TDM: July

[moustre]

Test Drive: July

Welcome to aefenglom's test drive! All threads can be considered game canon, should you choose to do so; regardless of if you pick specific threads to remain canon to the game, the prompts and test drive itself will be. This will be touched on later in-game, so it's fairly important to note! Aside from that, here are some quick reminders:



• Reserves Open Today! If you're interested in securing a spot, put one in! We accept applications without reserves too, of course. Reserves will expire three days before the end of the application period, on the 28th.
• Applications Open The 24th! These will last until the end of the month, the 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!



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 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.

Comments

[whattaprick]

“Piss off, you know what I’m talking about,” Lambert snaps, temper flaring again sharply. Under the anger is a clear pang of worry. The man in front of him looks unassuming enough, but if he’s responsible for the unfamiliar mental weight nudging up against his own ... well, Lambert’s never had much of a worry about being mind controlled, but he does very much resent somehow being urged to bring his emotions to heel.

“What do you have a knack for, them? Fucking with people’s heads?” That’s not right, though — whatever this unseen influence is, it’s exerting itself somewhere more intimate than his mind. It’s that more than anything else that makes him reach out to shove at the man’s shoulders.

[atouts]

Well, it's not like Childermass can stop him from doing that much. It's easy for Lambert to reach out and shove at his shoulders, forcing him to stumble back a step. Whatever work he'd been putting into dampening the flow of anger snaps on contact, partly out of simply being jostled.

It leaves the magician grimacing and reaching up to grab one of the offending hands before it can retreat. Without his gloves, that will turn out to be a terrible idea, since the trickle of Lambert's emotions goes from an irritating mutter at the back of his head to a full-blown flood. He reacts like he's been punched rather than shoved, letting go almost as quickly as he'd grabbed him and staggering back.

"Stop!" He can't help it, usual ironclad indifference shattered for the moment as he cringes away and throws an arm up towards the witcher. He doesn't mean to use magic, especially since this kind of magic isn't his usual sort. He's all shadows and sneaking and lurking about. Offensive magic has never been in his bag of tricks.

But this is an abrupt push, a blast of wind to force Lambert back a few steps if it's strong enough and he's startled enough to not stand against it.

[whattaprick]

What the hell is he supposed to stop? Lambert doesn't get to ask because the contact sends a shock of emotion through him too, not as sharp as it's apparently affecting the other man, but enough to stun the anger out of him. For all the good it does when he's abruptily bowled over by the sudden gust of wind that slams into him, off-balance enough that the force is enough to send him landing firmly on his ass and--

"Fuck!" Lambert gasps. He's used to shouldering through monster claws and more pain than this, but that? That hurts, the spike of quick agony running up his spine an unpleasant shock. He's quick to twist around so his weight is on one hip and not on his -- visible now that he's turned around, clumsily sticking out from his partly shoved-down trousers -- scut of a tail, which is now defensively trying to curl in on itself.

At least the shock appears to have scattered the oppressive weight of his emotions, leaving Childermass with nothing ringing in his head but the phantom feeling of an ache in an appendage he doesn't have. Lambert's voice recovers faster than his anger, golden eyes narrowing and cutting a look at the magician over the roar of blood in his own ears.

"Knew you were a witch."

[atouts]

"Magician," Childermass corrects automatically, though he's drawing his arm back and giving the offending, wind-throwing hand a bewildered look, but soon enough that fades and he grimaces, the pain from Lambert still reaching through. As unlikable as this man is, he hadn't warranted being blown over like that...

It's with that in mind that he steps forward and offers that same hand out to help the witcher up, should he want any help at all. Contact made it worse before but there's no way more offense wouldn't be taken if he stopped to pull his gloves on.

"A magician with barely any spells to call my own, only wind has never been a part of them before," he adds as he offers his hand. "Something else is wrong, though. Aye, I may be in your head but you're doing the exact same to me."

[whattaprick]

It wasn’t all pain, of course. There was that mild, unmistakable tingle racing along from the point of contact, for all it had lasted for all of a moment...

