone, here, he covers the confusion up so rapidly that the shift in gears is visible. His unease shutters suddenly behind a mild, pleasant look, the ramrod tension in his spine relaxing back into deliberate ease. He clears his throat a bit, as if to reorient himself. (It doesn't really help.)]

My apologies, I'm afraid my attention must have wandered for a moment. [Maybe a bit more than that, but he's working with what he's got, here. It comes out a whole lot more smoothly than his poor disoriented wits should allow, but it lets him stall for a second while he tries to catch up. There's a heartbeat of hesitation, afterward, like he's weighing his options before going out on a limb. Then a sheepish, apologetic tilt to his expression and his intonation as he lifts his chin and gestures to the human's now-abandoned drink in front of him. With just a hair more audible uncertainty—] If you'd just refresh my memory, real quick. Was this one...yours?

[It is now, if you want it. Do you like newbies and/or free fairy cocktails, yes or no.]

The Emergence

ii: LAY ON HANDS. (obligatory paladin first aid prompt, just let me know if you want to assume a cwyld infection or a more mundane injury on your character's end to get things rolling and we can run from there!)

[Now this...this is more like it. As soon as things start to take a nightmarish turn—the eerie unfamiliarity taking a nosedive into a cold and bone-deep sense of wrongness, of creeping darkness, of vague and uneasy threat—this weird fuckin' dream starts to feel a lot more familiar. It's just that he's always been (mostly) alone in his visions, before. The good ones and the awful ones alike. If it's supposed to mean something beyond giving him the creeps, he can't put a finger on what. But once things really start going to hell, he tables the trying-to-understand-it in favor of trying to stay in once piece—dream or not. The black goo that's spewing from ground pings as slick and profane enough that even his curiosity-killed-the-cat impulses don't want to touch it.

And given the chaos breaking out, it only takes a matter of time for him to stumble across someone looking hurt. Said someone might just feel a firm hand on the shoulder, to steady them, pull them over into what seems like a relatively quiet pocket of safety in the rubble of a collapsed house. (Quiet, at least, for now.) ]

Oh-kay, hold up, just a moment. [He has very little fucking clue what's going on right now, but to his credit you'd be hard pressed to realize that, right away. His voice is deep and even, and it stays low, urgent, but carefully steady. Convincing in how level it is, amongst the chaos still breaking out in the village. His expression is a match for it—kept meticulously calm, if concerned—his attention focused mostly down on the problem at hand. (Be it a bleeding wound or a spreading infection.) The only immediate tell of his skillfully hidden alarm would be the fingers of his free hand wrapped white knuckled and anxious around the holy symbol of Melora pinned to the lapel of his long coat—a spiraling crystal spoked through with an anchor, framed by a verdigris wreath of copper fronds.]

Why don't we just have us a sit-down. Take a breath.

[On an ordinary wound, he ought to be able to stitch you back up a little bit with some of the familiar-unfamiliar healing magic he's still got in him... if you slow down enough to let him. If you're already corrupted by the Cwyld, well. It won't help, not really, but he sure as hell doesn't know that. (And what the hell, he might as well try.)]

Light it up.

iii: MAJOR IMAGE.
[He had, of course, tried to talk to the newcomers, at some point. Tried to understand their purpose here, maybe lower the tensions a little. Hands held up in a gesture of peace as they surrounded him with torches and weapons and bared teeth and watched him suspiciously for signs of infection. But it became clear rather quickly after the first few terse exchanges that they weren't very interested in talking. After some of those blades pointed his way get a little close for comfort, he takes the hint and backs off. (They let him, but just barely.)

Spotting another Mirrorbound cornered by a similarly suspicious-looking hunting party, he takes a different approach.

Most of the farthest-gone infected have been driven back, slain, or burned, by now. But as the hunters close in on the Mirrorbound with questions, a full-formed shade comes tearing out from the nearby shadows all of a sudden. (Or at least, the illusion of a shade, as close as Fjord's fleeting first-impressions and the off-feel to his usual magical fallbacks can imitate. It's convincing enough to pass...from a distance.) The hunters startle and spin toward the more pressing threat as it rampages by, which gives Fjord a chance to sidle up and tap the cornered Mirrorbound on the shoulder to grab their attention. He'll give them a significant look and jerk his head back the way he came. Away from the burning of the wood, while the hunting party thinks it has bigger fish to fry. Lets get while the getting's good, bud, that illusion won't necessarily hold up for long.]

