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Entry tags:
- !event,
- !tdm,
- athena | borderlands,
- benedict dearborn | original,
- carver hawke | dragon age,
- denji | chainsaw man,
- eliot waugh | the magicians,
- ellie | the last of us,
- ivar ragnarsson | vikings,
- logan | marvel,
- octavia blake | the 100,
- quentin coldwater | the magicians,
- robbie reyes | marvel,
- ruth aldine | marvel,
- will graham | hannibal,
- william | westworld
THE SKY WENT OFF-WHITE.
WHO: Anyone and everyone.
WHAT: Our inaugural test drive meme.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core.
WHEN: Whenever your character arrives.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
WHAT: Our inaugural test drive meme.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core.
WHEN: Whenever your character arrives.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
Art by Basile Godard
THE SUNLIGHT SPLINTERED.
You reach the end of the ash-gray hall at a run, hands fumbling for an antique door handle. And then you stumble, fall, tumble—any number of adjectives, depending on where, exactly, the door opened—into a radio station.
The equipment is old and dusty, but devoid of cobwebs to the observant eye. And it's dark, save for whatever light makes it through the windows. They display disjointed locations; perhaps one shows an upside-down tower, while its neighbors frame the crumbling pavement of a rotting car park and the stripped out interior of a sewer. Whatever the case, peering through one window reveals a landscape that impossibly doesn't connect to the next.
The door is still there, the only exit to this grubby room. It opens somewhere, anywhere else in this distorted world. And once you leave, it no longer leads back whence you came.
Where do you go?
The equipment is old and dusty, but devoid of cobwebs to the observant eye. And it's dark, save for whatever light makes it through the windows. They display disjointed locations; perhaps one shows an upside-down tower, while its neighbors frame the crumbling pavement of a rotting car park and the stripped out interior of a sewer. Whatever the case, peering through one window reveals a landscape that impossibly doesn't connect to the next.
The door is still there, the only exit to this grubby room. It opens somewhere, anywhere else in this distorted world. And once you leave, it no longer leads back whence you came.
Where do you go?
THE LIGHT, DIVIDED.
A sun on one horizon, a full moon on the other. They're luminous but unreal, like they were plucked from a sky and pasted to a flat, starless backdrop. You can see only one, depending on which side you entered; it's essentially random. Both "sides" overlap like alternate dimensions and you can't see anyone who isn't on the same side as you. Light or dark, you walk in the light of a muted sun or an overbright moon. It never feels quite real.
Neither star nor satellite seem to move from their position. The passage of time is at a standstill.
Regardless of which side you're on, you'll find signs that you aren't alone. What someone does on one side affects the other, so moving an item or writing something down will translate to floating items and mysteriously appearing letters. Speech doesn't travel...unless there's a radio. Radios may turn on and off, with voices audible through the white noise. And if you walk past a mirror, the reflection isn't your own. Instead, it acts as a window to the other side.
In-character observations:
Neither star nor satellite seem to move from their position. The passage of time is at a standstill.
Regardless of which side you're on, you'll find signs that you aren't alone. What someone does on one side affects the other, so moving an item or writing something down will translate to floating items and mysteriously appearing letters. Speech doesn't travel...unless there's a radio. Radios may turn on and off, with voices audible through the white noise. And if you walk past a mirror, the reflection isn't your own. Instead, it acts as a window to the other side.
In-character observations:
- Anyone sensitive to time, space, and related dimensional shenanigans will feel they're distorted. And it isn't something they can fix, at least not with powers.
- It's possible to cross dimensions if a character has related powers, but they'll suffer backlash and significant stress from the transition. Successive jumps aren't gonna fly.
- If a character is affected by the sun or moon, they'll find neither holds sway over them here; e.g., vampires can walk in daylight and werewolves won't shift in the full moon.
THE SHADOW REALM.
Outdoors, there are shadows on the prowl.
Silent and eerily insubstantial, they trail after you like blind spots given form. Staring at them too long is unsettling but, for the most part, they're content to watch you back...if they can watch. They don't seem to have eyes.
When that isn't enough, however, they attack. Stealing the shape of monsters from other worlds, they may lack special powers, but that doesn't keep them from being dangerous. When in doubt, you're safest indoors.
But maybe that isn't good enough for you. Or maybe you just fucked up. Either/or.
Silent and eerily insubstantial, they trail after you like blind spots given form. Staring at them too long is unsettling but, for the most part, they're content to watch you back...if they can watch. They don't seem to have eyes.
When that isn't enough, however, they attack. Stealing the shape of monsters from other worlds, they may lack special powers, but that doesn't keep them from being dangerous. When in doubt, you're safest indoors.
