graveyardsmash | TEST DRIVE : MAY 2016 EDITIOIN

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test drive

TEST DRIVE : MAY 2016 EDITIOIN

TEST DRIVE

Welcome to Ryslig's test drive meme! If you're considering apping here, this is where you can try your characters out in the game's setting. A few things to note:

You can only app ONE character per round so choose wisely.
We now have a Quick Game Facts that simplifies the basic information about the game. Good if you want to see what the game is at a glance!
Ryslig's FAQ is located here, so please take a look if you have questions.

The Reserve date is MAY 20ST 12:01AM EST.
There is an Enable Me / App this Plz to see what some people are offering or would love to play.
Test drive meme threads can be used for your roleplay sample!
Players with characters already in the game can earn up to a maximum of 6 coins by replying to potential character threads! You cannot use this to go over the bonus 20 coins per month total, but you can use it to reach that coin total. Same rules as normal bonuses apply.

Sample scenarios:

SCENARIO ONE: So you've just arrived, and already SOME the natives are trying to get on your good side. Offers of food, shelter and other luxuries in return for hoping you don't eat them. They even have some helpful pamphlets to share with you. "How To Deal With Changes", "Alternatives to Human Flesh", "What to Expect When You're Expecting (to turn into a monster)" are all great pamphlets. There's even some detailing certain monsters, and the changes they go through. Some of these seem to have been passed down from one monster to the next.

Among these however, are some... not so helpful ones. "Bunnyipyips And You", "Axe Thief Axehounds," and "So you're becoming a Fur Bearing Trout" among others. Sometimes they have marks on them from previous people who had them saying they are lies, or pointing out good "jokes."

Then there's the people who aren't happy to see you at all. Glares and silent, judging stares if you're lucky. Torches and pitchforks attempting to drive you out of the town if you're not. You may need a friend to help you.

SCENARIO TWO: You've become hopelessly lost in Lager Woods. Paths don't seem to lead where you remember them leading, and you feel as if you're going around in circles. Childlike giggling can be heard from no direction in particular. Suddenly, you stumble upon another character, who seems to be just as lost as you! Perhaps you can find a way out together. Or maybe they want you for lunch...

SCENARIO THREE: The time has come and you've found yourself becoming a monster. Is the change instant, or gradual? Are you familiar enough with monsters to know what's happening, or is it a complete shock? NOTE: Feel free to pick any monster type for this prompt, but note that you may not get the same one in game.

SCENARIO FOUR: The claws, the fangs, the pangs of hunger - horrible as they all are, it's manageable given enough time and perseverance. Local monster hunters, though, not so much.

Maybe it started with a few wayward glances on the outskirts of town, critical stares and disapproving whispers, or just the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever it was, deserved or entirely unprovoked, you're being hunted: a handful of aggressive, well-armed humans doggedly chase your trail throughout city streets and out into the open, and if you're not careful (if you don't find help soon) you might wind up as the next trophy kill claim on one of those hunter's walls.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

If you have any regarding this test drive, let us know!

SCENARIO ONE.

[Funnily enough, it's not the prospect of suddenly being somewhere she's never seen before and doesn't remember traveling to that bothers Abigail. Or, well, it does — just not as much as it might. She's used to being tugged back and forth, having the world utterly out of her control; she doesn't like it, but there's a measure of learned helplessness that's getting worse instead of better.]

[What gets her, what really freezes her, is the pamphlets. Alternatives to Human Flesh, and she just stares at it, her fingers shaking like the branches of an aspen. She tastes sausages on the back of her tongue.]

[There are two flavors of hysteria accessible here. One, just after she reads the pamphlet and actually processes the title, is a sharp burst of laughter, staccato and uncontrollable. The second is after she reads through the entire thing. This one, it's a little more calculated, but it's hard to tell, unless you've got the benefit of sharpened hearing: there are tears at the corners of her eyes, her lips are quivering, but her heartbeat's evened out when she comes up to the nearest person with her brows pinched and a question on her lips.]