((or vi: surprise me! Y'all know the setting best, so I can roll with the punches if you have another idea. A dm is the best place to reach me if you need to! & If you're spoiler-adverse wrt CR at all fair warning that I'm pulling from fairly recent episodes, feel free to give me a head's up if you want me to be careful.))

[torchwoodteaboy]

[Ianto tosses one more troubled glance at the mess of the burning village over his own shoulder before he starts off the man himself, though he swears under his breath as he goes.

He doesn't need to be told twice to go, though. This man seems to be more than capable of handling himself, and Ianto is more than aware of his own limitations, especially in their current surroundings. He has far better chances of survival together with this wolf-man than on his own, and it does comfort him that the other doesn't like it any better, for all that he's insisted they leave without any attempt of doing anything for those left behind.]

I have not. [Ianto answers, though he has a feeling that the man wasn't looking for one.] Much as I've been trying to catch up in the past few days, there are a great many things about this place that I've yet to have the pleasure of encountering.

jester lavorre. | critical role. | fae!

[lavishes]

( obligatory warning for spoilers, from episode 100ish-onwards. )

FIT TO BURST.

[ Jester is definitely a stranger in these lands; instead of antennae are horns, her skin is blue, and she has a lot of questions about where her spells and Sprinkles and the Nein have gone. But she's got small, delicate wings and things look a little more technicolor and her skin seems to shimmer, and it's not long before she's comfortable. Flitting from people to people as she excitedly talks to them, encourages them to try out the pastries she has ( they may or may not be stale ), and occasionally asks them questions like — where is this? What do they do, here? How does she get home?

When people have no idea what home might be, and not-so-gently asks her to stop being so confusing, she drops the questions about Exandria.

a. But there's still things about home she can talk about, without talking about home. Namely —

The next conversation partner ( read: victim ) she picks out is definitely not one of the natives, she's pretty sure, but they seem interesting enough. There's no greeting, no introduction, as she jumps right in. Her voice heavy with an eastern European accent, a little too cheery. ] Hey, hey, have you seen an archfey, yet? 'Cause I'm kind of best friends with one. [ What, ]

b. [ And, with enough poking around, she decides that for all the glitz-and-glamor, they all seem like drinkers and partiers — and she's a partier, but less of a drinker. Which means it's time to go ... elsewhere, probably. Her wings flutter behind her, almost subconsciously, as her head turns to the edges of the settlement. She glances over to the groups of dancing fae and monsters and humans alike, then back to the woods.

One step. Two steps. A third. Hopefully no one catches her escape attempt. ]

LIGHT IT UP.

[ Here's the thing: grumpy people are, like, kind of her thing. Or at least — bothering grumpy people is her thing. She likes talking to them, because usually she manages to get a couple of back-and-forths in, and usually they're nonsense, so it's pretty hilarious ( to her ). And — well — these guys kind of look like they know what they're doing, and it's probably a good idea to see if they know what the fuck is going on, here.

The problem is, she doesn't have people be openly hostile to her on sight. ]

Hi! 'scuse me, hi. [ She waves, with her too-wide eyes extra wide and her lips split into a grin and her brand new wings fluttering gently. ] You looked really cool, when you — set... a tree on fire. [ Jester recovers, then continues. ] So um, I was wondering—

[ One of the grumpy assholes in the back puts a hand to the hilt of his sword. Another's grip on his torch tightens. Please stop her before they burn her, too. ]

WILDCARD.

( as always! if the prompts above don't suit you, feel free to hit me with your own — or shoot me a pm to discuss what else can happen. i'm flexible! and if you need me to tread lightly on spoilers, also give me a heads up. )

[moustre]

Hello! Three answers below. :)

1. It is not possible to tell, and not much looks similar. The plants/wildlife are not nearly as big, and there's more in the way of civilization. To make an easy comparison, whereas the world at that time looked like something out of prehistory, the world and settlements now look like something medieval-ish. You're pretty sure you're still on Geardagas, though!

2. It's about evenly split. There may be more humans but only by a slight proportion.

3. They certainly won't like it! If someone is carrying around iron weapons or is made of iron, they'd be pretty annoyed about it and would react badly. The humans and Monsters in this settlement would take care of anyone threatening the Fae in this way and might try to fight or imprison anyone who brandishes iron at their wonderful teachers.

