TDM: July

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* tdm

TDM: July

Test Drive: July

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 28th.
• Applications Open The 24th! These will last until the end of the month, the 31st, with the intro log going on up the 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 Living Forest

It feels warmer than it should be. Hot, dry, dark. The sky above all but black- save for the ominous orange glow against the distant horizon. In the gloaming there’s a resonant smell of decay; of musty pine and sun-baked wood and, more worryingly, the distant scent of smoke, of ash. There’s no wind to speak of, and yet… something whispers. The shiver of leaves, the crack of dry branches- and if you listen long enough, almost… the sound of voices in the trees.

Controlled Burn
The forest you find yourself in is still alive- for now. Ash filters through the browning leaves like snow, dotting the path you’ve found yourself on in bone white fragments. Following the rustling leads it to grow all the more frantic, whispered voices speaking without words- or perhaps you simply cannot understand. You feel as though you’re being watched, the tree clusters growing thicker, tighter and- is it just your imagination, or… are they moving?

Suddenly before you an old oak splits with a thunderous crack- followed by a deafening scream. Gnarled, blackened hands reach from within the tree, scraping at your clothes, agony wrought through every striation of her features as the infection spreads. Before you, the tree withers as the nymph falls into the dirt, long fingers tearing up the earth as she crawls towards you. Understanding comes to you in stark clarity: the noises through the trees are a cry for help.

Before your very eyes the leaves of her once lush hair dries; cracks and breaks away, falling to join the ashen forest floor. With pleading eyes she gazes at you, before her eyes roll back, and she collapses, utterly still. And she’s not the only one; the forest is alive, the very trees reaching for you, roots clawing up to crack open the earth itself in their desperation.

Don’t let them touch you, though. The infection spreads quickly. Branching through your veins and leaving your limbs sluggish, heavy, and brittle. The feeling is utterly agonizing, reminiscent of having poured molten lava into your blood. The longer the infection is left untreated, the more, and faster it spreads, the worse the pain becomes. The trees know, they whisper the truth: the only way to cleanse yourself is through the fire.

Creeping Fire
Not all nymphs have met such a terrible fate. Not yet, at least. Some huddle together, their branching arms clinging to one another as they softly weep. Others walk willingly towards the distant orange glow with grim determination. Still others implore you with wide, fearful eyes to do something- anything to help them. Surely these new abilities you’ve found yourself with must be good for something.

They lead you to a natural amphitheatre; the slow sloping blackened earth sinking into a gully bordered by a high rock wall. The heat is the most bearable here; the area cooled by the towering stone. Wilting nymphs huddle together along with sympathetic faun. Those who have skills in manipulating water are a welcome relief; these tree spirits are desperate for it. But this temporary refuge won’t last for long.

The infection wants to spread. Like rabies, maddening its’ hosts and raising their aggression. And where better to draw from than the root of this sanctuary? Where the stone wall rises and provides shelter from the fire, so too does it trap these refugees in… Defend against the infected, before all hope is lost.

Staging Area
Past the disease, the horror and cries for help, there is a genuinely quiet place.

It isn’t much, compared to how things used to be, but there’s a clearing scarred at the edges with scorch marks instead of Cwyld, with the beginnings of plants sprouting once more. Baby grass clusters in small groups, small stems pushing out of the ashen ground with hopeful buds. Some earlier bloomers already casting vibrant colors to what was once a meadow. It’s serene, it’s peaceful, it’s an area that’s been cleansed by fire and Cwyld kept at bay by Witches at least a century out of fashion, though they don’t seem to respond to outside presences with how focused they are.

Those taking breaks from their turn on the edge offer greetings and air worries about the spreading taking root in the forest, but (like the Fae in the first dream, for those who recall) don’t say much else unique, wondering if they’ll be able to return home anytime soon and if this was truly worth the effort. Of course it is, an older one might snap back. In a war of attrition, all efforts are worthy.

However, this isn’t the only camp they’ve set up. There’s one not too far off that begins with frost and ends in a frozen area of land, sound muffled by cold and everything from the trees to nymphs so iced not even a dragon’s flame could melt it. Inquiries about this area result in some sheepish looks, and the answer of how some Witches became a little excited at the idea of putting surviving nymphs and the rest of the flora into a form of dormancy and overdid it, a bit.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Oh my God, someone else is puking here.

Paloma's head jerks up and away from the spatter of blood across her feet and the roots of a dead tree. More of it drools down her chin in an ugly, messy splash of vivid red that reflects the distant firelight. ]

Hugggh? [ She croaks it. Huge, rapidly blinking eyes dart over the arm keeping her from falling into tree bark, eventually finding Geralt. ] N-ohhh, Christ. Yohhkh? Guh.