Excuse me, is — is this a joke?

Edited 2016-05-07 04:51 (UTC)

[Scenario One - In Which Our Hero Arrives]

[Okay but so: Jean-Pierre Polnareff is, in fact, used to the strange and bizarre. Yesterday his soul had been residing in a turtle, safe and sound, and he'd been sharing beers with his fifteen year old mafioso boss, who wanted to first discuss strategy and then relationship conflicts with him. So like . . . waking up in a strange city, with people kind of weirdly overenthusiastic in their friendliness, isn't actually all that strange.

What is strange is that he does, in fact, have a body. He very much has a body, and it's the same body that had died some two months ago. The metallic legs still work, and he's down one eye again, and honestly, all of that is fine. It's weird! But it's fine.

But they hadn't given him a wheelchair.

Like, who oversaw this kidnapping, exactly? Who the hell took a guy's soul, resurrected his body, made sure it was his body sans legs, and then forgot to provide a wheelchair? Who did that? It wasn't even evil, it was just a hugely dick move. Like, be evil if you want, but at least be classy about it.

At least those overenthusiastic locals had come in handy. It's not a proper wheelchair, but it's a seat, at least, and for now that's enough. He's surrounded by pamphlets, and he's trying to read them, he really is-- but the first monster-person he sees, he calls out to.]

Come here-- yeah, you! I want to ask you some questions. I have a few names I want to ask you about . . .

[Scenario Four - In Which Our Hero Is Hunted]

[This would have turned out so different if he'd had Silver Chariot.

Four assholes with torches and swords? Psh, no problem. Chariot would have cut them to ribbons. But without Chariot, without any kind of weapon, with only the most minimal of monster changes affecting him, Polnareff had no choice but to run. He might have been able to tear open a throat or two, but he wasn't about to get himself killed (again) just because he was feeling too brave.

At least he's being clever about it. He doesn't just flee blindly-- he loses himself in Bavan's alleys, hiding behind dumpsters and in the shadows of doors, throwing his voice and tossing rocks to mislead his opponents. But they're clever, and he can't outwit them forever-- so perhaps this would be the time for someone to swoop in and save him, hm?]

[Note: tags will come from both this account and

silvercrusader!]

[The first monster he sees probably doesn't look very familiar at first glance. The first monster he sees is a mess, a Frankenstein-esque mishmash of things, dark hair and light, human and spider, skin and fur and claws and teeth. He's attempting to drown himself in a heavy black coat, but it doesn't do much anymore to hide the fact that there are too many arms under there, or that some of them are misshapen and strangely elongated.]

[The look on his face: that might be familiar. A certain haughty peevishness at being addressed so rudely, a disinclination to obey. When he turns, there's some clear intent to be scathing, just for a moment, before he recognizes Polnareff — and then his eyes go wide.]

[That look, too, Polnareff will know. That old fear, an uncertainty about what is real and what is not, the most childish look Giorno Giovanna ever wears. It looks younger, somehow, under the shock of black in his bangs.]

P— P—

[He covers his mouth with one hand, one of the more normal ones. It occurs to him too late that he's not covering the right part of himself; the mouth is the least offensive, these days. His eyes shine in the darkness, two with tears, the rest with silver.]

[Hasn't he done enough already? Hasn't he been through enough?]

[He wants to scream.]

[One]

[At first you wonder why two little girls with flowers in their hands just ran past you crying, but everything becomes clear when you realize they just tried to greet a man who's sitting on a nearby bench with a pile of fliers next to him. He's watching them run away with...well, it's actually a bemused expression, but it's hard to tell because he has one of the most impressive cases of resting bitchface on record. He frowns (which doesn't make it any better), then returns to reading "So Your Tentacles Want Blood (and That's Not Okay With You.)"]

What?

[He doesn't sound pleased that you witnessed any of that.]

