TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

[ryslighelpers]

TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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 in a dark ditch, the sky cloudy overhead. Dirt cakes into your cuts and scrapes. The air is clammy and damp, and it smells like rain.

You’re in a grave. And when you sit up to inspect the tombstone marking your spot, it has your name on it. Maybe the graves next to you have the names of familiar friends, family, acquaintances. Not all of them are open like yours are. RIP.

There’s a light dancing in the distance, and you hear the jingle-jangle of heavy keys, or worse still, the gravekeeper’s massive pitchfork or shovel. If you're lucky, you can sneak out beyond his notice, and get out alone. If not - you might find yourself on the wrong end of a shovel’s swing, or worse yet, tripping headfirst in front of a pair of monstrous eyes.

SCENARIO TWO

You've stumbled your way out of the graveyard, and you're promptly besieged by the overwhelming sights and sounds of the city. Cars honk at you to get out of the street, and strangers try not to look in your direction for too long. They see your dirty clothes and scraped faces, and pretend to busy themselves with something else. Rarely, a look of pity is cast your way.

But some people try to reach out. Enterprising citizens and those that hope to curry favor with the newcomers pass out new clothes and bundles of food, asking if you have a place to stay the night, wondering about the details of the world you came from. Some are even handing out pamphlets which vary in how helpful they are--"What To Expect When You're Expecting (To Turn Into A Monster)", "Wolpertinger: Fact or Fiction?", "100% ACCURATE MONSTER QUIZ ASSESSMENT: GUARANTEED TO PREDICT YOUR MONSTER!", and "Ryslig Law In A Nutshell".

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? Does it fit you, or does it feel incongruous with your nature? Feel free to pick any monster type for this prompt, but note that you may not get the same one in game.

Comments

[goodolfashionedvillain]

[The resounding CLANG! of the shovel bouncing off the man's giant head startles Vicious back to reality. He takes a few steps back to give the grave keeper some room, furrowing his brow with a hint of a wince. That sounded like it hurt. Good.

Refocusing his vision, he looks beyond the agonizing creature and takes in a familiar form in the fog, eyes widening in dreadful realization.

She wasn't going to bury him alone in this place. She'd dropped Fearless unceremoniously into a hole to be forgotten, just the same as he. Which, considering the threat he'd made of leaving her alone with nothing but Fearless' head to keep her company, this really could have turned out much worse. Julia could have opted for poetic justice, the irony would have been delicious in a cosmic sort of way, but luckily Vicious' unlikely savior appears to be all in one piece.]

...Thanks.

[Spike looks worse than when he saw him last, the addition of mud to the blood spatters and bruises making him look like he just crawled out of some old horror flick. And now that Vicious is taking in the full picture of his surroundings, it really is starting to feel like one of the nightmares those very same movies would give him as a child.]


You look like shit.

[humblecowboy]

Yeah.

[Perhaps it's the shock of it all, or maybe the alcohol and the pain, but Spike can't immediately summon any anger or...

or anything. He feels hollow, in this moment.

And then the gravekeeper starts moving again.]

God—

[Spike swings again. And again. CLONG. CLONG.

CLONG.

For good measure. The grave keeper stops moving. Panting a little, Spike moves his hand to wipe his nose and gets back to responding.]

Yeah, you, you also look like shit.

[nonmagical]

[Mirabel doesn't even seem to notice that she's purring.]

We wouldn't, that's for sure. I can already hear Isabela... I guess they would just have to get used to it.

[goodolfashionedvillain]

[His eye twitches each time the shovel makes contact with the gravekeeper's head, the metallic clang somehow more unpleasant than witnessing the act itself. Honestly, he's seen worse. Hell, the two of them had done worse, together.

Aw, just like old times. Not that he's looking to reminisce.]

I think you got'im. Solid work.

[He rubs at his eyes again, the burning taking over once more as the feeling of impending danger starts to wear off. The half-hearted clapback even rolls off his shoulders, and would have been humorous if Vicious wasn't still so frustrated with the situation at hand. The whole debacle with his wife sits at the forefront of his mind, followed closely by the various physical discomforts he's experiencing. His mouth still tastes like blood and dirt, his entire body aches, it's not supposed to be this cold at this hour, and there's a knot in his stomach he's determined to attribute to hunger and absolutely nothing else. He's trying to muster the energy to be furious that Fearless Spike has the audacity to even be standing before him like this, but whatever flame that burned in it's righteous fury before seems to have been smothered by grave soil. For now.]

