September 2022 Test Drive Meme

[folkie]

SEPTEMBER 2022 TDM

INTRODUCTION

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Welcome to Folkmore's monthly Test Drive Meme! Please feel free to test drive any and all characters regardless of your intent to apply or whether you have an invite or not.

All TDMs are game canon. You can choose to have your TDM thread be your introduction thread upon acceptance or start fresh. Each TDM will provide a scenario for how characters arrive in-game that particular month.

Playing TDMs will allow characters to immediately obtain canon items from homes especially weapons or other things they may have had on their person when they were pulled from their worlds! There will always be a prompt that provides some sort of "reward" to characters who complete certain tasks.

Current players are allowed to have in-game characters react to TDMs via the Network or make a log with the prompts. Current players are always encouraged to tag new people on the TDM!

TDM threads can be used for spoon spending at any time by characters accepted into the game.

[ Prompt One ★ Prompt Two]

GOLD WAS THE COLOUR

Content Warnings: mood-altering substances.

What a Wonderful Harvest

It's harvest season in Folkmore. Apples, squash, potatoes, onions, peaches, sweet corn... all manner of crops are ready to be gathered, and golden fields fall willingly before the scythe. The air has a chill to it that you can mostly ignore in the sun but runs deep when you stand in the shadows.

After arrival you will find yourself out in said fields, maybe a little disoriented but not in any danger. It's peaceful.

In the farmlands you might be able to hear music floating on the wind. Follow it, or just wander by accident, and you'll find yourself coming upon what looks like some kind of costume party: people dressed up in cloth and vegetables - mostly gourds as masks - are singing and dancing around an enormous pole surmounted by the biggest Jack-O-Lantern you've ever seen.

The pumpkin people seem shy, but they won't turn you away if you wish to join their celebration - there are other Star Children like yourself here, and you might feel a little more comfortable with them. At least you can see their real faces. You can drink some apple cider and carve some pumpkins yourself if you like, or help out by husking some corn.

At some point, you will become aware of the fact that the dancers have stopped, and the object they've been dancing around has moved. The Jack-O-Lantern is looking at you.

The pumpkin king leans down, eternally smiling.

"Trick or treat?" he asks you in a deep voice. You'll have to pick one!

"TRICK."

The partygoers all watch you carefully. The lord of the harvest appears to think for a moment, then nods his massive head. One of the veggie dancers approaches you with a tray upon which are five cups of cider.

"Pick your poison," you're told, and you can only hope it's not literal!

Four of the cups of cider will have no effect whatsoever. But the fifth?

That fifth cup of cider makes you feel more social. Less reserved. Downright friendly, even. You want to talk and joke with people even if that isn't normally something you'd do. You might even join the vegetable dancers for a spin, and drag someone else along with you! Your judgment isn't quite impaired, but your inhibitions are definitely lowered. Might be a quick way to make some new friends, though!

"TREAT."

You are offered a large basket, held so that you cannot see inside. After some fumbling, you pull something out. What is it? It's an envelope. Or a cassette tape. Or a photograph. It might be the mixed tape you created for your high school crush, the poem you wrote about your broken heart, the letter you never mailed to your estranged father. It's something personal that is connected to someone from home somehow. As you hold it in your hands, you will feel an irresistible urge to explain it to the person next to you no matter how embarrassing or painful it might be. You can only hope that they aren't a colossal dick about it.

HELL WAS THE JOURNEY

Content Warnings: aggressive dogs, decapitated spectres, potential violence.

GET AHEAD

The sun sets earlier and earlier every day, but that doesn't mean there's suddenly nothing to do! The warm lights of homes all over Folkmore welcome people inside for parties. Of course, the Spirit People of Folkmore are rarely humanoid, so you may find yourself at a dance for frogs or a cocktail party for round fuzzy critters with giant eyes. Regardless of what kind of creatures you wind up partying with, they are excellent hosts!

When food has been had and drinks are flowing, someone suggests a time honoured tradition: the telling of ghost stories.

The guests take turns, spinning tales both familiar and not. One such tale is that of the Horseman and his Hounds.

This, the storyteller insists, is a true tale, and is as follows:

Folkmore is home to many Spirit People, and many other creatures besides. While most of these wish only to live their lives, there are certain powers that Thirteen leaves to their own devices, no doubt for reasons all her own. When the autumn harvests come and the leaves burn with colour and fall to the ground, the dominant spirit of lonely places is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. Some versions of the story claim the horseman's head is carried before him on the pommel of his saddle, while others say instead the spirit carries a lit Jack-O-Lantern in place of it... and wishes to find a more suitable replacement. No matter the variation, the rest of the legend is the same: in autumn, on lonely roads, unlucky travelers will hear the baying of hounds. Moments later they will see the Horseman upon his stallion, and then the unholy troop will pursue the hapless travelers across hill and valley.