[Three]

[It's not unfamiliar, the sensation of his body stretching and changing, but the wrenching, the twisting, the sinking dread of knowing that this is going to be permanent is enough to make him nauseous. It's his arm, just his arm. The one he'd been about to give up, ironically, and the pain is becoming too much to take. He stumbles sideways, almost knocking over whoever it is who has the misfortune of walking next to him, clutching at his arm and gritting his teeth so that he won't scream. It's like it's on fire and his just wants it to stop.

It's enraging. Enraging, and infuriating. Enraging and infuriating and painful and he slams his arm against the nearest flat surface just to regain his focus...except the nearest flat surface happens to be the a shop window.

And monster strength is excessive.

Shards of glass fly everywhere and Kouen Ren is having the worst day ever.]

[Lorraine towers over the girl thanks to her horse legs, and has to bend down a little to take a closer look at the pamphlet's cover.]

I'm afraid not.

[She sounds apologetic; as much as she wished she could reassure this girl, she can't bring herself to lie about something so serious, particularly after struggling with the idea of feeding for months. Being a monster herself, she knows well how completely serious the pamphlet is. Even apart from the legs, she possesses teal skin, horse ears and thick blue hair that looks like seaweed.]

Not all monsters need to eat human flesh -- I don't! -- but we all feed on humans in one way or another.

Edited 2016-05-07 05:11 (UTC)

[Funny he mentions people swooping in and saving him, because quite literally that's exactly what happens.

The swoop comes courtesy of the two massive leathery wings sprouting from the creature's back; the rescue comes courtesy of the taloned feet. But what's perhaps odd about this sudden and unexpected death from above is that — well, that it actually isn't death at all. On the contrary, all of the blows that rain down are wholly nonfatal ones, seemingly more targeted toward knocking the mob back and drawing their attention away from Polnareff than actually killing anyone.

One of the humans drops his torch and runs; he's the sensible one, probably. The other three decide to stand and fight, and that's when the apparition lands and folds down his wings like he thinks he's the motherfucking Batman and —

Quite curiously, makes eye contact with all of them one by one, and speaks.]

You didn't find anything here. Get the hell out.

[...And unbelievably enough, they leave. Which leaves Polnareff alone with the monster, who turns to him in the moonlight and reveals a profile in silhouette that —

...

...That's wearing a hat with the back ripped out, and a flash of gold trim and pins as the creature finishes its pivot and approaches him slowly.]

...It's fine. Nobody's going to h—

[But. Well.

Heightened night vision's a stinker, ain't it?]

...P...Pol...nareff...?

Scenario One: Arrival

[ He refused to allow himself to be afraid. That he was confused was understandable; much of this place that he'd experienced since waking up- first, washed upon the beach covered in small cuts in bruises- and next, in a hospital of flesh; was more than enough to be disorienting. Had he been a man more prone to panic, he certainly might have.

Instead, he'd taken stock. Not only what he had on his person, but what he could use in his surroundings. Next, his focus was on gathering information. The locals had proved to be less than hospitable; some even openly hostile, but that didn't mean for a moment that Laurent was going to give up. That he was the soon to be King of Vere didn't matter to these people- no one had even heard of it. The circlet around his elegant forehead still rested there, though now seemed like a piece of costumery. Well; at least the gold and sapphires had value. They could be sold, or bartered with.

He was thankful for that.

Now he sat upon a bench- looking as though he belonged there, despite the strangeness of his dress compared to the locals. The fine brocaded silks he wore, the golden lacings along the front, right up his throat. Even his shoulders, down the arms of his midnight blue outfit had tight gold lacing. Clipped to his shoulders was a fine cloak, with a golden starburst emblazoned upon it. Everything about him spoke of a princely air.

He had one leg crossed over the other, his elbow resting upon the arm of the bench, arm up and hand curled delicately. His blue eyes cool and almost passively bored looking as he watched people pass him, his other hand resting on his ankle.

If he was startled by the monsters who passed him, he did not allow himself to show it. ]

You, with the grotesque accoutrements- [ The hand on his ankle rose, wrist flicking delicately in gesture to draw attention his way. ] Perhaps you would be half-so-useful as to tell me where I am.