What the fuck is going on? [There's no way they've ended up in hell, together. Though, maybe that's the poetic justice he was looking for.]

Where has she taken us? A graveyard? Really? Jesus, you'd think she was gonna bury us, she would've at least checked a pulse, first.

[humblecowboy]

What— she's behind this?

That doesn't make any sense.

[As much as Spike would also like to be mad, there are more pressing matters at hand. Without asking for Vicious's help, he swats at Vicious in a gesture to get him out of the way, and then starts trying to shove the gravekeeper's massive body into the hole behind him.]

I wasn't anywhere near here— or you, or her, or anyone— before... before I passed out, I guess.

[He pauses in his efforts to pant a little in pain and exhaustion, looking around at the graveyard again.]

And where the [huff, huff] where the hell is this anyway?

[He can't stop thinking about those sounds. What the hell is that?]

[goodolfashionedvillain]

Well, I assume. Can't imagine why else I'd wake up in this.

[Gesturing at the grave, and only just now realizing that the tombstone does, in fact, have his name on it. He squints, frowns, but otherwise chooses to continue on, only to be swatted at in a frustratingly familiar manner.

Jeez, fine, he'll move.

Vicious rounds the grave to the other side, keeping distance between them. The thought that Spike might decide to push him in next seems feasible enough; it's not like he's forgotten what their last interaction entailed. He rubs at his upper arms, huffing into the frigid air, watching the other man struggle to shove the monstrous man into the pit.

He'd offer to assist, but he learned a long time ago not to even bother asking if Spike needed help without his explicit indication. That particular point of contention didn't make much sense to Vicious, but it's much easier to just sit by and watch than to get his head bitten off.]

I'm sorry-- hold on. What do you mean you weren't-- [He tilts his head with an incredulous glare.] You survived that drop?

[humblecowboy]

[Whatever lead they have is considered good enough for Spike; they'll have to figure out what they do past the gate once they get there, but for now the focus is on running. Spike checks behind them as the gravekeeper finally pulls himself to his feet; he's at least slowed down, though he does get up to start following again.

But as the two approach the gate, Spike just a few paces behind Norman, the gravekeeper seems to get frustrated and slow to a stop, yelling useless obscenities at them again. Past the gates of the cemetery, Spike reaches out to tap Norman's arm with his knuckles to get his attention and—]

To the right!

[— direct him further away, so that they can get far enough to breathe and regroup.]

cw: emetophobia

[humblecowboy]

Do I look dead to you?

[He's really beginning to wonder when the fuck this ride gets to end.

He continues shoving the guy into the grave, and when he manages to push the guy over, the strain overwhelms Spike with a sense of nausea. It's a quick, fluid motion, but Spike bends himself over that grave too and, well, loses the alcohol he'd pumped in his body before they'd gotten here. He's been doing too much for too long now to just carry on with that alcohol in his body and not expect anything to happen.

Which is a weird detail he's going to have to ignore for now. How would he still be so drunk and yet have had the time for Julia— or anyone— to halfway bury him? And why are the wounds in his shoulders still so fresh?]

Fucking shit.

[goodolfashionedvillain]

Well, yes, actually. Positively grotesque, if I'm being honest--

[Spike's sudden alcoholic upheaval catches him off guard, having Vicious turning his head-- closely followed by his whole body-- to avoid having to witness whatever else comes out of him. It's not that he necessarily has a sympathetic stomach or anything, but he's pretty sure nothing would come out even if he did.

Yuck.]

Christ. Are you alr-- [No, he doesn't care if he's alright, dammit. He clears his throat, glancing back over his shoulder, knuckles curled against his lips.] --done?

[humblecowboy]

[Though Spike just kind of teeters over the edge for a moment, he eventually lifts his hand to gesture to Vici— oh, oh, no, he's flipping Vicious the bird, is what he's doing.

He sits back on his knees, then, looking up at the sky, and taking in a deep breath.]

God, I wish I was dead.

[He's not that lucky, however.]

This isn't you? You're not connected to this at all?

[alexandercityborn]

And how are we to know that's not like... Part of the afterlife?

[Nonetheless, he's pulling himself upright, soil falling off him. He's not going to get to just... Accept his fate, is he?]

It's... Fine. [It's not.] Should stop soon. Hopefully.

[He jerks his head at the other's grave.]

What got you in there?

[Is asking someone how they 'died' rude? Maybe. Worse when they weren't even dead, as much as Aaron seems to believe he is.]

