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graveyardsmash2019-09-13 09:05 am
ryslighelpers) wrote in graveyardsmash2019-09-13 09:05 am
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TEST DRIVE MEME: SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER
Welcome to the Ryslig Test Drive Meme! Below are a few prompts to get you started, but you may make up any prompt you desire! Please take a look at the navigation page for rules, setting information, and links to reserves and apps. Have fun!
SCENARIO ONE
You wake up on the beach thoroughly drenched, with your mouth full of sand. The salt water is making all the cuts and scrapes on your skin sting and the sand isn't helping. The air is slightly humid, ruining any feeling of refreshment you might have gotten from your dip in the ocean.
There are lights in the distance, but the unfriendly scent of gunpowder fills the air. If you're lucky, you're alone. If not - you might find yourself staring up into a pair of monstrous eyes or down the barrel of a local's shotgun.
SCENARIO TWO
So you've just arrived, and already some of the natives are trying to get on your good side with 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 on the more informative end of the scale. 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 readers saying they're lies, or pointing out good "jokes."
Then there are 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 THREE
"Seek us out," the voice whispers in your head, and before you have time to question it you've found yourself in someplace entirely alien.
Maybe it's the Fog God's ghostly town of Dyster, where exultant followers dance around bonfires and sing their praises to the skies above. Maybe it's the Fourth God's arcade, with small robots wheeling about amidst the lights and colors of old pinball machines.
Only one thing is certain: you are not alone, in this sacred place.
SCENARIO FOUR
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? Feel free to pick any monster type for this prompt, but note that you may not get the same one in game.
Javert | Les Misérables (Novel) | OTA
Javert never made it to Hell. He never made it to Heaven, either. That was unsurprising.
Instead he lay prostrate in the sand, his whole body throbbing and marred with blacks and blues and horrific marks. This? Indubitably shocking. He spluttered and vomited mouthfuls of sand and brackish water. Oxygen was like acid to reinvigorated lungs. Opening his eyes to the sun blinded him, so his head and eyes lolled uselessly and shamefully shut. He found he could hardly lift his leaden head up on his shoulders.
Javert's body was broken. His reeling mind fared little better.
"I've washed up!" A universe of pain in his whispered, gasping cry. Javert did not recognize his own voice. His throat was ravaged. He still tasted raw Seine waters on the tongue.
But how and where had he washed up? If he were in a more lucid state, he might have dimly noticed that it was not a riverbed that he had come to, but the sea. And this land looked markedly different than anywhere he had been in France.
Yet Javert did not get much further than taking those first few precious breaths. Soon enough, he heard the decisive click of a cocked gun, and he raised his eyes to find a barrel leveled straight to his temple.
[two]
The stares did not bother him. Javert was accustomed to living outside the pale of society, as grim, severe, and unsociable as he was. Unrelenting and strict police officers did not enjoy the luxury of pleasant company or open-armed acceptance. The stares were nothing.
The leaflets were a different story.
“What to Expect When You’re Expecting (To Turn Into A Monster). Dancing with Werewolves in the Moonlight: A How-To Guide from a Vegan Wolf Friend. Alternatives to Daily Consumption of Human Flesh,” Javert intoned dully and rapidly. He grimaced deeply, his eyes tracing over each of the words with growing irritation.
“What garbage is this? Some occultist manifestos? Utter nonsense.”
two
A short, shiny feathered harpy is peering at him.
"Welcome to Ryslig and I'm sorry."
no subject
He nearly got whiplash from the double take. He lanced the harpy with one of his sharp, lancet glares. His booted feet were rooted to the dirt beneath him. The papers did not tremble in his hand, so that was at least one stroke in favor of him; aside from his unabashed scrutiny, he showed no fear, only surprise.
Javert gathered himself and raised his chin.
"So. You," he said through his teeth. "You are my intended usher, then? Not what I imagined, but I suppose any demon suits."
no subject
Butters startled slightly, almost as if Javert had literally lanced him. But he recovered, sticking his chin out.
"I'm not responsible for you being here. But I regret that it's happened. I'm not intended to be anything but I like to help out. I'm with the clinic."
He says these words as if he's working down a list of things to mention.
"Also this isn't hell. At least not an official hell."
no subject
"Why would being here merit an apology? You said you were not responsible," said Javert silkily. He perceived that this feathered thing was little danger to him, and the tightness in his jaw began to settle. "I will take none of your apologies. But if you want to be useful, rather, then tell me the way to this clinic of yours."
no subject
"I'm Doctor Waldo Butters and it's [directions]." He jerks a thumb in the correct direction. "Do you- do you need the clinic at the moment?"
no subject
"It strikes me there are a few things I could use from a clinic," conceded Javert slowly. A glug of laudanum for his ills, both internal and external, would be a nice start. Perhaps it would induce a dead, dreamless sleep, and if he were terribly lucky he would remain thoroughly asleep.