Scenario Three: Ch-ch-ch-changes!

[ The pain had started in the morning.

Laurent had ignored it; for all the good it did him. The skin of his back felt stretched, and ill fitting. It had been hard to breath doing even the slightest actions, and beneath the fine silks of his clothes, his skin itched.

Everyone had told him in depth that he ought to expect this, and yet now that it had begun it was unlike anything he'd expected. Laurent's tightly wound control was fraying with every hour that passed, no relief to be found from the unfocused aches running through him. He walked, aimless and misguided through the fog of pain- before the awful feeling of splitting sent him to his knees. He cried out, the pain of his feet incredible- the pressure of his boots agonizing as his feet changed. He fell to his back, reaching ineffectively, trying to wrench his boots off, to no avail. Screaming, his talons burst free as the leather gave, claws pushing out from the twisted remains of his former feet. The itching beneath his skin reached crescendo- feathers pushing out, barbed quills trapped beneath silk, splitting through seams.

Laurent could only lay there, panting, and wait for it to pass. ]

IV. Hunted

[ Guns they had called them. Guns were new.

Hobbled, one wing dragging behind, flecked full of holes from shot gun pellets. Furious, Laurent dragged the massive grey and blue dappled appendage behind him, trailing blood. The other flapping for purchase to speed his progress as his talons scraped against the cobblestone, pulled him forcibly along. Tactical retreat- he needed higher ground. Needed to regroup, needed to reconsider his options, but most of all he needed to get one of those guns. And then they could see how they liked it, to be littered with holes.

He ducked down an alleyway, scanning his surroundings, making sure he had not mistakenly forced himself into a dead end- before scrambling along. Determination furrowed his brow, his eyes ablaze with furious indignation. Keep moving; it was all that mattered. He would lose them eventually- or he would get the jump on them. Tear them to shreds with his bare hands, if he had to. ]

[It takes him just a moment too long to recognize him. Just a few seconds of mild horror at the spiderish creature before him, with too many arms and eyes, moving in a terrifying too-quick way that makes Polnareff's heart pound -- but oh. Oh, because he knows that expression. How could he not? He's lost count of how many times has that look been directed at him these past two months. So many funerals, so many little details that a fifteen year old ought not to have to deal with-- Don Giovanna is nothing but put together and precise in his rulings, but it's Polnareff who gets to see the boy underneath.]

Giorno--

[Who did this to you? But even as he thinks it, he swallows the question down-- he will not make him feel worse about his appearance. He's crying, and god, Polnareff can't blame him-- who wouldn't cry, mutilated so drastically? Polnareff reaches a hand, a silent entreaty for his boss to come closer.]

[That . . . sure is a horse lady. Just, a lady who is a horse. Just a horse lady, just standing there. What. Okay. She can smile through this. Come on, Abigail. Come on.]

[. . . There we go. A watery little smile. It actually fits pretty well. She looks like she's on the verge of tears instead of kind of grossed out. Although on second look, it's not exactly ugly so much as unexpected. The skin is kind of a pretty color.]

In one way or another.

[She echoes this, chews her lip, and looks Lorraine up and down a little more openly.]

Are you going to do that to me?

[Of all the weird shit that's happened to Eddie Dean in his short twenty-and-some-change years, turning into a Goddamn fish is certainly a new one. Sure, he's had a few highs gone bad, highs that ended in him writhing on the fucking floor and feeling like he'd grown gills, but this is the first time he's actually grown gills.

He's at the edge of a lake, writhing on the shoreline, his shirt covered in mud and sand and grass stains. Eddie clutches at his neck, horrified at the openings forming there. Even more horrified that he can see glimpses of skin webbing his fingers together. This is it. All of the obstacles he's overcome in his quest for the Tower, following the Beam like a dog tracking a 'coon, and this is how he dies. Turning into a fucking fish.

Incredible. He has the best luck, doesn't he? And on top of it all, he's sure he looks real fucking smooth, flopping around in the wet sand.