[ Ah, good, they've both found the designated vomit corner of the burning hellfire forest.

Geralt jerks his head up. He'd be pissed off at himself for not noticing someone else so close by if not for the fact that he's still in excruciating pain for no reason that he can find.

She looks worse than he feels, though -- or something like it. He's sure he just donated bile and an old sandwich to the forest, and she's puking blood. ]

Can you walk? [ he manages, moving closer, one hand on the tree. He can barely smell anything over the overwhelming scent of ash and pure heat choking his senses, but the barest thread of something disgusting gets through. But it's probably just from himself. ]

[ Thank fuck that nothing was in her stomach but blood, blood, blood to begin with. One could go so far as to say that none of the red she's splattered with ever belonged to her, but maybe one couldn't. A sandwich is yours once you've eaten it, right? Maybe you stole that sandwich from somebody else, but it's a kind of finders-keepers situation, and...

Paloma squints, opens her mouth, shuts it again. A deep noise from her throat and a reflexive, aborted lurch signal another near-bout. Nobody projectile vomits blood onto Geralt's shoes this day. ]

Hghyeah, I-I just— [ I'm just about pissing myself. ] Nerves. Stomach problems. You don't smell, uh, look so good.

Weird, [ he says, his already deadpan voice managing to find new depths of flatness, ] because you look great.

[ They both look like melting shit, he expects. ]

C'mon.

[ Geralt offers her his arm, which is sturdy enough despite the spasms of pain. If he could smell anything besides the fucking fire, he might be able to observe something odd about the blood all over the place - but his mutant senses are a double-edged sword, and mostly it's just more pain at the moment. ]

[ She swallows what small amount of blood came up, or tries to. The not-really-a-compliment wins a more than slightly hysterical giggle; a mouthful of red bubbles past her shut lips. ]

Okay. [ Beyond the tree is that fire without end. Just looking toward its glow makes the Beast rattle its cage and shriek, whereas if she examines the white-haired man a bit more closely, he could be beautiful under better, cleaner circumstances. Pretty things are so much easier to focus on, even imagined prettiness.

A pinch wobbly from those frayed nerves, she curls a dainty and grimy hand around the inside of his elbow, as if Geralt is escorting them to the local bonfire party. ]

You seem kind. [ And stinky. Another awful giggle, but this one ends in a teary hiccup. ] D'you have a sense of, of... direction?

[ She thinks the brutally scarred old man with a shitty half grown out undercut and weird demon eyes might be beautiful if not for the vomit smell and pain sweats, G I R L ]

Huh? [ I seem what? Geralt almost staggers between trying to weather a gust of scalding air and observing her bloody gurgle. ]

We gotta go-- [ thataway, towards the fire, apparently. ] You can't hear it?

[ And also, ]

Where are you hurt? [ What with the evidence of internal bleeding, and all. She's holding up admirably despite the fact that blood pouring out of her mouth like that should be a sign she's moments away from death. Geralt's not sure what he can do - or should, even. This doesn't feel real. ]

[ Once a dumb slut in distress, always a dumb slut in distress. Paloma superimposes a cleaner and neater version of the man over this hellish vision of old muck and can almost, almost pretend, with a single-minded determination that goes beyond collecting beautiful Toreador party favors. ]

Oh. Inside. [ A nicely vague answer. Even a panicked animal can know to hide. ] Wait. Wait.

[ She doesn’t stamp a foot, but those ruined designer boots slide and dig into the dirt and refuse to be led one more step. Her head and halo of dark hair shake adamantly, whites of her eyes stark. ]

No, no, no no there is no way, I don’t want to and you shouldn’t either!

[ Oh well in that case carry on. Dumb slut solidarity. ]

Inside-?!

[ Not like he can do anything about it if she swallowed nails or something, but that's not a comforting answer to go along with 'bleeding via mouth'. That conversation never picks up steam, though, derailed by Paloma dropping anchor in the smoking ground. ]

It's not real. [ He's pretty sure, anyway. ] Look. We're sick or-- something. This is gonna be one of those shitty leap of f--

[ A shriek, a CRASH. A figure with long black claws staggers out of a burning tree and barrels towards them, dripping melted fat, hunks of scorched skin peeling away from bone; a nymph, terrified, in a blind rage in the throes of death or something else, flying at them. ]

[ Not only has she dropped anchor, but Paloma, wild-eyed and bloody and more scattered than a randy dandelion, is ready to have a goddamned debate about it. An infected nymph puts a neat stop to that.