“Same difference. You gonna hit me again if I touch you?” Yeah, Lambert is glaring at that extended hand with a deep wariness and choosing pointedly not to take it regardless of what the response to his question is. Instead, he rolls up onto his own feet, a smooth movement that brings him right back almost chest to chest with Childermass again.

He’s not sure what to make of all this. The uncertainty tugging at him form both himself and the magician is enough to make him waver instead of stomping off to sulk in offense, but at least he’s stopped being outright furious, the frustration at the whole situation — not only being stuck with an uptight magician in his head, but being stuck in the middle of a literal hellscape with none of his usual tools. Even his medallion is dead, whatever enchantment it might have held stripped off along with his sliver of magic.

“Well, I’m not the one who put it there,” he finally says, ever so intelligently. “And if you didn’t either, then ... I don’t know.”

[atouts]

"I wasn't planning on it," is what he goes with rather than the claim of having not meant to hit him at all. He hadn't, of course, but he knows the type. Loud, angry, always looking for a fight. The last thing Childermass wants to do is kick up a whole new argument over whether he had meant it or not. Anyway, since it's clear Lambert doesn't need his help, he just shrugs and draws his hand back, idly folding his arms across his chest instead.

"Perhaps it is in error, then, on the part of whoever made this dream." He pauses to look around them once he's said that, suddenly thoughtful. "This many moving parts and dreamers, assuming you and the rest even are real, I can't imagine it would be easy to keep everything in order."

[whattaprick]

Lambert’s expression noticeably sours at that, with a downturn in the emotions across the connection between them to match.

“Great. One more thing they fucked up,” he grumbles. “If I ever find out who’s doing this, I’m going to stuff their smalls down their throat.”

However, it seems like he’s found something else to take offense in what Childermass says, rounding on him with a peeved look.

“And I’m real enough. How do I know you’re not something made up, huh?”

[atouts]

And Lambert will be wholly welcome to do that, assuming they do ever find who's doing this. He's being accused again, however, and so he's left giving Lambert an entirely bored look over it all.

"I already told you that you're in my head as much as I am in yours," Childermass tells him outright. "Would you really be too slow to pick out an illusion when I have no way to hide it from you?"

[whattaprick]

“It’s a fucking dream. I don’t think it cares about what I can or can’t do, especially—" he gestures in frustration at his ears. “—when it’s already got me looking like this anyway.”

It’s above all that bored look really tops it all off, makes Lambert’s nerves prickle with a fresh rush of heat ... because while that expression might fool most, it won’t fool someone who has, for better or worse, found themselves hooked heart to heart with the magician.

The bond may communicate feeling, but it can’t communicate intent. A few steps forward is all it takes for Lambert to step forward, and his hand shoots out to grasp the magician’s again, but this time he won’t let go, trying to actually feel Childermass through the bond, what his expression doesn’t betray.

[atouts]

It's a common reaction to that chronically indifferent stare, though few go the final step into actually accosting Childermass over it. He supposes, in retrospect, he should not be surprised that this particular man did. He was already pissed, on to of more pissed, that he could have told anyone even without the bond.

But there is a bond and he's too slow to step back out of Lambert's grasp to escape the abrupt, unexpected reinforcement of it. As before, the anger feels like drowning to the magician. Has he ever been this mad? No. No, he doubts it. His own anger runs cold, same as how he often acts, how he often holds himself aloof, same as the North he was raised in. That's part of what Lambert gets as he tries to drag out some real idea of what Childermass is.

He isn't bored. He never was. He's interested, alert, taking in every detail around them when he isn't trying to deal with the constant background noise that is Lambert. Curious but also, similarly, upset. This dream is absolute nonsense, even if the magic is interesting, and while Lambert is mad enough to pick fights and rage against being stuck in such a place, his own anger is more akin to exasperation (most of it aimed straight at the witcher but not all). Magicians throwing magic around foolishly; wasteful, dangerous, arrogant. If he had even a sliver of that much power, he'd find a better way then burning the whole fucking forest down.

But then Childermass to reacting, grabbing at Lambert's wrist and trying to pry his grasping fingers off of him.

"You're making it worse!" He yells at Lambert, cool demeanor finally cracking at the sheer audacity of the witcher grabbing him like that. "Get off of me!"