[alexandercityborn]

[Concern knits his brow. Most of the people you met who'd been taken by this Fog thing here were... Upset, but not like this. This was something a lot more pronounced, and it wasn't hard to see that it was connected to when he states what little he knows about the Fog.]

H-hey. It can't be true, right?

[But even as he says it he knows he's just reaching for falsehoods to try and make things feel better.]

Apparently we can't get out of here, but... Maybe there's something they're all just missing. Gotta be.

[Right?]

Aaron Wojciecowski. About... God, a week?

[goodolfashionedvillain]

Join the club. [The reply lacks ire, however, making it unclear as to whether he's concurring with Spike or ruminating upon his own demise.]

[Vicious turns to face him again, jaw set half open, hands moving to his hips as he glares daggers across the mouth of the grave. His head tilts slowly in complete and utter disbelief. Does Spike even have eyes?]

Oh, yes, Spike, you caught me. [Ah, there's the ire. He spits the name, sneering and rolling his eyes as he crosses his arms once again. The human embodiment of indignation.]

I'm the mastermind. Teamed up with George Fucking Romero for the whole production! Just thought I'd roll around in mud and gore while I waited on you to wake up. Thought it'd be a nice fucking touch--

[humblecowboy]

[Spike simply drops his arms in a wide W, questioning;]

Who the fuck is George Romero?

[goodolfashionedvillain]

Why do I bother-- No, you imbecile, I have nothing to do with this.

[He sucks in a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, mouth drawn in a straight line. How could he have forgotten what an idiot you are, Spike? It's one of your defining features! Yes, he remembers that you didn't get to watch movies growing up, but damn you'd think you would have internalized at least one of his horror film infodumps--]

It has to be Julia. [Her name is sour on his tongue. She will pay for this.]

Who else would have that just, on hand? They're not cheap. [Again, gesturing to his headstone.]

Did yours have one, as well?

[humblecowboy]

[Spike stares at the headstone, taking it in; he hadn't bothered looking. He didn't even check.

He can't tell Vicious that.]

Yeah. Forgot about that.

Well, it was a shit plan, then.

[He starts to push himself to his feet, and once he's back upright, he starts walking toward Vicious.

..And past him. Just kind of limping off toward the graveyard gate.]

I'm getting out of here.

[No reason to stick around, no reason to subject each other to their own presences....]

[goodolfashionedvillain]

Honestly. Like I said--

[He opens his mouth to continue, but closes it abruptly once Spike starts towards him. His brows raise more the closer he gets, bewildered by his approach-- up until he realizes that there's no reason for his concern. Spike is just on his way... elsewhere?]

To where? We don't even know where we are-- [And the distance between them begins to grow again, Vicious remaining firmly in place as he watches the other man limp away. Fine for him, it's not like he needs Spike to figure out why they're here. If Julia is behind this, it's his own battle to fight, after all. He'll get to the bottom of this on his own.]

Asshole.

[Another roll of his eyes, and Vicious turns his back to him, peering down into the pit with a frown. The mass at the bottom of the hole is stirring, somehow, and Vicious isn't interested in sticking around to figure out why or how that could be possible. Nothing human would have been able to survive that kind of head trauma.

He turns on his heels and starts after Spike, his stride just slightly less pathetic than his former partner's, but still making it more difficult to catch up than he would be proud of admitting.]

Wherever we're going, I'd suggest we go faster? Perhaps?

[humblecowboy]

[Spike ignores Vicious at first, hands shoved in his pockets, not even bothering roll his eyes. Like an angry cat, he lets the vibe of annoyance and guilt bleed from the hunch of his shoulders rather than from his mouth.

The last thing Vicious says gets him to at least turn his head, and he does so in feigned shock.]

We? Oh, so it's we now?

[goodolfashionedvillain]

Oh, spare me.

[Yes, yes, he gets it, Spike hates him, he ruined his life, etc. Whatever. They're both at fault here and he will die on that hill. What he won't do, though, is die in this graveyard. Sorry Spike, but his natural inclination is still to at least warn you, whether or not you'll appreciate it or even bother to heed the warning. It's not his problem, after all...

Vicious tosses his head to glance behind them, noting the giant hands clawing at the mouth of his grave, the creature's head already coming into view. Shit.

Finally reaching him, he places a hand between Spike's shoulder blades and pushes as he walks, hopefully to encourage him to pick up the pace.]