Now there are two women screaming at the top of their lungs and in varying states of hysteria: a young vampire and a tree spirit with melted, bubbling swaths of flesh. The former hollers at length, on the verge of a fear-frenzy when the latter barrels her off her wobbling feet. Geralt has a hand on his dirty elbow until he doesn't. ]

SHIT!! [ Dying nymph and Kindred crash and roll, claws out and lungs at scream capacity. Paloma ends up underneath the creature, that thing suffering more and more in its madness, only she's somehow produced a pickhead fireman's axe. It isn't a struggle, it's a carnival trick, a series of rapid-fire accidents and fire in her face singing the ends of her hair twitching whistles and white more black than red and, bent nails, and, and

Paloma weeps the last of her saline and then blood is trickling from the corners of her eyes. The axe has planted itself like a flowering vine dead center in the once-a-woman's forehead. One of them is keening; must be her, left alive in the loosest sense. Claws have gouged ribbons down her throat. A hank of black hair lies beside her in the ash. ]

I'm sorry. Sorry. Can they hel—help it? I didn't wanna end up doing that.

[ Geralt is quick enough to grab at the nymph as it tackles towards his accidental companion, but his hand scrapes through damaged matter like peeling roasted chicken off a bone. He is left with a long string of flesh that may have once been a calve, and the charred heel of a shoe.

A second creature, less physically ruined but closer to death, stumbles out in the wake of her furious sister, clutching at Geralt's knees, then his feet as she expires. The shambling and screaming, the way their bodies are losing pieces while they're still alive - they should be rotfiends or grave hags but they're just people. In a horrific state. It's over in a span of seconds and Geralt whirls around to watch Paloma collapse in on herself after an explosion of pretty impressive violence. ]

You put her out of her misery, [ he says roughly, shaking burned flesh off of his hands. He steps forward and-- ]

Alright.

[ Not human, not with those fucking wounds. Not with all that. So: alright. He bends down to help her up, whether she'll walk or if he has to haul her. ]

Can you hear the trees at all?

[ She blubbers. An arm appears between the slumping corpse and bluntly redirects her focus to Geralt, and maybe he’ll regret it when she takes his hand with sufficient strength to bend his finger bones. ]

No... yeah, yes, but maybe, maybe they just don’t want to die alone.

[ Red and grey and brown. In the corner of her eye, the axe’s three primary colors swim tauntingly. Paloma stoops (clutching Geralt one second and too eagerly letting go of his hand the next) to rip the weapon free, accustomed to the particular slick ‘pop’ it produces. Her tears are endless but steady. ]

These didn’t.

[ His almost-wince is surprise instead of pain; witchers can take a lot, even from superpowered beings, and the agony of the infection overrides almost everything else. What are you, he wonders, even though it's a flickering consideration. Monster-nerd brain always curious, even in the most dire of flammable forests. ]

No one wants to die alone, [ he grates out. ]

What's your name?

[ Geralt hates this shit - every animal instinct (and he has plenty, all those monster genes spliced into his) telling him to get the fuck out and the part of him with a sympathetic psyche saying don't abandoned people. ]

[ Maybe if we die all together, it won't matter that the trees, or whoever else, are lying, if at least the company was worth the lie... Paranoia hits deep. Doesn't quit, doesn't take naps. What kind of fractured heart can't take the pleas of the wounded at face value? Apparently hers. Disgusting.

She blinks over and over again to dispel some of the bright haze from glands that produce red, rather than clear saline, for the crying that continues on a quieter scale; to stare owlishly up from the smoldering, bleeding body with a touch more clarity. ]

Ahh. Paloma? [ As if it's in question. Her lips peel away from her teeth in an anxious and slightly unhinged grin. This bares the two lengthy upper canines poking daintily beyond their blunter surrounding whites, and hints of those points remain after the expression melts into a grimace. The cuts on her throat are already fixing themselves. ]

Please tell me you aren't trying to die in the fire. We, we have no guarantee. Do we?

[ In general, Geralt has better manners than to do this, but the sight she makes, suddenly, prompts him to grab at one of her shoulders and give her enough of a jostle so he can get a better look at the combination of fangs and healing wound. feel free to punch him in the dick or tell me 2 edit this tag bc grabby ]

-- Higher vampire? [ Ugh, he wishes he could smell fucking anything besides smoke, but he's pretty sure the insides of his nose and throat are burned and whatever healing his body is doing is just coated in more fucking ash. It almost hurts worse than the surreal infection for how annoying it is. He releases her, abrupt, more than a little annoyed with himself. ]

Paloma. I'm Geralt. We don't have a fucking guarantee for anything. Dying in this fire seems likely in just about every direction.