[moustre]

They would brandish their torches and pitchforks, etc. and act aggressively toward Mirrorbound Fae, even if they look different from the Fae they're used to. They wouldn't believe any Mirrorbound Fae saying they want to help, and if a few of them are willing to answer a couple of basic questions, it's always in a hostile tone and with a sense of blame. And they might try to set you on fire after.

ii. i shall give you my one dnd that is not cam.

[umbravore]

[The person he pulls aside is an elf. Long blond hair pulled into a braid and a longer red robe, emblazoned with a small blue patch. If Fjord is up on his dungeons and dragons fashion he could easily clock her as some kind of spellcaster. Speaking of her robes, they were doing a very good job of hiding the blood that was now on the outside of her body. She's not sure when she got slashed, or how many times, but to be fair, she stopped worrying about dying a long time ago.

Lup doesn't resist being pulled along, but her voice raises in protest, suddenly loud as the din from outside becomes muted by the walls of the abandoned house.]

Hold on there, pal. I don't really know what part of this situation struck you as a good time for a break.

[Her voice is strained but relatively calm given the pandemonium outside. More impatient than worried. Gaze follows Fjords down to where her red cloak was staining an even darker red,]

It's just, [She gingerly reaches in to touch the wound, sucking in a sudden breath.] Actually! You're right. This hurts a really fucking lot.

[trynotdying]

[Hypnos shrugs. Sucks, bro. It takes more than a dream going haywire to phase this particular god, though.]

Guess he's not here then. Shame.

[Still, seeing the Champion of Elysium is better than nothing.]

I bet you've got some great stories about your adventures.

[Hypnos is mostly interested in the Minotaur-related ones, but any story is a good one. There's no sense of urgency about... whatever it is they're supposed to be doing. It's a dream, time is weird, and Hypnos' worth ethic is spotty at best when there's not a looming threat of losing his job.]

[trynotdying]

[Hypnos' sleepy eyes go wide.]

You want to interview... me? Really? Wow! Nobody ever cares what I have to say.

[He stands a little straighter, which is really tall, because snake body.]

What do you want to know?

Ciri | The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt | Monster

[wiedzminka]

i. ugly duckling

[ A couple of gossamer-winged, impishly smiling Fae surround Ciri from either side, giggling and making snide suggestions that the young woman does not seem to appreciate in the slightest. She's slightly flushed, shoulders tensed up and fists clenched with anger. Apparently, though her clothing matches the residents well enough it didn't at first draw attention, her protestations against using magic is enough to earn her quite a bit of unwanted attention. ]

I already told you! [ she complains, loud and clearly quite exasperated. ] I can't do a glamour. I just can't.

[ Not that she doesn't know how, exactly, but on top of being quite out of practice when it comes to spells like that, her magic simply isn't... working. In some part of herself, Ciri knows this isn't reality -- not exactly. It's one of those dreams that isn't only a dream, but it's a very strange and very clear one.

One of the Fae reaches out with a tut of her tongue, tugging at a lock of Ciri's fair, nearly-white hair, making some sort of disapproving comment at the mess of it. What a haphazard hairstyle, they complain. What an awful scar on her face. Why can't she simply make it go away? Would she like them to teach her how? ]

I said no! [ Ciri slaps the hand of the Fae away, earning a wide-eyed stare of shock that quickly turns to fury. Ciri squares her shoulders, standing up straight and tight-lipped, brows furrowed just as angrily. Her fingers itch to reach for her sword, but she manages to restrain herself. ]

You are being incredibly rude. I have no need for a glamour or anything of the sort. Leave me alone.

[ If you are watching or merely passing by, one of the Fae women -- with wings like a dragonfly and long, spindly limbs that hold surprising strength -- reaches out suddenly and grabs you, dragging you closer to join their argument.

"Well? What do you think? You'll help her out, won't you?"

The woman's bright green eyes glare daggers. Will you back her up or not? ]

Tell them to leave me be before I do something we'd all regret.

ii. silver for monsters

[ Chaos. The scent of blood, of rot, of twisted things. Screams. A chill runs through her, a sick weight in the pit of her stomach -- of realization, the first time she watches the black substance overtake someone and turn them into a ravenous, mindless beast. She understands.

The moment things go south, Ciri springs into action. Her sword is in her hand in the blink of an eye, blade glinting in the sunlight muddled by smoke and dust as the village descends into utter pandemonium. She runs, sure-footed, deftly avoiding the grotesque plants and the creeping black ichor they've left, stepping over dead bodies with the grim determination of someone used to such a sight.