But maybe that isn't good enough for you. Or maybe you just fucked up. Either/or.
RADIO WAVES.
If you aren't wondering how you got here, you're probably at least asking why. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be anyone around who can answer your questions. Everyone else is as clueless as you.
But, some time after you arrive—whether it's days, hours, minutes, or seconds—the dead air stirs. The atmospheric pressure drops and playhouse lightning arcs across the facsimile of a sky. It's a storm that warns of what's to come, as an earthquake shifts the ground beneath your feet. Around you, buildings flood, and water pours out in falls only half aware of gravity. Wind hurls debris at such high speeds, it turns into shrapnel. Rain pelts you from above and below as the temperature plummets. It starts to snow.
Somehow, the sun and moon remain visible through the turmoil. A collection of mirrors scattered through the world don't reflect their light; instead, it passes through them and illuminates the other side. These specific mirrors, all set in ash-gray frames that match the halls, are untouched in the unfolding natural disasters, and standing before them will shield you as well. Consider them havens in the chaos, proverbial eyes in the storm.
In the dark, a radio turns on of its own accord. Is someone—something—talking to you?
But, some time after you arrive—whether it's days, hours, minutes, or seconds—the dead air stirs. The atmospheric pressure drops and playhouse lightning arcs across the facsimile of a sky. It's a storm that warns of what's to come, as an earthquake shifts the ground beneath your feet. Around you, buildings flood, and water pours out in falls only half aware of gravity. Wind hurls debris at such high speeds, it turns into shrapnel. Rain pelts you from above and below as the temperature plummets. It starts to snow.
Somehow, the sun and moon remain visible through the turmoil. A collection of mirrors scattered through the world don't reflect their light; instead, it passes through them and illuminates the other side. These specific mirrors, all set in ash-gray frames that match the halls, are untouched in the unfolding natural disasters, and standing before them will shield you as well. Consider them havens in the chaos, proverbial eyes in the storm.
In the dark, a radio turns on of its own accord. Is someone—something—talking to you?
INTO ALL OUR DARKEST FEARS.
Welcome to THE WASTEYARD's first test drive! Some quick things to remember:
- Our TDMs tie into the game plot. As such, any applicants can keep their TDM threads as game canon.
- The network is exclusive to in-game characters. TDM characters can only use radios.
- There is a language barrier, so please mention what language your character speaks somewhere.
- We don't have a fixed day ratio; instead, you pace yourself at your discretion.
- Characters may face backlash when using any powers.
- Mark if your character is on the sun or moon side of the divide. The choice is yours as the player.
- If you have any questions, please direct them to our FAQ!
carver hawke | dragon age | sun
i. even in the shadows
[Here's the thing: he's basically made for gloomy, chilly, shifty places like this. That's been his life, for the past however many years; skittering shadows at the edges of his vision are the rule, not the exception. It's why he's dressed the way he is, in full plate with a heavy maul on his back, and why he's not bothered to be trying his luck outdoors.
That's the problem, maybe— treating this like just another jaunt in the Deep Roads.
It catches him off-guard. He sees the shadow, pinpoints it, and dismisses it as a trick of light and paranoia. He turns his back on it— and when he turns around again, it's practically on top of him.
It's shaped like a darkspawn. It lunges like a darkspawn, frenzied and mindless. It scrabbles at his armor, sword high and pointed teeth bared, and he— he didn't know it was there. There was nothing: no tremor of a threat at the back of his mind, no shared whisper, not even the sound of boots on stone.
The sword comes down, and his instincts kick in. He catches the flat of it against the plated edge of his gauntlet, and shoves hard enough to give himself breathing room. The thing stumbles, spits and hisses at him, and he knows it's not a darkspawn, can't be, but the resemblance is so perfect it barely even matters.
Killing it isn't any more difficult than killing a single darkspawn ever is; he catches it at the shoulder with his first clean swing, crushing it into the concrete. It splits and falls apart, like dust.
And then it comes back together again, like it never went down at all.]
That's just great, isn't it. [He readjusts his grip on the hilt of his weapon, letting the bladed head grind against the concrete. He shifts his weight back, and raises his voice at this— whatever it is.] Alright, then. Want to go another round? Come on!
[The shadows around him are shifting, sliding, solidifying. He can't tell how many there are.
He's gonna need a Plan B.]
ii. cause it's like you're my mirror
[Everything else is just... stupid.
Fake mirrors, floating books, shifting debris— it's magic, obviously enough (to him), but only the annoying kind, like a trick his brother used to play on him when they were children. By the third or fourth time he gets turned around purely because this place doesn't make sense, he's about done with the whole bloody thing.]