[ Relaxing her guard around the yellow-eyed and obviously nonhuman man bites her on the ass fairly quickly. Paloma squeals, shocked out of weeping. They're both fortunate that indecision and a jumble of conflicting impulses freeze her in place, and far from hopping up and lapping at Geralt's artery, she wobbles like an unfed newborn.

The stink of his infection makes him singularly unappetizing for the time being, anyway.

Heartache punctures her ballooning outrage like nothing else. She puffs up, indignant and snarling, only to deflate and sullenly watch him from underneath thick lashes that glitter reflections of red. ]

Then if I keep following you, would you ask me to burn first? [ Muttered: ] _Ass.

[ Weird that relaxing seems to mean mauling a burning tree lady. Geralt doesn't feel bad about her crying - flattened emotions and all - but it's good she stops. Has he ever seen a vampire cry? Truly? His mind skitters to a friend, long gone, and he cuts his thoughts off before they go anywhere he regrets. ]

I'll go first, [ he says, calling her bluff and giving her a look. Yeah he IS an ass, what of it. ] If you think it looks like a shit idea, you can book it in the order direction. Alright?

[ Stick with this vampire, buddy, and Geralt's gonna see enough crying to float a superyacht.

Not for the rest of the evening, they probably both hope. She takes a deep, bracing, and utterly superfluous breath, nursing the tiny spark of rebellion as it's preferable to the rule of fear. Big mistake. Everything still smells awful... or like pork.

Roasting flesh. ]

Yes. So just- just lead the way, Geralt? [ What begins as a stern retort loses steam and ends as a tremulous query, like she's already unsure of his name. Her mouth compresses to prevent more exposure. ]

[ What's a yacht?

Anywhoo. Geralt steps back and holds up one hand, which may some weird, but it becomes clear when he reaches over his shoulder to grip the handle of one sword. ] This isn't for you.

[ He unsheaths it and holds it at his side in a neutral position. Just in case, you know, since shit's running around in here screaming. The he extends his offhand to her again, if she wants to take it. ]

[ What? Why on earth would she want his sword when she's got a perfectly serviceable axe that once belonged to a murderous ghost?

And then his actual meaning sinks in, and she feels rather stupid. Relieved, too, that the altercation didn't sour him on hand-holding, being that Paloma is a touch-starved idiot with an exceptional capacity for forgetting why she was annoyed in the first place. She takes it.

Necessary? No. Smelly? Yes, a bit. A pinched sort of wrinkling crosses the bridge of her nose and stays there. ]

Thank you, I've tried getting cut open and it didn't work, for anyone. [ Her shoulders lift to her ears in a laugh that's also a cringe. She lurches into a loping run, hoping to leave hysteria behind with the bodies. ]

[ Off they go, and it's good they're holding on to this degree because it's not an easy trek - wouldn't be even at a leisurely stroll. Dead, plant-based beings wail with their last spark of life and reach out before crumbling, trees collapse and burning branches fall in showers of embers, there are pits of burning leaves and underbrush.

The further they go towards the most unbearable heat, the more the forest demands they turn back. Charred roots reach out like massive claws, trying to grab each of them. Geralt chops at them, plunges his sword into the chest of one fully turned nymph, yanks it back out and decapitates another on the backswing. (Fancy! But witchers are trained in one-handed sword combat to leave the other free to cast spells. Fun facts 4 u.)

The infection in his veins feels like it's screaming within him, trying to cripple him, but the fire beckons, waiting, unwavering in its patience. As if hoping against hope they make it out. ]

[ Every falling branch, every cloud of sparks makes Paloma levitate off of the debris-trapped ground. When Geralt chops and plunges and swings, she hops and twists like a tapdancer, her only anchor in the strength of his scarred hand. She only screams with her mouth closed and maintains a personal buffer against the infected with a recklessly waving axe.

They have interpersonal problems again once they've gotten far enough that nothing remains between them and the burning onslaught. Paloma's irises vanish, her eyes just white sclera and yawning black pupils that've eaten up the brown. She shudders, staring at the witch-fire, twitching in every direction but forward and preventing his onward march with a terrible strength all her own. ]

You'll burn, and I'll burn, too, does this look like your cure?

I told you I wouldn't make you go.

[ He won't - probably can't - force her. But they're too far into the inferno to turn back, and Geralt would rather take a chance. He's done dumber things. He trusts his gut.

He has to practically shout to be heard over the fire, and he shakes their linked hands, as if trying to jolt her back to full awareness. Laughably unconcerned with the obvious mortal danger she herself presents to him. ]

It's not fucking real. But I want to be out of here, and not puking all my internal godsdamn organs out.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

TDM: July

controlled burn!

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grabby is ALWAYS FOINE

♥♥♥

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