If you want to fall behind and get mauled by the Undertaker, by all means, be my guest. If you don't, however, I'd suggest picking your feet up. We've got company.

[humblecowboy]

[Spike opens his mouth as if to protest when Vicious touches his back, but— but then he hears, and looks back over his shoulder with his mouth agape.

Not again. Not this shit. Not this clown-motherfucker shit!

Spike's pace does pick up, and he looks at Vicious with raised brows and shoulders and a— right, actually, Vicious is running from this too. It connects that Vicious probably can't answer him even if he were to question.

One more look over his shoulder and Spike also reaches out to hurry Vicious, tapping at Vicious's arm as he begins to break out in a somewhat panicked jog. He looks not at Vicious now but at the gate ahead of them, eyes widening with alarm.]

[goodolfashionedvillain]

[Yeah, Spike, it's probably a good idea if you save questions for later.

Really, though, Vicious was just kidding about the Romero thing! He didn't think they were actually going to be living some Night of the Living Dead bullshit today!

He doesn't need visual confirmation from behind to know they were less than a hundred feet from fucked. Spike has actually started limp-jogging and the look on his face tells Vicious all he needs to know. Instinct tells him to stay behind Spike, to cover his back if the bellowing bastard behind them gets too close. One of them is more injured than the other, and honestly he wouldn't feel right letting Spike die under these circumstances. That particular privilege belongs to Vicious and Vicious alone, after all.

The gate is getting closer, but the thundering footsteps behind them are, too.]

Go, go, go--!

[certaininequities]

"HEY."

A rock hits the gravedigger in the head from somewhere off in the darkness, and the gargantuan form staggers.

In the interim, a slightly gravelly voice calls out: "Well, you gonna just sit in there, or move it? He doesn't stay down long!"

[humblecowboy]

[Spike starts booking it as best he can, eyes forward, hand clutching in Vicious's sleeve as if to drag him instinctively. The same way he fell in line with Jet, the same way Fearless fell in line with Vicious. Getting out of here is much more important than their little arguments, more important than the guilt that's been churning Spike's stomach.

He pushes past the pain, pushing into that stride. They have to get away from whatever the fuck this guy is, and they have to do it now, have to get past that gate and see the world beyond the fog.

Lights diffuse in the fog in the distance, and he keeps his eyes on them like they're a lighthouse.

Their legs cross the gate like a finish line, and Spike takes in a deep breath of damp air, and the world begins to clear up further.

The city they are running into is not Tharsis. It is not any city on Mars. The streets are paved in a way Spike doesn't recognize, and plants shoot up between the cracks in the road beneath their feet.]

[goodolfashionedvillain]

Good shot.

The gravedigger grips it's head in agony, dropping the pitchfork in the process. Vicious lunges forward to grab the weapon, grunting with the surprising weight of the massive farming tool just as the voice in the darkness shouts out again. The callout grabs his attention, head whipping towards the sound of that unfamiliar voice.

When half a second's surveillance produces no indication of his supposed ally, he frowns, refocusing on the lumbering creature before him. It's do or die, it seems, and while he isn't usually a proponent of civilian murder, he's operating under the assumption that there's a very good chance this giant man-thing was hired to put him in the ground. Unfortunately for the undertaker, Vicious doesn't have any interest in getting back in that hole, or letting any information regarding his escape get back to it's employer.

Silently thanking his invisible helper, he waits for an opening before thrusting the pitchfork into the grave keeper's stomach, pushing it back, back, back into another open and (hopefully) empty grave. The pitchfork goes with the undertaker into the hole, nearly dragging Vicious along with it before he decides, screw it, he shouldn't need that anymore anyway.

Content with his work, he wipes his hands on his pants before pushing the hair out of his face and wiping the sweat from his brow. Turning back to face the area he'd heard the voice from moments ago, he calls into the darkness:

"Who's there?"

[nearamir]

[Science means something a little different to Faramir than it does to Norman - the images it brings to mind are of parchment and vellum rather than glassware and laboratories - but the thought behind what the older man is saying? That, he can grasp. Science and learning can so easily be tools of despair - so he has seen in his father, as the years of study turn to bitter obsession, and so he has found in himself - but it is something to remember, that core of hope.]

[He nods, and a faint smile touches his lips for a moment.]

I have no money for beer, least of all money that will be taken in this land. But I would make such a toast gladly.

And I thank you. You have raised my spirits a little. We will seek our answers together, you and I.