Eddie becomes dimly aware that someone's approached him; making himself take three big breaths, he ignores—or tries to—the fact that scales have begun to burrow out from under his skin, making his stomach churn.]

—little help?

[One: Vandare]
[Wherever this is, people are not happy to see King Damianos.

He doesn't remember what happened, only that just recently he awoke on an unfamiliar beach (It is not Ios. There are no cliffs, no white stone.), still injured from Kastor's knife. His chiton, once white and simple, is wet and blood-stained and torn, his dark curls thick and damp with seawater. Last he can recall, he was in the slave baths, with Laurent holding his hand over his wound, listening to the bells that heralded Damen as King.

The walk from the beach to the nearest center of people was excruciating, every step pulling on the half-healed edges of his wound, fresh blood dotting the front of his dirty chiton. These people are not Akielon, nor are they even Veretian, and this town is one he does not recognize the style of; it is confusing and a little frightening, and he wishes Laurent were here.

He holds a hand over his wound as he regards a small group of townsfolk who look... angry, advancing on the tall, dark-skinned man in the strange clothes and gold cuff. Damen holds himself warily, giving ground slowly, looking like he might turn to violence.] What is the meaning of this? Where have I been taken? [Has he been drugged and loaded onto a ship again? Did the Regent have some sort of... contingency plan? Where is Laurent?]

[Three&Four: Naga, Bavan]
[The stares had begun inside town. The displeased whispers. The reaching for weapons. Damen had ignored it the best he could, out getting some supplies for his small, sort of dilapidated dwelling, huffing out a quiet laugh at how this would seem to anyone back home. The King of Akielos, leader of armies and victor against treachery, doing his own grocery shopping. Doing his own anything, really - he's used to having servants and cooks and squires. But in times of crisis, needs must, and Damianos does what needs to be done without complaint.

He makes the walk back toward his house in silence, head held high, bag under one arm. His clothes mark him an outsider here; he hasn't gotten past wearing chitons yet, not eager to go back to more Veretian styles of tight pants and constricting jackets after so long. The bag crashes to the ground, however, spilling fruit, an orange rolling down the sidewalk, as the pain hits.

Searing fire down his spine, his legs gone suddenly numb, unable to hold his weight. He is no small man, standing at close to 6'6" and muscled to match, and he goes down hard with a short grunt of pain. The hunters, sensing weakness, begin to close in on him, and out here, he wonders if anyone will be around to defend him.

Heart racing, Damen tries unsuccessfully to pull himself to his feet.] You would fight a man on the ground? You Rysligians have no honor.

[One]

No, wait! Come back! Are there any of these with pictures of bunnyipyips?

[There are a lot of bewildered-looking, disoriented new arrivals milling about with their newly acquired handfuls of pamphlets, but this young man isn't one of them. No, he's got a notepad he begged off one of the welcoming committee in his hand and he's avidly taking notes on every little scrap of literature anyone will give him.

It hasn't quite sunk in yet what all of this means. Or is going to mean. Right now the scholar in him is winning out, which is probably for the best.]

[Two]

I don't like this! I don't like this at all! I have only one weakness and it's ghosts!

[And heights. And scary stories.

But mostly ghosts.

Yew has parked himself under one of the larger trees in the clearing, trembling and jumping at every tiny noise. This is terrible. He's lost and there are...are...well, something is laughing at him and that's not okay. That's not okay at all. He backs up closer to the tree and sings quietly to himself under his breath to take his mind off it. Maybe the ghosts will just go away and everything will be okay. Yes, that would be the best thing that could happen. No more ghosts. No more ghosts ever.]

[It doesn't matter that he doesn't say it. It hangs in the air between them all the same, heavy and ragged-edged, and it's not — it's not, he supposes, bad, because he is still himself even like this, but it's been months since he really thought about how wrong he looks. The coat quickly became habit, something to put newcomers at ease, and nothing they said could touch him.]