Some tales are told of Star Children fighting off the spectral hounds and challenging the Horseman to a fight, with varying levels of success. All are in agreement, however, that the sure method of survival is to escape over running water. Easy enough in some parts of Folkmore... less so if you happen to be caught out in the desert of Cruel Summer.

All parties must end, and this one does too, which means you now have to make your way home. Not that you're scared or anything, but maybe it's wise to walk with someone else tonight...

Not that it matters. Ultimately you and your companion will find yourself on a lonely stretch of road somewhere, and just as you've managed to convince yourselves that nothing out of the ordinary is going to happen you hear it.

The Hounds.

Turn and you'll see them, dark and sleek, and beyond them their infernal master. Atop a gleaming black stallion, the Horseman is gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak.

Whether you run or stand and fight is entirely up to you. As if to make it more of a fair fight, there are weapons hidden off the road - stumble into a ditch and you might find a rifle or a sword. The Hounds have very sharp teeth but they themselves cannot be injured - if struck they simply turn to black smoke and vanish. The Horseman cannot be killed - he has no head! - but if you fight him to a standstill he will reward you with the gift of something from your homeworld. This can be a weapon or magical item.

If you manage to cross a stream or a river, the spectres will vanish with howling and laughter.

ODDS BODKINS

You're likely to be shaken up after your encounter, so it's relief when you see that there's a bonfire lit not far past the water you've crossed. Perched all around it are a bunch of different owls, many wearing hats. They all swivel their heads to look at you before they hoot and gesture for you to come near. There, set up to one side of the bonfire, is a long low table laden with drinks in many different colours and little cakes and cookies. You always thought owls ate mice, but whooo's to say? Hoo? Get it? On another low table are supplies for patching people up in case your fight with the Horseman got a little intense! The owls don't have hands, but maybe there's a kind stranger nearby who'd be willing to help you? Or maybe you just want to talk to someone who has their head on right!

Comments

Treats are for Humans </3

[no_harm]

There was that scent on the wind again -- undeniable. Another one of them was nearby, Rhys could sense it. He'd given Hayan a pass, knowing her situation, but not every vampire was Hayan. No, that much was common sense -- most would not be like her, not at all. Not when she hunted them. Not when there were those more like Milo, who saw themselves as entitled to their "hunt" of mortals.

Rhys' nose wrinkled. There. The tall man by the taller Harvest King. The dhampir slid onto a nearby bench, watching the figure's back with narrowed eyes as he waited, trying not to draw attention. He would wait; he would watch; he would follow.

Of course, there was no way he could have predicted that then, suddenly, the vampire would be stumbling back, slamming onto the bench beside him, and leaning against him in sobs. Rhys froze, completely at a loss. "Wh... what?"

[whowillmourn]

Even this measure comes through the barrier of his thin wings. Mayerling feels the press of a shoulder at both levels, like pinning his own hand between them or perhaps more eloquently his cloak. His cloak as much a part of himself. A degree of separation and distant, eternally present throughout his life.

Just as well when he pays an ounce of attention to the smell reaching his nose. Dhampir, nearly synonymous with vampire hunter whence he came. Dhampir but not D, no, D is unique. Part of his mind flags caution and alarm. Fighting a vampire at night may be for morons and fools, but only a foolish vampire fights vampire hunters by day. A foolish or particularly loving one.

Emotion, oh terrible emotion, is itself a cruel taskmaster, such that even aware of the danger he is in, Mayerling feels the urge to share more. He considers it a moment, and whether the decision is his or merely justification, it has fazed this potential vampire hunter. The better he see Mayerling as he is, a person, than a threat. Should it come to violence, he is long practiced.

"This ring belonged to my late wife," Mayerling explains, letting the tears gather large and glistening in the corners of his red eyes, "I fulfilled her dying wish, but oh that I could again be by her side."

[no_harm]

This was hardly how Rhys had thought this would go. Vampires were supposed to be frightening, monstrous, evil creatures. And this one was... crying? It was jarring, to say the least. Did vampires grieve? Could they? Or was this all one giant manipulation?

As much as Rhys wanted to believe that... Mayerling's sudden reaction to his "treat" had been visceral. Rhys wasn't sure that sort of thing could be faked, not like that.

He swallowed. "Was she..." A pause. "... like you?"

At this point, his meaning should be clear. You. A vampire. And Rhys had no illusions that the other man was unaware of his own blood. Two undead sit on a bench... It was like the beginning to a bad joke.

[whowillmourn]

The first question, naturally, gets to the heart of the matter for so many. Human or vampire? Mayerling does not recognize this dhampir. He does not know if they even hale from the same world. Whatever sins or crimes his vampire parent may have committed, does he hold that all vampires are like that? Was theirs a true romance, such that despite everything he believes this one too could be real when it involves a human woman?

The answer could mean battle and death. The truth is what it is, however, and whether this dhampir vampire hunter means him harm or not, Mayerling would rather die who he is than live as some monstrous version of himself he cannot recognize.

"Charlotte," Mayerling repeats her name, so sweet and fragile, "was human, as she lived, as she breathed, as she died."