TDM #2

[glencolans]

TEST DRIVE MEME #2

Welcome to Glencola Reef's second Test Drive Meme! This is a place where anyone interested in applying a character - or just curious to see how their characters might interact with the setting and others in the game - can mingle with one another. General prompts are provided below for inspiration.

TDM GUIDELINES

• Please read the rules before posting to the TDM. These still apply here and will be enforced, up to and including deleting tags/toplevels and prebanning.
• Posts from a TDM are required to apply. At least three tags across any number of threads within a TDM, posted within the last 6 months, must be provided in every application.
• TDM threads can be used for AC. Note that new characters only need to check in for their first AC cycle, but established characters can use TDM tags for their AC.
• TDMs are not considered game canon by default. This is mostly for logistics reasons - due to how characters travel on the map, it's unlikely that non-network threads that take place here will actually happen in-game. However, I won't stop anyone from working out how to make parts of threads game canon if they really want to.
• New TDMs will be posted every three months. Keep checking back into the current TDM for new toplevels!

I. ARRIVAL

You awaken on a tropical island beach, soaking wet, powerless, and without any idea how you got here. Were you carrying something important, or wearing powerful armor? How unfortunate - it looks like only the most basic clothes, items in your pockets, and simple weapons managed to make the trip with you. Are you even physically the same as you remember? If you had superhuman abilities tied to your physiology, you might be stuck in a completely different body that lacks your usual senses. You might've been whisked away from a tense battle or a near-death experience and wake up delirious, or even injured.

Thankfully, against overwhelming odds, you're not the only one to wake up on this particular stretch of beach. You and your companion have a lot of puzzling out to do.

II. NETWORK

Even if you weren't lucky enough to wake up near someone else, at least you've arrived with a military-grade radio transceiver gripped tightly in your hand (or mouth, or other vaguely opposable appendage of choice). The clunky walkie-talkie will start buzzing and crackling for every public message that starts coming your way. Answering them back is as easy as pressing the "talk" button on the side of the device and either speaking into the receiver, or using the keypad to type into the message box that appears on the screen, then pressing the button again to send. A list of ongoing conversations with responses that are less than 24 hours old can be found by scrolling through the menu, identified by the callsigns that are participating in them. It seems that you've been assigned a callsign, too - it shows up in the top right side of the screen, format AB123C. The letters and numbers picked are...probably random.

This is your easiest avenue to communicating, or coordinating with, or complaining at the other people stuck on this island; how you decide to use this tool is up to you.

III. A SAFE PLACE

Whether because someone else directed you via the transceivers, or someone found you and is leading you there, or just out of sheer luck, you have stumbled your way up the western coastline and run into an abandoned airfield. At least it used to be abandoned; there are obvious signs that the area has seen recent use, from the myriad of footprints in the sand leading up to the ocean, to the racks of drying fish lined along the shattered asphalt of a runway, to the strangely complex water stills and...who even knows what chemicals are brewing in those pots next to the largest airplane hangar? Even if you find the signs of people first, you're likely to run into the inhabitants themselves sooner rather than later, as the airfield has become a surprisingly busy hub of activity in comparison to the bleak isolation of the rest of the island. Maybe some of the more experienced inhabitants will help you figure out what's going on here, or try to rope you into exploring or cleaning out the more run-down buildings lining the runway, like the smaller hangars or the desolate traffic control tower at the far end. You likely aren't the only new person trying to find your way around, either. Hopefully the person you arrived with is more interested in helping rather than just looting the place and running off.

IV. STRANGE BOUNTIES

The weather on this island can be rather unpredictable sometimes. Just yesterday it was sunny and hot, then today, without warning, the sky opened up - literally, like the pale blue horizon was a vase smashed by a hammer and a billowing cyclone poured through the hole - and dumped at least a foot of rain on you in the span of an hour. You just barely managed to avoid getting swept out to sea, hunkering down in the relative safety of the deeper jungle, when the storm stopped as suddenly as it started. Dazed and possibly hurt, you stumble back to the beach to get a look at the sky--

--And find the beach absolutely covered in heaps of beach peas. There are so many that you can't even see the sand underfoot, and more of the pods are still washing up with the swollen tide. A flurry of very confused seagulls are already picking at the pile of legumes, but you should be quick about getting your own share - other captives are likely to show up soon, too, and they probably have much deeper pockets and appetites than the birds.