"Will I find men at this clinic? Or more of you?"
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one
There's nothing outwardly monstrous about the man who approaches Javert and his would-be-murderer. He has a normal build. A normal voice. But there is something strange about him, an uncanny quality that manifests in his overly smooth movements, his nonchalant tone, his peculiar fashion sense. Pristine, white fabric covers every inch of his body. A helm made from shattered glass obscures his face.
He raises his hands in surrender.
(A knife is cradled between his thumb and his palm, clearly visible. Clearly a threat.)
"Will you lower the gun, dear stranger?" He steps forward. Once. Then twice. "Or will you put down that poor man like a sickly dog?"
no subject
"Bringing a knife to a gunfight?" He spat his tobacco at the pathetic heap in the sand, where it gracelessly spattered on Javert's heavily-whiskered and scratched up cheek. "Don't give me your lies. That ain't a man, stranger. And it's both of you's that are tresspassing on my beach. What's an old grandfather gotta do about something like that but clean up the trash?"
He shoved and prodded at the side of Javert's head with the barrel, examining him closely. Javert, all the while, was little better than a limp noodle. He volunteered no fight, and focused solely on his rasping breath. He had no fight left in him, and though his pupils darted between the old man and the white-garbed figure, he understood nothing of the exchange occurring in front of his bloodshot, bleary eyes.
"Give me one good reason why I should let the two of you walk."
no subject
He smiles as he says the words, savoring the way they feel inside his mouth. Without lowering his hands, he begins to remove one of his gloves. Underneath the clean, white fabric, his hands are clean, white bone.
"I appreciate the phrase, dear stranger, but I'm afraid you don't know what it means. Look at the way you spit."
The derision in that word is so caustic, so abrupt, that it sounds like vulgarity in his otherwise smiling voice.
His attention shifts to Javert, his voice softening into something that almost sounds sweet.
"What's your name, dear stranger?"
no subject
And with a muttered, gasping curse, he lifts his shotgun and steps back. And back. And back. Until he feels that he is a safe enough distance away to turn tail and duck out of sight. It can be said that as he scrambled away, he cursed all the while about 'goddamn Lichs' and how he swears he will conduct that sting operation to blow up every fuckin' phylactery he can dig up.
For now, though, he retreats to his porch. A porch which happens to be a part of a prime beachfront property mere meters away, with a porch in full view of the two monsters on the sand. Clint Eastwood scrabbles inside of the screen door, puts on about 3 layers of body armor, then flips off all the lights and lies in silent wait. This won't be the last of ol' grandpa E'Wood, he mutters hatefully to himself, stroking the shotgun like a beloved pet cat. I've got my eyes on you.
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With the gun now safely far away from his brains, a very miserable Javert rubs the wad of chewed tobacco off his cheek. He is already surrounded with his own filth and vomit, what did it matter if someone else added their mess to the pile? His eyes remain on the white stranger at his side as he rolls laboriously onto his hands and knees. A mouthful of the sewage and sand heave out of his bone-dry mouth. Very elegant.
"Javert," he says weakly. He coughs and hacks, and another mound of unidentifiable filth works its way out of his gut. Stronger, then, as he forces his voice to cooperate, "I am Javert. And you..." He allows that to hang in the air, his eyes snaking their way to the stranger's exposed bone.
Death.
That is his only internal explanation. That is who this stranger must be. For who else would come to collect him after a dive into strongest rapids of the Seine? Nothing else made sense, but then again, he could not be certain that he was not experiencing a delusion or a hallucination, either.
no subject
But he can wait. He's a patient man.
"My name is Aunamee," he says, slipping the glove back onto his skeletal hand. He moves like an actor, or perhaps a magician, every movement deliberate and rehearsed. Perfectionism has shaved the edges off his gestures.
He offers his hand to the other man. With the glove on it, it looks remarkably whole.
"We should get moving, Mr. Javert. You're not safe on this beach."
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Two!
Obvious enough that someone questioning it couldn't Possibly be happening. Obviously the question is for something else.
Looking utterly alien with her half mechanical wings and violet, glow-freckled skin, Reira speaks at first from almost behind the man. She sounds no different than any other local child there- perhaps just a little bit of an accent difference that can't be picked up on, but nothing more. She's practically grown up here after all.
"Mnngg...Yeah," the girl determines, dressed far odder than the locals around them. "...Werewolves have to eat meat. They definitely can't not do that."
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He turns to greet the girl and what he finds there makes a cold, consternated sweat crop up on his brow.
"Another?" cries Javert thunderously. He is never one to have much of a filter on his ruder opinions. "Why is it that none of the men dare to approach me, but all manner of beasts and feathered things come round for a taste?"
