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TDM: July
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aefenglom's test drive! All threads can be considered game canon, should you choose to do so; regardless of if you pick specific threads to remain canon to the game, the prompts and test drive itself will be. This will be touched on later in-game, so it's fairly important to note! Aside from that, here are some quick reminders:• Reserves Open Today! If you're interested in securing a 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.With that taken care of...
• 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. |
Staging area
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s all a bit strange, isn’t it?” To say the least. Despite the fire and smoke and all, Dia’s voice is still soft and gentle, the smile a little vague, as if a default expression they’re not thinking much about.
They then seem to realize something, peeking up with interest as they eye him. “Are you a— oh, what are they called...? Human!” They look pleased with themselves for figuring it out and watch him with a wide-eyed curiosity and excitement as they wait for an answer.
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What a question, from a strange, shimmering person. (Girl, he thinks, because he doesn't come from a cultural context where he might consider anything past apparent outward aesthetics. But he's been corrected before and taken no issue.) Hey kid, you're opening with the identity crisis mutants toil through their entire fucking lives, gimme a break.
It's fine. Being asked what he is with a maybe inappropriate giggle is a more pleasant turn than the usual, which is being asked what he is at the end of a pitchfork. Geralt shakes some ash from his gloves, and absently wipes at his face, though it doesn't help.
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“A... Witcher? I see!” They say that, rather cheerfully, as they wander over to get a better look at him, like he’s some particularly interesting new animal Diamond’s discovered. Sorry, Geralt. But in the same tone they continue: “I don’t know what that is either!” But there’s a gentle laugh; up close it might be more obvious that Dia’s Lacking in a lot of certain human characteristics, like their ‘skin’ seems far too smooth and even-toned. Or the fact that their eyebrows, eyelashes, hair, and eyes all appear to be the exact same color, and all reflect the light.
“Iceberg never met a human before or a Witcher. Hmm... You look a lot like the Lunarians...” They trail off thoughtfully before grinning brightly. “You’re so cute!”
Because that’s a normal thing to say. If it’s offensive or insulting, Diamond doesn’t seem to notice at all, since to them it’s a genuine observation.
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"Thanks." Deadpan. Cute is a new one. He's not offended, but it's hard to casually offend someone who went through brutal mutations that left him with flattened emotions. Built for neutrality, though how that actually pans out is pretty wild.
"We're even, since I've never met someone who looks like you, either."
The way the light refracts through their form is like a crystal, but - denser? Can stones of any kind move like that even when enchanted? Grotesquely, he thinks of Phillipa wishing to regrow her plucked-out eyes using precious stones, but it's a fleeting and academic consideration.
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The Lunarians had a terribly ethereal beauty to them that's completely different from the dirt-smeared, lightly singed people Dia's been meeting, but their cuteness/beauty is just on some other scale to them.
Geralt's 'confession' makes Diamond apuse though, looking surprised, before they grin sheepishly. "Oh! Right, I suppose you wouldn't. My name is Diamond!" They extend their hand, recalling seeing Lunarians and people in this weird dream alike doing something similar in greetings. "It's both my name, and what I am!"
Should Geralt take their hand, he'll find that this isn't an exaggeration. There's no give to the 'flesh' of Diamond's hand--In fact, it isn't flesh at all, but solid, cold rock covered with a fine powder to give the illusion of skin. Thankfully, it's stuck on pretty good and there's no damage of it rubbing off onto Geralt's fingers or anything.
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"My name's Geralt," he says, and reaches out to shake. He's got gloves on, which is fortunate because it means neither of them risk any weird reactions with diamond 'flesh' and the mutagen resonance that causes odd sensation when touching a witcher's skin. (And unfortunate, because there's nothing like a good physical comedy gag.) But it doesn't diminish how solid they are, despite looking like a .. child? Teen? Geralt has a hard time estimating, even in children. He's just always around weathered old jerks and immortal sorceresses. "And it's just my name."
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Diamond takes both of his hands into their own and turns it over--glove or no, they can tell that Geralt is 'soft,' at least in comparison to themselves. "Pleased to meet you, Geralt! I've never seen or heard of a Witcher before. Even humans were just myths... It's amazing how much you look like us!"
They pause a moment and tilt their head with a soft hum of realization. "Or, maybe we were made to look like you..." Which seems most likely. Their master had shaped them into something familiar, so it made sense that Diamond and their comrades were modeled after humans.
Original Character do not steal.Dia does look more like a late-teen or young adult, though they're a good thousand+ years older than Geralt. "What's the difference between a Witcher and a Human?"
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His eyebrows quirk at being inspected like this, but he doesn't pull his hands away. He's learning as much as Diamond is, curious about the way they can move so fluidly but still feel like he's shaking hands with - as they said, a diamond.
Geralt shrugs. "A lot of races have the same general configuration of limbs, I've noticed."
Humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, gnomes... Even mermaids and vrans (lizard people!!) are close enough, just with incorporated tails. He supposes living gems have no reason to pick anything wildly different.
"Witchers are born human," he says. "Well. Most of the time. We've had some half-elves. But we become witchers through mutations. We protect humans from monsters, and sometimes, monsters from humans."
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Diamond finally does let him go through, clasping their hands behind their back. "But, that sounds nice, protecting people. You must be a very good person! And strong too! Is it fun?"
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"It does sound nice," he says dryly, at this point confident that Diamond won't notice anyway. It's not nice, it's pretty horrible most of the time, but it's what Geralt was engineered for, and it's the only way he knows how to live.
"I don't know if I'm good. I try like anyone else. Once in a while, it's fun." A succubus or two in the mix, sure, why not. "What do you do?"
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"Oh! Me? I'm...a fighter, I guess! I go on patrol with the others to make sure no one attacks us." They smile a bit. "The Lunarians always come down to try and take us, to make jewelry or weapons out of us."
Or, they did, but that's too big of a story to go into. It's better to just keep things simple and go with an older version of the story. "Our Master shapes us and gives us jobs that suit us best, but almost all of us go onto patrols like that and fight. It can be pretty boring, but it's exciting when something actually happens! And sometimes we get enough parts from the weapons they bring that we can use them to bring our friends back..."
Which is always exciting! Doesn't happen very often at all, but hey, it could and that's the main point!
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It must be a trait of all living things - flesh and bone or rock. He listens, and wonders if there's a kind of science or engineering that's akin to gemstone necromancy. Seems like it would be less complicated or gruesome than reviving a corpse. He almost asks, but then backs off, not wanting to have to explain what necromancy is. Damn his poor conversation skills.
"What do you think of this place? The fires?" Since they're a fighter - Diamond may not act like what Geralt thinks of as a warrior or a soldier, but he doesn't doubt what they say.