V. HOSTILE STRANGERS

As others have had the misfortune of discovering first-hand, there are entities on the island that have been here for much longer than the active group on the transceivers has been, and they aren't necessarily friendly. One in particular guards their territory fiercely from intruders - or maybe they just enjoy toying with those that wander within their reach. For those exploring the dense jungles in the northeast, this individual's motivations are probably the last things on your mind when you encounter them personally. Minding your own business, by yourself or traveling with others like you, noting the odd lack of animal calls in an otherwise vibrant jungle, suddenly there's the faint whistling noise of a crossbow bolt hissing through the air on a collision course for your vitals. You might consider yourself lucky if you stumble into one of their expertly-hidden rope traps instead and end up dangling by your ankle ten feet in the air. Hopefully, if you are currently traveling alone, someone will find you quickly enough to keep you from being killed outright by this hidden assailant.

NAVIGATION

Comments

Clive Rosfield | Final Fantasy XVI

[rosarianoath]

I.
It’s dusk when the man unconscious in the surf is roused from his sleep. He doesn’t get up. He just lays there, the water thoroughly soaked into his dark leathers and red tunic, sand plastered to the back of his wet dark hair. He blinks sluggishly up at the sky, then closes his eyes with a long exhale. Every breath is deep, exhausted.

It’s going to be over any moment now. He will be dead, at peace.


III.
Theft is dishonorable, even for someone of his reputation, but the ache in his stomach is becoming as impossible to ignore as his own exhaustion, and the dried fish on display is almost enough to tempt him. Still, even with a persistent rumbling in his guts, caution must be exercised. These people are strange, their architecture alien, their smells and cracked stone foreboding. If he is to eat, he should ascertain the danger first.

So Clive skirts the biggest buildings, keeping to the shadows. He moves quietly despite his size, a hand open and ready to reach for a blade.

If there are people here after all, he is certain they are hostile. Who likes an intruder on their camp, no matter their need or intention?


V.
Clive swings, one ankle ensnared in the rope bearing him high above the ground, his other knee bent like the hanged man. It takes him a second to reorient himself and then he looks up at his ankle. In lighter garb, he might have slipped free of his boot entirely, but the rope is snagged between the plates of light armour. His heavy cloak hangs down like a sheet, hood ballooning behind his head, cutting his line of sight by half. He growls in frustration and sets to unclipping it, if only to spare himself the weight as the blood slowly sinks to his head. He attempts to curl himself up at the waist, but gravity is too strong, it seems.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, sagging back down, feeling very much like an antelope carcass set to bleed out.

Gav would be disappointed in him.

III.

[meadqueen]

In a place with these utilitarian metal buildings and imposing towers, it might seem a bit incongruous to run into a domestic scene, but here it is anyway. Clive spots a small, sturdily-built woman carrying a stack of folded - clean, but dingy with age - white comforters toward one of the hangars. Her upper half is mostly obscured by linens, but a bundle of strange items hang from her belt, secured by a transparent twine: a red plastic pail full of what look like pods of peas, a radio - like the one he woke up with except bright blue and emblazoned with the image of a palm tree - a blue water bottle (considering that all of her visible clothing aside from the brown leather boots is blue one can hazard a guess at colour preference) and perhaps more alarmingly, an ornate war hammer.

She hasn't noticed him yet and doesn't seem to be on her guard, so it's up to him what happens next.

[rosarianoath]

Clive keeps moving even as he spots her, shifting as quickly and quietly as he can out of sight in the edge of a doorway so he can watch and size her up. She is an immediately confusing sight: her clothing says she belongs to the minor nobility, but the laundry in her arms marks her as a slave. The war hammer on her hip looks decorative, but wouldn't strike him as threatening even if it wasn't, on a woman of her stature. The brightly coloured objects are curious, the surface smoother and brighter than even the finest of lacquered woods. Who, he thinks, would think to enamel a bucket, let alone pay for it?

But that can wait. He sees no threat here, but an abundance of caution has him slipping from the doorway and into the main path, as to not look suspicious. (His black armour and the harsh furrow of his brow will do him no favours here.) He moves into the path behind her, matching her steps to mask the sound. His long stride catches up with her quick, closing just enough distance to keep ten feet behind her.

[meadqueen]

The woman approaches one of the metal longhouses, pushes a panel aside with her foot in the manner of one used to doing so, and places the bedding and the red pail inside. She turns, lost in thought, and stops up short at the sight of the imposing stranger.

Instead of going for her hammer, she reaches for her radio, holding it out toward him. The buttons are labelled with strange runes, but when she speaks he can understand her.

“VL121R. Send me a message.” She speaks softly, used to not having to shout to be obeyed.

[rosarianoath]

He stops when she turns, his right hand resting at his side, fingers open, prepared to reach for his blade, should he need it. His gaze darts between her face –– harsh in a way that is striking, weathered in a way he didn't expect -– and the item in her hand. There isn't a shred of recognition on his face.

