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

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.