Her aim: an enormous Shade, perhaps once some sort of deer, with tall, black antlers climbing like twisted branches out of a grotesque, bony face now all swathed in shadow and mindless violence. The monster thrashes, throwing its huge horned head this way and that, crashing into buildings and people. It's difficult to tell if this was a person once or an animal, but at this point, it hardly matters. It rears up, front hooves pawing at the air before it with a screech. ]

Watch out! [ Ciri shouts, dashing forward toward you if you're in the way of its horns or hooves, whether you're running or fighting as well.

She intercepts the next strike, soft leather boots sliding across dirt to bring her right in front of whoever she's decided could use a hand in this situation. With a powerful swing of her sword, she cleaves clean through one of the ink-black antlers, and the enraged Shade screams. ]

Don't just stand there. Either defend my back or run.

iii. steel for humans

I won't let you do that.

[ Ciri steps in between a group of grim-faced villagers armed with torches and fire magic, blocking their way from one of the Mirrorbound they've decided need to be taken care of, whether they are Fae themselves or were seen associating with them when the Calamity struck.

The fair-haired young woman already has her sword drawn, though she keeps it down for now, at her side and held in a loose but confident grip. She doesn't move to put it away. ]

Enough blood has been shed today. This person isn't infected.

[ She glances over her shoulder at the person -- whether or not it's someone she recognizes -- and stares intently at them, searching for any of the tell-tale signs. ]

You're not, right?

iv. a moment of respite

Drink this.

[ Ciri hands over a flask she pulls from her belt, pushing it into the hands of the person she's pulled out of a fight or a fire. Whatever is inside, it's strong. ]

How badly are you hurt? Anything broken?

[ She checks for blood, getting ready to tear strips off her white shirt sleeve if any open wounds need staunching. ]

(( ooc: have an idea for another prompt instead? PM this journal and let's chat! ))

[benedicus]

( it really isn't all that often that aziraphale encounters newcomers, not anymore, but they always stick out like a sore thumb. the clothes, the overwhelmed expression, and general bewilderment. he approaches, just close enough to be heard without being loud. mostly, he aims to be mindful of his own appearance.

he might be a lot less bestial than many others around at the moment, but he is still very much a sight to behold to anyone not already used to it. )

You do get used to it—somewhat—after a bit of time.

( he makes a loose gesture with his hand. )

Although, in this case, it might be a little better to lean into it.

( because faefolk are difficult at best. )

i. ugly duckling

[cointosser]

[As far as the sorts of dreams Jaskier has had, either alone or that he's been pulled into to walk through, it's not the worst. Or, it rather may not have been, if the previous month had not occurred. His experience with Fae had been limited mainly to Mikasa, who was neither witty nor particularly mischievous, with the personality akin to grated cheese. He had been fond of her, especially compared to these. These monsters.

And of course, the Monsters moving to and fro make it all the worse. His skin chills as he goes out of his way to avoid them, nearly tripping over his own boots to step away from a particularly grim-looking vampire --

Only for his arm to be caught. The bard is lifted off the ground a few inches, and he doesn't hear the chattering above his head over his cry, which goes a little something like this:] AHH, LET GO OF ME!

[He kicks until his feet land again, his heart fluttering like an enraged and entrapped butterfly.]

How dare you! You can't just go around plucking people off -- [He looks up from brushing his doublet off, which is much more colorful than any of the ones he actually has, embroidered with rich lavender threads. (At least his dream clothes are rather lovely.)] Her? Oh.

[He clears his throat. The her in question is equal parts beautiful as she is rather intimidating, considering the large scar across her face and the sword at her side. Yet even as frightened as he was (trauma dies hard, doesn't it?) he still stands by the woman and the fae, and maybe edges just behind her, which is not quite helping him look intimidating. It's. Fine. They're not -- they're not part of the Circle. The Circle is gone. And this is not real, anyway.] You -- you lot leave her alone. And in fact, leave me alone! Leave both of us alone! Shoo!

[Little magic sparks come out of his finger, and a few light up into fire. That'll show them. At this point, he would only hesitate a little to burn a Monster who couldn't keep their hands to themselves.]

[torchwoodteaboy]

[Ianto turns towards the man's voice, the soft British accent lulling him into a false sense of security up until he catches sight of the figure attached to the voice.

There's a clear moment of hesitation where Ianto collects himself -- we are doing this -- before he flashes the man a polite smile.]

Ah. I don't know whether the idea that you do is better or worse.