His eyes narrow, his posture defensive. Uncomfortable.

Firm but cautious: "What does that mean?"

[meadqueen]

Her expression sharpens with interest when he asks the question - he doesn't know what this is, is he like me? - but her voice is just as level as before when she speaks.

“These devices allow us to communicate over long distances. Each has a name assigned that cannot be altered. All of my messages will come from VL121R, and I would like to know the name associated with yours. There are some on this island who have harmed us in the past, and I would not wish to inadvertently welcome them to my village.”

[rosarianoath]

Clive listens, his expression frozen and his posture very still. Even after she finishes, he looks at her with relative confusion, not sure why this matters.

"Here," he says, finally, taking the radio from the back of his belt. He gestures like he might toss it, but he thinks twice. He takes a few steps forward instead, hand outstretched in turn, cautious in case she does not want a strange man getting that close. "I could not make sense of it."

[meadqueen]

The fact that he's willing to put his voice here into her hands is nearly enough to convince her that the man is not a threat, at least not in the way she had feared. She can't read the buttons on his radio but struggles through the menus to send herself a string of random letters.

She frowns at what comes through on her own device. “Oh, you are new.” She holds out his radio to return it. “My name is Randvi. I apologize for the formalities.”

[rosarianoath]

New to where? he wonders, taking the radio back and feeling a little foolish for stalking her across this ramshackle place. He jams it back into the pocket on his belt and casts his gaze around, wondering how many more live here.

"No apologies necessary, Randvi," he says. Her name sounds Dhalmekian but her clothes are foreign, at a closer look. "I am Wyvern. Where are we?"

[meadqueen]

“Wyvern.” It's a strange name, but no stranger than K or Detective.

“None of us know this island’s name. I awoke below the cliffs to the west nearly a month ago with no memory of how I'd arrived here, and it's similar for the others.

I found this place on my first day here. Apparently it once housed flying vehicles called airplanes, but has since been abandoned. You will not be required to stay here, but you may stop by at any time for a safe place to rest and access to food and clean water.”

[rosarianoath]

"Thank you," he says, a flicker of genuine relief breaking through his gruff baritone. "I can only stay long enough to rest."

Though he is loathe to let on to how desperately exhausted he is, his stomach chooses right that moment to grumble. He ignores it.

"We're beyond the Twins, then."

Maybe he'd fallen further than he'd thought.

[meadqueen]

There's a flash of disappointment before she can hide it - Randvi had hoped to find someone she shared cultural touchstones with the way all the airplane people seem to - but it quickly disappears.

“We are beyond any landmark you may know. I do not think we were brought here by any means you or I would understand.”

[rosarianoath]

Clive notes her changing expression, and asks, with the slightest cant of his head:

"Where are you from, Randvi?"

V

[aluminumandash]

Rust hears it, not far off: the rustle of leaves, what might've been a snap. He backtracks a few paces and presses himself to a tree trunk, listening for groans, hisses, anything. If this is what he thinks, if it's a person, they have about ten minutes and they won't see it coming.

He lets out a whistle—a low whoop. Not a match for any particular bird, but nothing like the sheer sound of an arrow in flight.

[rosarianoath]

Unusual noise, even for a strange bird. Clive goes silent, but there's nothing he can do to quiet the creak of the rope bearing his weight. No, he has to move quickly. Free himself, before self-defence becomes a problem.

Magic would be his best means of either, just days ago, but now he's down to the dagger at his belt –– it's almost a short-sword, given the twelve inch blade on it, but it's still far less reach than a burst of flame.

He draws the blade, and steels his core to try pulling himself up again.

[aluminumandash]

Alright. No answer. The quiet is so absolute he registers the breaks in it—the creak of rope like something straining to get through the silence. Rust moves, scanning ground and underbrush as he creeps forward. Stopping to listen, reorient, glance up to search for bent tree limbs. His progress is careful but audible: the occasional rustle or footfall, jostle of supplies strapped to his back.

He's close enough to hear the blade being drawn, catch a flash of light as he heads toward the noise. Easy enough to spot the splash of vibrant color—red and black—that goes with it. Ten or so feet away, Rust crouches down and lets out another whistle.

His face and arms—bare all the way to the shoulders—are scratched and dirt streaked, his gaze intent. Gauging the rope, the man, the ground beneath him in one sweep. “Drop your knife, I'll get you down,” he says, voice harsh from urgency and disuse.

[rosarianoath]

Someone is here, Clive is sure. Whether they are friend or foe is another matter entirely, and when his strength fails him and he falls back down with a hard breath from the exertion, he wonders if it even matters.

Why not just fucking die here?

