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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.
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.
--------------------
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."
no subject
"Why offer to aid me? To what purpose?" he demands, ever the probing interrogator, even in his shattered state. His vocal cords crackle and burn in protest. "You have me now, I have little choice. I am in no position to fend you off. String me along like dead weight, I do not care. Or you could leave me here to rot!"
He shoots a pointed look to the proffered hand without accepting it, and attempts to clamber his weakened self to two unsteady feet all on his own. It is an incredible thing, to see how easy it is to be fooled by Monsieur Aunamee-de-Mort's pristine disguise. This is not the black shrouded figure of death that dominated the stereotypes, but this one is equally unsettling.
no subject
He likes that.
"I'm here because you've been chosen," he says, making no move to help him. His posture is impeccable. "Very few people wake up in this world, Mr. Javert. Leaving you to rot on this beach would be akin to casting a diamond into the sewer."
no subject
And yet he speaks with such earnestness and conviction that Javert merely thinks Aunamee-de-Mort must be severely misled. Now successfully on his trembling feet, he looks down at his filthy, stained, sopping-wet self, then back to Aunamee.
"A lump of coal rather than a diamond," mutters Javert barely above a whisper. He raises his hoarse voice, insisting, "You are luring me with honey. That won't work on me. It is unneeded, and it is excessive. Simply tell me where you want to take me, and I will go. I will not fight."