[Ianto, for his part, sounds incredibly Welsh from the moment he opens his mouth. He frowns, as he continues:]

You're telling me that I need to give up the suit, aren't you.

!!!

[wiedzminka]

[ That voice. It sounds a bit familiar, though not... exactly?

Ciri's eyes widen in a startled look that immediately overtakes her previous annoyance. Who cares about the rude bug-creatures?

The sparks seem to shock her more than the Fae, who titter and duck around behind Ciri suddenly to get a better look at the Witch, cooing something about offering to teach him to make his magic even more spectacular. ]

He's not interested! And neither am I.

[ Ciri interjects, taking the opportunity to grab Jaskier's arm instead (he's being yanked about a lot huh). The Fae laugh harder, tossing out some snide remarks about how she'll never get with a talented Witch like this when she looks like that, but Ciri isn't interested. She's already making a run for it, dragging him along behind her.

Once they're around the corner, she lets go, skidding into a stop that spins her around in a single move to face him. ]

It's really you, isn't it? Jaskier!

Omega | Final Fantasy XIV | Witch

[larboardstarboard]

Objective 1: Observe a world fit to burst with magic

[In all of its eons of existance, Omega cannot recall from its memory banks a time where it dreamed like this. While it cannot assert with 100% certainty that this has always been true, given the corruption of the data over its travels, it can at least hypothesize at much given the data contained in the parts of its memory that remain intact. Therefore, it can only conclude that the dream is merely a means by which to pull its consciousness through the aetherial rift to this location.

A Dreamscape, if one must name it. Not dissimilar to the Delta, Sigma, and Alpha scapes that it had built for the purposes of testing subjects.

The air in the Dreamscape hums with an energy that Omega is unable to identify. The architecture, manner of dress, and habits of the mortal inhabitants are similarly foreign. In order to gather the necessary data to inform its next move, Omega simply watches and listens. It seems as if hours go by, but that is an unreliable observation based on the tendency of time to be perceived differently in the dreams of mortals.

Omega observes three classes of mortals within the Dreamscape:

1. The Masters, apparently immortal and unquestionably carpricious beings that are immediately hostile toward Omega and its "unnatural" metal body.

2. The Subjugated, mortal beings native to this Dreamscape who revere their Masters at all costs. This behavior is in line with Omega's observations that mortals tend to rally around those they perceive to be stronger.

3. Anomalies, creatures that fail to fit in with the place, time, and cultural assumptions of the Dreamscape. Omega's initial hypothesis is that these beings have been pulled in like it was.

The next phase of data collection is to approach the mortals and request information outright. To maximize its chances of success, Omega takes the form of a young woman. Mortals are more likely to respond positively to other mortals than to unknown robotic entities.

Speaking to the Masters is a non-starter--they see through the illusion and behave with the same hostility as before. Omega finds that the Subjugated are happy to talk but ultimately unhelpful in their testimony. Things are good and peaceful here, they say, and one shouldn't ask too many questions lest they catch the attention of the Masters.

That leaves fellow Anomalies. Omega can be found approaching them throughout the village. Its voice is vaguely feminine but largely mechanical, a poor facsimile of how humans actually speak to each other.]

Query: what is it that you know of this place?


Objective 2: Experience the emergence of blight and infection

["Cwyld" is how many of the mortals refer to it. From what limited information Omega is able to glean amidst the chaos, it is a disease of organic beings, choking out life force and replacing it with a rotting, unnatural energy that forces the corpse to keep acting as if alive.

Despite being inorganic, Omega finds itself infected anyway.

The changes brought on by the Cwyld happen rapidly, scrambling its sensors and installing a separate, corrupted consciousness. It becomes immediately clear that this corrupted consciouness seeks only to reproduce, a logic that Omega cannot argue. Reproduction is the primary driver of most creatures, sentient and non-sentient. Clearly, the Cwyld is not excepted from this compuslion.

Omega, however, ought to be. But whether due to the corruption supplanting its own functions or the lack of any other real directive, it finds itself willing to give in and allow the Cwyld to use its form as a vessel. Its consciousness can remain in the background, collecting data, processing... processing......

Processing error.

Should anyone be unlucky enough to approach a full-Shade Omega, they will find that it has transformed into something large and terrible, a corruption of what it believes to be man's strongest form. It is fully blackened and incredibly hostile.

Good luck.]

light it up

[piromare]

... you should probably stop talking.