[But just the way Polnareff looks at him now, like he's been broken somehow, is agony.]

[The stupid thing is that that's not even why he's upset. Not really. He wants Polnareff to be safe, he wants everyone to be safe but Polnareff especially, and here he won't be. There's no chance. Sooner than later, Polnareff will suffer.]

Please.

[He shakes his head, his lips parted in words he can't quite figure out how to form.]

I'm — you need to go. You need to go, get out of here!

[No one can. But it's all he wants. Turn around and stay safe. Be anywhere else but here.]

[If he hadn't spoken, Polnareff wouldn't have known.

Oh, that hat is familiar, of course, and later on he would have wondered-- but still, there were so many people here, displaced from so many different worlds. Why would Jotaro be one of them? He was lucky enough to find Giorno; Jotaro hadn't even been a thought here.

But no. He's lucky and not, all at once, because there's Jotaro: tall and imposing, talons clicking against the pavement as he makes his way over, wings stretching out behind him like he's some kind of delinquent angel. Despite himself, Polnareff's breath catches-- Jotaro is no threat to him, but god, this city's done a number on him.

(He doesn't think about how he himself looks, missing legs, an eyepatch over his eye. Jotaro knows the extent of his injuries; Jotaro was the one to bring him to the SPW Foundation).]

That's one I owe you, hm?

[Which really means: thank god you're here. And Polnareff grins hard, because his heart is hurting in the best possible way. Because it's Jotaro, and he should want him at home, safe and sound, unchanged and untouched-- but if he's not, if he has to be here, then thank god he is, because there's no one Polnareff would rather have at his side.]

Stop looming over me-- come here, let me see you.

What?! [She nearly squawks the word, she's so shocked by the question.] No, of course not! I promise!

[Lorraine calms herself and sighs; she recognizes the kind of smile Abigail's wearing right now, because she's made it enough herself in this place. She bends a little further down, to be closer to Abigail's eye level.]

I don't want to hurt anyone, but none of us get to choose. Believe me, I tried. If we refuse to feed for long enough, we lose ourselves and attack like animals.

[There are murmurs around them, and a few people give Giorno a bit of a dirty glance-- but they're irrelevant. Everyone is irrelevant right now, save for the boy in front of him.]

Right now I can't even get up off this bench.

[He'd asked. It had been a long journey from where he'd been deposited to where he sits now, and he'd asked all the more relevant questions on the way. How can I get home, how can I get back, there's got to be a ship leaving port, I need to get to Italy, there's someone waiting for me--]

Giorno, come here.

[Right. Right, he can't . . . he can't get up. Okay. Polnareff is here. Polnareff is here, and needs his help. Polnareff is here and guiding him, that's what's happening, just like at home, just like normal. What was normal, for a little while.]

[God, it's pathetic how grateful, how relieved he is. Selfish. Disgusting. He scrubs his hands over his face and exhales sharply.]

. . . Perdonami.

[He crosses the space between them, holds out his hands, the most normal ones. There's an impossible shyness around him now, borne not of grief but shame. But if Polnareff is real, he wants to know. He wants to see for himself.]

Heh . . . buon giorno, Polnareff.

[Guns are certainly new. Damen doesn't think he likes guns, namely because they are being used on Laurent. He can taste the scent of his blood in the air, though he caught up to Laurent too slow, the other has already started off into the woods. He doesn't know Damen is following, his thickly powerful serpent's tail propelling him over the cobblestones, whisper silent.

He follows the trail of blood quickly, deftly maneuvering himself around obstacles, only rage in his head, because someone has dared to hurt Laurent.

The one at the back of the hunting party dies first. He gets out a scream of terror as Damen comes up behind him, sinks claws into his sides, and coils his massive tail around him, crushing the very breath from his body. His gun clatters on the cobbles.]

[It's Polnareff, but he's wrong.