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She eats energy! But that is far from the point. She can probably answer the men bit. "The people who live here don't like anyone new, since everyone new turns into a monster after a while- so they're all scared." Perhaps Javery already figured that part out. Perhaps not.
Reira doesn't especially care, instead asking- "Why would anyone offer a wolf a carrot?"
(She's yet to realize that that was the entire point of the analogy)
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He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut as if he wishes to banish the sights and sounds around him by sheer force of will. Of course, it does not work. When he relaxes his jaw and allows his eyes to slide back open, the inhuman girl-child is still there.
"Clearly the people lack in courage. I may look different than they do, but I am surely a man."
no subject
It's about that point that she realizes Javert was talking about the carrot. They can definitely agree on that then.
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i had to look up when coin-op laundromats were invented but it was worth it-
I go into innumerable google search holes, I get it ;)
they're so good....but also they are quicksand...
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we can end it here, and good thing too -stares at upcoming arrivals-
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The voice flies over Javert's head, accompanied by the shadow of possibly the largest bird he's ever going to see... or something else. And it's followed by a hard thoomp muffled into the sand, signalling something landing from a good height.
The barrel of the shotgun quivers and raises away from Javert's head, undecided at what to aim for, until it chooses the empty sky.
"Yeah, that's right. Just listen to me and get lost, okay?"
The local does immediately make themselves scarce, kicking up sand in their wake, which just leaves Javert and the woman who seemed to have found him there.
A woman who was... harrier than he may be used to, or they may have been some kind of fur sleeves that went up her arms and under a shirt. The fur went up to her neck, and then mingled with her hair, as well as feathers. Which probably explained the set of two, large wings expanding behind her.
no subject
It is a futile motion, but he at least attempts to mop his face up with a trembling, sopping arm. Ridiculous. There is no dignity here, on this beach.
"I am deranged."
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Dryly, the 'woman-beast' pulls Javert by his shoulders further up the beach, at least into the dry sand. Moving a grown many is not terribly difficult when you're a monster with enhanced strength, and Cassandra was strong before.
"Don't worry about the guy with the gun, the locals get antsy whenever anyone new shows up." She rubs a temple, her own, of course. "Ugh, this is probably how the talks went with me, wasn't it?"
two!
Totally contrary to the opinions of the rest of the monsters to cross his path? Damn straight. But when has Lup ever run with the crowd?
The naga woman slithers up to the man's tall side, her twenty-some foot tail twisting at his feet, her scales brightly colored in a vibrant splash of yellows, reds, and oranges, all bristling and pointed, not the smooth, sleek look of some other snakes. Bright eyes dance across his unrelenting form, taking in the tone of his body language, before she's behind him and peering over his shoulder at the pamphlets in hand.
"You'll get way better info straight from the source, natch. Not from all this garbo."
no subject
He trails her with his own cobra stare, jaw set and and shoulders squared. He feels no fear, for what was a man to fear from monsters if death did not rattle him? And besides, the only monsters that have aggressed against him thus far were the savages with the torches and guns; none of the so-called beasts have lifted a finger against him.
"The primary source being myself," he observes flatly, obliging her by simply tearing up the leaflets into neat strips. "So you, along with the rest, were Woman and Man once. That makes the lot of you convinced that I am next. Is that how I am to understand it?"
no subject
The leaflet gets torn into pieces and her mouth twists into a too-sharp grin, fangs flashing before the woman slips around to Javert's front, hands dropping to rest at where her hips would be if she still had them, resting at her bright scaly side instead.
"Excuse you, thug? I am a woman, thanks, that sure as heck hasn't changed." Losing her legs and gaining a few hundred scales sure hasn't taken that from her. Though Lup more or less gets what the stranger is trying to say.
"But for your info, I never was a human. I was an elf before I went all on snake. The rest of it seems right on point though. You're deffo next."
CW: suicide....mentions
That set him to thinking very dark thoughts. Very dark... ones he might have considered impossible, if he had not seen what he had seen and ended up where he had ended up: in an uncharted, unmapped place, with people and technology and creatures he never knew existed, after he had chosen to die in what he thought was an unsinkable method.
"Well," said Javert. "Well, well, well.... say I take that as the truth, you being the fourth to tell me this. Say I have been mauled by a werewolf-or-something. The only thing to be done is to stop the changes from occurring in the first place."
yum
It's why in cycle eighty-three she'd had no issue throwing herself off of the deck of their flying ship, just to crash broken and shattered on the ground. Suicide is a valid option Javert, Lup gets it.
Which is exactly why she picks up on the implication of his words, and instead of shrinking away, her grin turns wicked. Naughty naughty, Javert.
"Hate to break it to you, boyo, but folks who kick the bucket here just come right on back. Trust me. Been there, done that. Ain't so pleasant, but it's what it is. There's no avoidin' whatever-the-fuck it is you're turning into. Just gotta man up and take it."