( he makes no effort to try to sneak up or even try subtlety; this is a dream after all, and he's not worried about what he may look or sound like. he's still lio fotia of course, though with wings and the legs of some kind of bird of prey. still short, still kind of twink-ish, but armed with a sword that is reminiscent of one of those eastern lands that galo is so fond of. )

I don't think they feel like explaining anything to you, but I can try.

( though he does keep an eye on those natives. if they're that strong, there's no telling what they may try to do to anyone. )

iii

[piromare]

( it may be a dream, but lio is far from being fully recovered after his time dealing with the cwyld in the real world--- or at least, the world that is aefenglom. the woman looks like she's made a decision to protect him, bandaged wings and all.

he's thankful for that, especially when being confronted as potentially infected. )

No, of course not! ( his voice might go up a pitch or two. ) I'd rather die than be a Shade.

( hand tightly gripped around his sword, he keeps it at his side not wanting to look aggressive. )

ii.

[gynvael]

[ His sword is the only familiar thing in this land. Some part of him is aware of the dreamscape, but in a way that doesn't really let him treat it like a dream. The threat feels real, the Cwyld that devours the entire settlement whole. It leaves nothing in its path spared.

Geralt has no illusion of saving the settlement. The villagers are being eaten through; at best, he can convince a handful to flee before the infection catches them, too. Though where they'll go, he has no idea.

Shit, he doesn't know where he'll go, either. The woods are dimly lit under the half-formed moons, but it's plenty of light for his wolf's eyes. He senses the Shade as the warning cuts through the air—and underneath its rotting stench, a human.

His own sword pierces through the creature's spine; with a jerk, he rips downward, spilling an inky black fluid over the grass as he looks up at the woman. It's not her face that makes him pause. It's her sword: the sheen and glint and size of it beneath the dark ichor. He knows a meteorite blade when he sees one. That's a damn Witcher's sword. What the—

The Shade's hind legs kick. In his distraction, he only barely dodges it and it catches his side hard enough to send him flying. Something cracks, sharp in his ribs. ]

Fuck.

I deeply appreciate your restraint and your cute girl

[galasvar]

[Luckily he spends too much time around some various stubborn assholes to be fazed by a few shouty protests. He very patiently lets that bellyaching wash over him while they duck inside to regroup—even has the audacity to arch a brow and look just a little bit smug once Lup prods at her bleeding and pays the predictable painful price for it. You were saying, bud?

Well, if she's okay enough to curse about it, it's probably a good sign. Wry, and Very Helpfully—]

Yeah, y'know, you just. Got a little something.

[He releases her shoulder now that she's steady and out of the open and gestures up and down her very bloodstained and caster-y robes a bit, as if to punctuate that very descriptive argument. A little bit of all that, is all. His vision is more than good enough even in the dimness of the house to make out the wet stain that's spreading its way down her side, and he can clock some squishy wizard robes when he sees them. If she's anything like the squishy wizard he knows, he can't imagine there'd be much more of that she could take before going down—and things are only getting worse, out there. Better to do some damage control while they've got the chance. (He's not actually that experienced a healer, even in the waking world, where things make more sense.)

He starts to reach toward the hand pressed against her side, like he intends on pulling the hand and the robes away so he get a look at the worst of the bleeding, but he stops just shy of touching her. After pulling her so decisively aside a few seconds ago, the hesitation on his part is suddenly sort of awkward—even kind of inanely gentlemanly of him, considering the circumstances. Still, he clears his throat, regroups, very purposefully catches her eye.]

If I may—?

[lavishes]

[ Jester doesn't simply stop talking — the addition of a new, brightly green-haired man ( boy? ) has her head whip around, too fast, to zero in on him. Her eyebrows furrow together and her lip twists into a displeased frown, a retort on her lips. ]

I wasn't asking anything bad, I just wanted to know why. [ Why the darkness, why the flames, why the hostility. She turns her head back to the group, and one of them has brandished their sword. Oh. Oh. They really don't want to explain anything, huh.

She blinks, a little dumbfounded, before she deflates a little. ] O-kay. No questions. [ She takes a step back, towards the much nicer stranger ( even if said stranger told her to stop talking ). ] You know, people would probably thank you more if you were nice to them after you — [ She watches a bunch of their gazes harden, and she snaps her jaw shut. ]

Okay byyyyye. [ As she reaches for Lio's arm, and tugs him away. Far, far away. Fortunately, they don't seem to follow. That's good, at least. Once out of earshot— ] Wow, they're kinda dicks, huh?

