graveyardsmash | TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Jean's head snaps up at the order—and, make no mistake, it is an order. He's trained to respond to that tone from this man, ready to spring into action at the slightest hint of direction. It's not the most significant sway Harry has over him, but it's certainly the most base. Still: just because his instincts point him there, he doesn't need to go. If anything, it only makes him more irritated.]

What the hell are you talking about? If you've got a good reason—I doubt it—by all means, let me know. In the meantime, I'm radioing this in, shitkid. Someone has to pick up the slack.

[Never mind that he has no way of easily doing so. Kitsuragi being around hopefully means the Kineema is too, but in the very least, he can find a public telephone and dial in manually like some kind of civilian. Harry's his superior officer, certainly, and he will defer to that if pressed, but he doesn't expect to be pressed at all. As far as he's concerned, he's navigated this to position himself nicely in a place of moral authority (not always a given with him).]

Where's the motor carriage? Did it turn up in the trash with you and the lieutenant?

[He's already mentally rehearsing his words, how exactly he wants to pose this to the precinct. It's perhaps the most unusual situation he's had to deal with in his time, which is saying a lot—between the Next World Mural, the whole Unsolvable business, and most recently the Case of the Amnesiac Partner, sub-header the Hanged Man or whatever. The hanged man part was mostly accessory to the rest, as far as Jean is concerned.]

“There’s no fucking motor carriage. No contact with any station. You think I’ve been doing jackshit for two months? Don’t- don’t fucking answer that. Fuck you.”

Harry exhales heavily and runs both hands through his hair, longer now with two months growth, he pulls on his mane, trying to get his head to be a little more quiet and a lot less bitey.

EMPATHY - (You can’t ask Jean for his trust. Not anymore. But you can’t just leave him here to get eaten by some guy.)

SUGGESTION - (He's not going to listen to you. Why are you wasting your time with this? Sing him a little song and drag his ass home.)

LOGIC - (You don’t know if it works like that. You don’t know how any of this works.)

“…I’m trying to go easy on you. There’s more I need to say, a lot more I don’t know how to and this place isn’t a good place for any of it…just, c’mon? You can get cleaned up at the flat. This place is weird as shit, I want to go inside.”

He gestures down the path he came from, rooting around in his pocket for a squashed pack of cigarettes. He carefully offers Jean one, like he’s luring a feral cat indoors with some chicken. Psp. Psp. Psp. Jean-Jean, it's your favorite! Nicotine! Maybe he’s even got some benzos left in his hidey holes so you can chill out for like five seconds and read a pamphlet about monsters.

You're trying to go easy on me?

[Jean grits his teeth in his approximation of a smile, trying to take deep enough breaths to calm down and mostly failing due to the prevailing feeling of pressure on his chest. He still feels half buried. There's too much going on, and he has none of the information he wants, largely because he doesn't know what he wants, and he's lost months of his life, and—

Oh, he's going to have a panic attack. That's what this is.

It's inconvenient as all hell. He has better shit to be doing, but here he is, trying not to wheeze himself to death in the middle of a graveyard. He awkwardly drops to a squat, hands on the back of his neck, focusing in on the part of him that wants to be productive. He would very much like to be normal, here. He hates not being the normal one.]

Fuck you.

[After a few moments, he silently, plaintively reaches up for a cigarette.]

TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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