[whattaprick]

The rejection of his touch stings like a slap to the face, through the bond, but Lambert’s been through worse pain, bears up under it and shrugs it off as much as he shrugs off Childermass’s attempts to pry him away.. Childermass can feel it too, as the witcher starts to systematically shut his own anger down, not forgotten, stuffing it piece by piece into a box where he can yank it from later. He forces his heartbeat to slow, breath by ragged breath.

“Shut up,” he says, automatically, but his tone’s distracted, his attention not on the emotions surging between them, but on what he could only distantly sense before. He focuses on that alien feeling, wary, trying to clear his head so he can understand what’s actually going on under the roil of his reflex to snap and snarl at what he doesn’t know.

There’s something passing between them, from the mage to him, like a current that stabilizes him as much as it energizes him. It makes him feel more wakeful, alert, finding an equilibrium between their agitated states, like it’s finally calmed an agitating presence at the back of his mind he wasn’t aware of.

“Can you feel that?” he demands, more uncertain than he’s sounded before — he’s no mage — but he’s not sure what’s happening. The unwanted empathy is one thing, but this feels like power — pure magic fed into him and somehow given back, entirely without any effort on his own part, like blood cycling through a heart.

[atouts]

How can an awful little rabbit man be so strong? Childermass realizes Lambert has no plans on letting go sooner than later and, when nothing worse is forthcoming than a bit of wrinkled cloth where he's grasping him by, he settles, even if he isn't moving his hand off of the witcher's.

Though as Lambert becomes distracted by the flow of energy between them, so, too, does Childermass. He frowns, focus wandering away from the other man's face as he tries to concentrate on that odd sensation and only that. He's never been off about sensing magic before and now's no different. That's—

"My magic," he says, brow immediately furrowing. Not in anger, though, just in confusion. "Are you absorbing it? Only... no, it doesn't feel like theft."

[whattaprick]

It's those good, good witcher vitamins, man. In any case, he frowns as Childermass mentions 'theft,' all ready to be offended again and only slightly mollified by the magician correcting himself.

"Aren't you supposed to be the mage?" he demands instead. "You tell me."

It's not until he inhales that he realizes he's started breathing in time with the other man, and its surprisingly hard to consciously stop and correct himself.

[atouts]

"Magician," Childermass corrects, even as he's distracted by the transfer of magic. It really is the same thing, he supposes, but mage sounds so ancient, like he should be hundreds of years old and living in a dark forest, which would be complete nonsense for the modern magic user, really.

"And not one of this world but, if I were to guess, it's connected to the empathic bond. Perhaps it considers you to be a familiar. I suppose you are half a rabbit. Could be that's all it takes to count."

As, usually, you'd have an animal as a familiar but... not this. Whatever Lambert is.

[whattaprick]

That brings the annoyance back to the forefront, Lambert prickling as his ears stiffen, conveying the displeasure and dissatisfaction with that label that Childermass can feel clearly enough through the bond.

"I'm nobody's familiar, and I'm not a damn rabbit," he says instead. And even though part of him protests at the thought of breaking contact, the desire to be closer than just a hand's grasp apart, Lambert lets the magician go, cutting off the flow of energy between them. The pang from the sudden loss is startling in its sharpness, as is the instinctive, half-formed idea that he'd be better served guiding Childermass's hand elsewhere, if he wanted to feel that connection better.

Lambert shakes his head, grimacing. "Whatever," he mutters, looking away. "Just means I need to find a way to get out of here faster." He'll pivot on a foot, shoulders hunching, to do just that.

[atouts]

All of the annoyance but also all of the loss, that same feeling passing through the magician once Lambert lets go of him. It's doubled as the witcher feels the same, even if the sensation lessens with space between the two of them. Seeing how Childermass is not a man prone to such emotion and that he's missing someone else's touch at all is awkward for him, enough that he'll take an extra step back and away from the other man now that he's free to.

"It was only one possibility," he tells Lambert, giving his head a small shake at how easily offense is found. "I am well aware you aren't actually a rabbit—"

But then he's turning to leave and, well, Childermass won't try to stop him, even if that reluctance to let him go lingers. He simply trails off to watch him go, steeling himself against the urge to follow after.