[wiedzminka]

[ Dreams are strange, and her dreams are often even stranger -- but this one feels different.

Sometimes, she dreams of Geralt, but those times are not like this one. She senses, inherently, this isn't a vision; it's not some sort of prophecy, nor even a glimpse of what is going on with Geralt in some faraway place. No, she knows instantly that -- though this may be a dream in some sense -- he isn't.

Even though he looks different. Even though he doesn't call to her or fight beside her.

Dodging the splatter of black and the remains of the antler bit she sliced off, Ciri spins around to the opposite side and raises her sword for another blow--

Only to see the shock in Geralt's eyes. And, far worse, even that split second when their gazes meet is enough for the cold certainty to strike her like a blow: there's no recognition there.

It throws her off. She hesitates; the moment is enough. Before either of them can complete their motions to dodge or attack, the Shade takes advantage and slams into Geralt, throwing him aside. Ciri shouts. ]

Geralt!

shenanigans. Fit to Burst, somewhere.

[galasvar]

[So: clearly this is all just a weird fucking dream, right. Some kind of transient technicolor weirdness brought on by one too many blows to the head, or by eating one of Jester's more questionably ancient pastries, or by whatever it is Caduceus put in the tea last night to help him sleep. And he'll see it through and wake up in the morning and maybe think about unpacking a few things if he remembers any of this, and then he'll get on with his day.

For now, he's wandering. Getting his bearings, and maybe avoiding the overeager attention of the long-limbed and bug-eyed fae, when he can manage it. He catches a familiar glimpse of blue in the corner of his eye more than once while he's at it—here in the boughs of a fruit tree, disappearing there behind a tapestry. Then, finally, in the rafters of some sort of incredibly fancy looking apothecary.

One can forgive him for not realizing it's her right away. For one, she's flying, glittering in the magical lights strung about in the settlement, a crisp new pair of gossimer wings fluttering behind her. Looking for all the world like the little illusory fairies Caleb had conjured for Travelercon. (Just, y'know. A whole lot bigger.)

Kneejerk, startled, sort of sharpish—]

Jester—

[He snaps his mouth shut as he clocks what she's doing up there by the shelving a second too late—that is, defacing labels, rearranging products (so that that stock of magic mushrooms has replaced this pile of advertised aphrodisiacs, etc,) stacking things in strange and suggestive new arrangements. And so on, and so forth. Generally leaving the place a little more chaotic than she found it, the way she used to back when they first met.

The elegant mothlike fae woman at the counter seems none the wiser to it. At least, for the moment. But she turns at the sound of his voice and brightens at the prospect of a new charge, and he hurries to look anywhere that isn't up in Jester's direction. He leans very deliberately onto the counter and looks interested in the contents of some delicate glass vial or another. Makes some excuses about having some new interest in alchemy. He doesn't even really have to play all that dumb (he knows fuckall about alchemy, to be honest,) and the fae here are eager to demonstrate their superiority as teachers and Masters.

So she's happy to oblige him in conversation...if maybe more than a little condescending about it. Just hurry the hell up there while he's got her distracted, Jessie.]

apologies to my future niece

[cointosser]

[Before he can answer in a similar way, the woman does it for him. Which, at the moment, he is not upset about at all.] Yes, what she said!

Ah! [All right, he's certainly not fighting her, but he is a bit startled by all this dragging about. The last dreamwalk had been so... well, certainly hadn't made him seem like such a ponce, for one. (The days when he could use magic to help someone else.)]

I'm sorry, where are we --

[Going? Wherever it was, it's apparently here now, as they stop abruptly and he almost trips entirely over her. Oh, my. She's fast, isn't she?

He blinks. Then, a moment later, perks up.] Oh, ah. You've heard of me! Well. That's -- that's so rare these days, I've almost forgotten what it feels like. [He certainly doesn't recognize her, after all. That could, actually, be a bad sign. That problem seems much more important than whatever the Fae had going on.] I've made a promise to myself to never forget the name of a beautiful woman, but I'm afraid I'm failing in this regard. [Wow, look. He's still got it.] Are you all right? I don't have much experience with the Fae, but I certainly know that manners are not close to one of their priorities.

Ferran Gallagher | OC | Fae

[noblegarnet]

A. Emergence

[The bone-thin, twisted form with giant tattered moth wings doesn't seem as if it should be able to move at all. In fact, in the chaos of the spreading plague, it seems to largely remain in place, its glowing white eyes blankly staring forward as if unaware of its surroundings. Or perhaps that's what it wants others to think.