He's wrong, this isn't Polnareff. Polnareff is — he shouldn't have lost both his legs, Dio didn't even hit his legs, how could he have leapt through the air like the avenging angel he'd been if he were missing both of his legs? What about his eye? He didn't get hit in the eye (did he get hit in the eye? they took him to the hospital, they said he was fine, what happened, he can't remember) — what happened? These aren't new wounds. These are old wounds, he moves like he's had them a while. The predator would've seen that in an instant, even if Jotaro weren't looking for it himself.

Who did this? How did this happen? This isn't Polnareff, Polnareff isn't this old and this battered and this...this. How did this happen?

He's so busy staring that he can't think of anything to do but obey the request he's been given, stepping over with his wings folding up behind his back to be better out of the way. He looks like a mixture of himself and his Star Platinum, if Star were more dragon than giant: the claws that have replaced his hands and feet have thick scale like gloves and boots, and on the backs of his claws below the knuckles sits a familiar triangle pattern echoed in scale. On either side of his hat sit a pair of slim gold horns, their bases hidden nestled in his hair; down the sides of his face and neck are more scale, more violet, which is echoed in the hue of his wings and his tail.

Amid all that, there are tears in his eyes.

Who did this, he wants to ask, so that he can find them and kill them a thousand times.]

Why are you — the hell are you doing in that chair? Get up.

[Thus speaks Captain Tact, demonstrating admirably the first stage of grief.]

[They'll have to speak about Giorno's mutilations. He'll have to know each one, learn them and learn Giorno's newfound weaknesses and strengths. But for now, at least, he can ignore them-- and so there's no hesitation in the way he takes Giorno's hands, nor in the way he smiles up at him.]

I have several complaints to take to the management, Giorno. You'll have to help me write them up, hm?

Scenario 1-A

[This land...seemed very off, even in comparison to the lands in Nohr. Nohr's country was dark and barren in places but Ryslig seemed to be covered in an air of dread. Even the bustling city didn't change that first impression. Especially how some look at Subaki like he's covered in blood and running towards them.

He frowns as he stands in the street, arms crossed. Everyone seems to be ignoring his charm. A local walks by and he calls out to them, uncrossing his arms to give a gesture to beckon them closer.] Excuse me! Mind answering a few questions?

[Subaki's tone is friendly, open. The local doesn't seem to be having any of it, though, and reaches for a knife on his belt. Subaki is unarmed. This might be trouble...]

Scenario 1-B

[Where was Lady Sakura? As a dutiful retainer, Subaki must find her. Hana can protect her well but he can't say truthfully say that he believes that she could do the job alone. There were many great warriors and assassins in Nohr's army. One person couldn't stand up to them alone. Even he would have some trouble doing that.

Still, there was no confirmation that Sakura or Hana weren't here and if they weren't, who was to say there wouldn't be others from Hoshido?

Smiling openly, he carefully approaches someone who clearly isn't local. In one hand are folded pamphlets. He's read each one twice to gain as much information as he could. He'd still need some more info from the horse's mouth, though.]

Hello, do you mind me asking you a few questions? I'm looking from some people and I'm not really too sure about this place.

Scenario 2

[Subaki a perfect sense of direction: he wasn't worried about getting lost in some strange forest. Except, it seemed, that without a pegasus and a sky view it's difficult for him to regain his bearings. He winces as he looks around the forest, trying to find the sounds of the children.

Maybe he could at least help them out.]

I can hear you--you don't have to be afraid of me!

Scenario 4--Troll

[Subaki managed to hide himself for his first changes. He had seen the fog roll in, had felt the tension in his shoulders and back. He couldn't let anyone see him in such a state. In his stay he tried to keep up his perfect image. A perfect person wouldn't let themselves be changed in such a way. Which is why he took a bath to wash away the blood on his back and hands before allowing himself to be seen by others.

Shards of a pink crystal-like substance are jutting out of his upper back and shoulders. They glitter just slightly from the remaining moisture of his impromptu bath. His carefully trimmed nails are nothing more than stone-like claws. Even like this he tries to carry himself with dignity. Subaki was the retainer of royalty, after all!