But he knows why. He turns to find the voice, brushing his hood aside with his free hand. He sizes Rust up with narrowed eyes, transparent judgement on his face.

"What do you think I'm going to do, stab my rescuer?"

He sheathes the knife instead, and lets his gloved hands fall free, emptied.

[aluminumandash]

Hell of a thing to witness from a man dangling in the air by his ankle, but Rust weathers the judgment as a matter of course. Gives a preoccupied mmhmm in answer to the question as he hastens closer. He pauses once, attentive, making another quick sweep of his surroundings. His eyes don't latch onto anything: almost as if he's looking for something that isn't there.

Rust darts forward, surefooted. Touches a steadying hand to the other man's shoulder. Up close he smells. Sweat, body odor, woodsmoke. “Gonna get this thing off you.” Without waiting for an answer, he shifts his hands to the other man's throat, yanks hard at the clasp of the—fucking cape. If it's not off by the second try, he moves on.

“You remember how you came? Path you took?” He unhooks an axe—small, its well-worn handle shorter than his forearm—from his belt and studies the rope, tangled up in the man's armor. “Soon as you're down, we're going back the same way. To the fucking inch.”

The hand's back at his upper arm, grasping it this time, pulling down. Rust counts three-two-one and jumps, chopping at the rope. It's not a clean cut—the rope shudders, hangs on by a few strands. He's readying himself for another swing when finally it breaks.

[rosarianoath]

The cape goes; without gravity keeping the strap of his baldric under his arm, it's just one very ambitious button anchoring it in place, and a whole cowskin's worth of leather collapses to the ground in a heap. Clive doesn't miss it, in the heat; his collar is slick with sweat, and it pours out from his neckline in rivulets. He's in good company, at least.

"I––yes." There's no sense in claiming he's worth his salt as a hunter, trapped like this, but he's sure he can manage that. And the sooner the better –– the own blood has thoroughly saturated his head, and he likes this man touching him even less, even if the cause serves him.

The man counts and Clive curls himself up as hard as he can. He doesn't stay there, too spent to match the persistence of those last few threads, and so he hits the ground shoulder-first at a hard angle, just barely missing breaking his collarbone, and he rolls onto his back with a grunt of pain, eyes screwed shut, his right hand curling into a tense fist, the other frozen open.

"Fuck!" he gasps.

Better than two broken wrists trying to catch himself, though.

I.

[sang_bleu]

Vanitas isn't sure how long he's been following the shoreline since he himself woke up in the surf. He assumed it would bring him to something interesting, be it a settlement, fresh water, or something else.

What he doesn't expect to find is another body cast ashore on the sand. He picks up his pace and jogs over, then stops when he sees slight movement. It's not a corpse, as he first assumed. The man is still alive. And maybe alive means able to answer questions.

He nudges Clive's upper arm with the tip of one boot, seeing if he'll wake.

"Hey."

Re: I.

[rosarianoath]

Clive opens his eyes, slow and sluggish; the setting sun is still bright enough that he squeezes them closed again briefly before registering that he is not alone.

“I’m alive,” he murmurs, struggling to roll over and push himself up on an elbow. It’s slow going. He looks blearily up and asks, his voice low and deep: “Has it vanished from the sky?”

[sang_bleu]

Vanitas takes a step backward as Clive sits up, and while he's wary of taking his eyes off the stranger for too long, he spares a glance upward, scanning the sky above them.

"Unless you're referring to the sun, I'm guessing the answer is yes."

Unnaturally blue eyes fix on Clive once more. "Why? Did you see something?"

[rosarianoath]

How far had he fallen, to land on these shores? Clive doesn’t waste his scant energy on considering it.

“I saw a would-be God,” he murmurs, pushing himself up to sit, carefully avoiding weight on his left hand. He meets Vanitas’s eyes with piercing blue of his own. “Where am I?”

[sang_bleu]

"Well, that's rarely good for anyone else," Vanitas remarks, letting his hands rest on the twin daggers at his hips, casually defensive.

His gaze lingers on Clive's left hand, though, noting the way he favors it with a doctor's eye. But he doesn't say anything about it yet, instead answering the question. Well. Sort of.

"On a beach. That's the best I can tell you."

[rosarianoath]

“Am I to understand you do not know where we are, or are you trying to be funny?”

He’s too tired to be anything more than breathless in tone, his emotions a jumble so complicated he ends up numb.

But he can’t just stay here. He pushes past sitting, trying to get to his knees, but it’s a tough affair. He’s not sure why he bothers, other than force of habit and will: if it’s this much of an effort to get to his feet, he certainly won’t be able to draw the short sword at his hip. At most he barely hope his feet aren’t fucked, too.

“What’s your name?”