In reality, it moves frighteningly fast, with little transition between its motionless state and its top speed, darting and flying with long fingers outstretched towards targets it apparently picks on a whim, rather than everything that comes within its view. Perhaps they remind it of something... or someone... and when it decides on its prey, it refuses to yield until it's fully incapacitated, whether that means restraint or death.

Perhaps the creature isn't as much of a physical threat with its form alone, but its mind is not so addled that it can't trap its victims in an endless illusory labyrinth filled with their worst fears, sometimes as real as the waking world to every sense, including pain. But the Shade isn't invincible, and even with the twisted disease fueling its magic, its form can at times be spotted—and dealt with.

Or perhaps, through the haze of unbearable pain and the urge to spread, destroy, a voice makes its way out:]

end it.

B. Light it up

[When Ferran comes to in the dream once more, he rises to his feet in a jaded daze. The place is familiar now. The situation hasn't changed. Like a disc scratched beyond repair, he's been forced to repeat the experience of whatever this dream is, but with an awareness he didn't have before. Avoid the Cwyld this time. Find a new path, a way to resolve things in a less unpleasant way. Perhaps the disc won't skip again.

The solution is to combat the plague, surely. And so when the outsiders approach with their torches and pitchforks, he thinks the solution lies with them. And maybe it does, but as it turns out, they think he's part of the problem, as his unglamored appearance makes him clearly one of their enemy, however mixed with human heritage.

Ferran is fluttering considerably out of reach of said torches and pitchforks (iron, of course), in a shouting argument with the wielders of those instruments.]

Do you think I want this to spread?! I'm trying to help you!

[But, of course, Fae can't be trusted.]

C. Retribution

[Ferran manages to avoid another skip and another death, however narrowly. But by this time, he decides that the dream world means little to nothing to him, that it's ultimately meaningless. So why not let go? Why shouldn't he use the dream to let off steam? Why bother with the pretenses?

Not all of the carefree Fae of the settlement had fled by the time the locals had arrived. And like Ferran, they have particular weaknesses. With a thick pair of leather gloves and a stolen pitchfork, he dives through the air and lances the wing of one of those few unfortunate fairies as they attempt to escape the "paradise" they'd built, pinning them to the ground, or a tree, or whatever surface is available to him. The iron burns on contact, drawing a shriek out of them.

Bitter and full of hatred, he snarls:]

Where are you going?

[Even knowing that none of his words will make any difference, it's cathartic. He can speak his mind, play out the sorts of vengeful fantasies that he'd obsessed over before, full of righteous anger. His hands itch under the gloves, but he only grips his weapon tighter.]

You have a responsibility to these people. [There is nothing in his face but contempt as the creature struggles and seems to be debating whether to tear its wing off to get away.] And instead you're abandoning them!

[He is nothing like them. He is nothing like these Fae. He refuses.]

[OOC: More on Ferran can be found over here! If you'd like something else with me, you can check out my catch all for the month, pm me, or contact me at lumieresdedragon!]

[wiedzminka]

All right? Obviously. If bad manners and rude comments could hurt me that badly, I'd have expired long ago.

[ This isn't the kind of dream-but-not-dream that she's used to. Ciri stares, now that she can get a good look at Jaskier, eyes wide as she fully takes in what she'd just glimpsed in the commotion with the Fae. His face is younger, clean-shaven, but not so young that she wouldn't recognize him. By his eyes, and his smile, and... well. That attempt at flirtation definitely dispels any doubts that might have thought about lingering.

Though hearing Jaskier call her a beautiful woman makes her snort, unable to help the reflexive reaction over how strange it sounds. In her memory, he'd looked similar to this once, when she'd been but a child. The effect is so incongruous, she doesn't know how else to react.

Even if the utter lack of recognition does sting a little bit.

What a very strange dream. ]

I know your name, but you do not know mine, it seems.

[ His comment that it's rare for him to be recognized 'these days' doesn't go unnoticed. Neither did his magic.

If she wasn't so sure that this is a dream, she'd have been certain it's a different world entirely -- especially considering the strange people and Monsters and Fae. A new world would have been less strange, after all. But in all her travels, she's never encountered some strange version of her friends that doesn't even recognize her. ]

I'm Ciri.

[ There's a note of hope in her voice, in her eyes, as if to say: you really don't remember me? ]