That's when he sees the crowd of humans looking for someone to harass. This time, Subaki has a weapon. It's just a wooden staff that he fashioned himself but it's sturdy. He grips the weapon in both hands and gives hearty laugh.]

If you wish for a fight, I'll oblige you but it's not in my nature to let ruffians run free. I do hope you understand.

[Jake spends a lot of his time outside of the city; though he sleeps during the day like any good wendigo, he leads a very active nightlife. He also has to periodically pick herbs to tie to his horns, which is why he's out in the woods now instead of at the Shack or at his bowling alley.

Roland would probably say this is ka. Roland would probably say 'help me, I'm turning into a rose bush'. The point is, Jake would know that voice anywhere, and the moment he hears it he drops the sprigs of mint he'd managed to scrounge up and high-tails it out of the brush and toward the edge of the lake.]

EDDIE!

[ scenario one ]

[his eyes blink open suddenly. he has been jolted awake from... he doesn't know. a deep sleep? a dream? but the bed he's in doesn't feel like their old futon, and there are no other bodies beside him. he sits up in the creaky bed, looking around, and his fears are confirmed. he's not at home, and his brothers are nowhere in sight.

why is he wet? why is he all marked up? why does he feel awful? finally a doctor comes in, and Jyushimatsu tries to focus on his words, though everything that's happening right now is kind of a blur. usually, he wakes up from sleep refreshed and energetic! right now, he simply feels lost. and alone.

after about an hour, the doctor sends him on his way into Vandare so that he can get a look around. he's still not quite sure of what's happening, but it sounds like the locals do. they tell him that lots of people are brought to Ryslig this way, and to be careful because he's going to turn into a monster...? what? small books and pamphlets are shoved at him. "How To Deal With Changes." um.

he listens as patiently as he can for a while, but with them all talking loudly, and over one another, Jyushimatsu starts to lose his self-control] Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! [and then he's running off towards the water. maybe... maybe he can swim home! he's a really good swimmer! okay, this is a great idea. he sees the docks, and he's headed straight for them]

[ scenario three ]

[just when Jyushimatsu thinks he's starting to get used to Ryslig, that is when he starts feeling it creep in on him. what is it, exactly? he doesn't know, but it prickles his skin, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. his cheek twitches, and he has to stop swinging his bat for a moment.

he presses his palms to his eyes, hoping that will help him somehow, but it doesn't. that weird feeling is still there. and when he brings down his hands to look at them, something is... not quite right.

he can see the ground through them.

Jyushi reels back, terrified. that's... that's not supposed to happen! maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. right? right... he takes a few deep breaths, moving his hand to rest on the wall so that he can lean against it.

and he falls right through. he falls through the damn wall. in a comedic fashion, even. how is this possible?!]

[ scenario five ]

[wildcard? want to play baseball? hit me up!]

[--oh, no.]

Jotaro--

[He will never, he thinks, never ever tell Jotaro what happened. Not truly. Diavolo, that's what he'll say, and he'll leave out any mention of Jotaro whatsoever. It wasn't his fault-- truly it wasn't, Diavolo cornered Polnareff, trapped him neatly and easily, had drawn Jotaro away from his companion-- but he knows there's no way to say that to Jotaro without him drawing the wrong conclusions.

So he'll never know. They'll blame it all on Diavolo, and that's fine.]

It's all right. It really is, I promise you.

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TEST DRIVE : MAY 2016 EDITIOIN

QUESTIONS OR COMMENTS?

abigail hobbs | hannibal

Jean Pierre Polnareff | Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Part 5

une

Kouen Ren | Magi

abigail hobbs | hannibal

UNLUCKY FOUR | MISTA WARNED YOU BRO

Laurent ¤ The Captive Prince

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Eddie Dean | The Dark Tower

Damianos | Captive Prince

Yew Geneolgia | Bravely Second

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IV

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Subaki | Fire Emblem: Birthright

SLAMS IN HERE

Jyushimatsu Matsuno | Osomatsu-san

no subject