Shut up. [This to a mirror-that's-not-a-mirror, empty for now, like it personally is mocking him for all the time he's wasted. He's alone, so why should it matter?] Nobody asked you.
iii. wildcard
[got something else in mind? hit me!]
i.
[He's like some goddamn knight or something. Like out of a comic book or a movie she's only seen posters of. He seems fake. And yet, he kills one of the shadow fuckers like it's nothing. She watches, totally enrapt, wide-eyed with the wonder of it, from the second-story window of a building.]
[He starts calling for help-- she doesn't understand his words, but she recognizes the tone-- and she scrambles to do it. It's like a unicorn. She has to save it. She knows she'd catch shit from Joel, but that's a distant concern. Where's he? She doesn't know. And this is a knight, in armor and everything!]
[She finds a ladder conveniently nearby. It wasn't there before.]
[Whatever?]
[She hauls it half out the window, using all her strength to keep it from falling. She'll hold it until he sees it, at the very least. Her voice is loud and clear.] Hey! Sir Punch-a-lot! Over here!
no subject
It takes him a few precious seconds to pinpoint her in the window, but it's worth it. Even if he can't understand her, the message is clear enough: climb up, get out.]
Well. That'll do.
[He hasn't got the luxury to weigh his options. The not-darkspawn is slowly turning into a horde of not-darkspawn, and at least he knows he can take a person down, permanently, if it comes to that. The way these things keep disintegrating and re-forming, it's hardly even a choice.
The next step is beating a retreat without getting a shadow sword in the back.
He starts backing toward the building she's in, and swings one arm over his head to flag that he's seen her. His weapon needs two hands; he can only waste so much time.]
Let it down! I'll come to you!
[He just needs a minute to shake off the closest of these beasties. No point in any of this if he ends up bringing the fight to her.]
no subject
[She sees his hand, and hopes that's the universal sign for 'drop the ladder', because it's what she does. Quickly, she moves around the wait for him, wanting to reach out and knowing she can't. Some distant part of her knows she'd be devastated if he died, just like how she tries not to think about how that giraffe is certainly clicker food now.]
[Never let it be said she's not inventive. She begins throwing well-aimed bricks and rocks at the shadows, trying to distract, or help, or something.]
no subject
He can't climb and fight at the same time— again, two hands— but a few moments of distraction are all he needs. A brick hits a clean clock right across one of the shadow's faces, their heads all turn— and he takes his opportunity. He seizes the first rung of the ladder he can reach, shakes it to test the balance, and as soon as he's sure he won't fall back on his ass, hauls himself up.
He doesn't know what to expect, once he gets to the top. There's always a possibility that it's a trap, that there will be a wall of thieves or bandits waiting for easy prey, already worn down by monsters. But he gets there. Has to.
He hooks one arm over the bottom of the sill, pulls himself and his maul and all his armor up into the windowframe, and she's... a kid.
That doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's just not what he expected, is all. If anything, it gets him to crack a half-there smile— whether she's bait in a trap or not, she's damn resourceful, he'll give her that.]
Suppose I've got you to thank for this. [He's a little out of breath, but only a little. He waves her back, away from the window.] Give me a minute, will you?
[He stands half-braced in the window, one arm around the top of the frame to keep his balance, and kicks the ladder back down to the concrete, taking any shadows that had kept their focus long enough to try to follow him up down with it.
Hope you weren't planning on using that for anything else, Ellie.]
no subject
[As soon as the ladder's kicked, she crouches low, putting a finger on her lips, listening carefully. She needs to know if any of the other shadows have found their way into the building.]
[But, strangely, none of them ever come through to the indoors, no matter what. She's observed that multiple times, and she never quite believes it. Still, relief floods her when she can confirm the monsters are wandering off, some disappearing or... melting? What the fuck.]
[You know what, whatever. They're both alive. She lets out a sigh and rests, her backpack getting smushed into the wall as she sits down.] Oh my godddd. That was intense.
no subject
He watches them go, too, trying to ignore the unsettled shiver that slides down his spine when they're just... gone, like they were never there.]
Not very smart, are they?
[In his defense, darkspawn are pretty stupid, most of the time. It doesn't occur to him that they might be intentionally avoiding coming inside, instead of just not knowing how.
Once she seems satisfied, he drops down from the windowsill with a clatter of plate mail. He's on his guard still, a bit, one hand on the grip of his weapon while he scans the room.
Just her, it seems. And she's not exactly in a fighting stance.]
Just you, up here? [He wants confirmation anyway. It's dawning on him that words might not be the best strategy here, though.] Uhhh, what else... [In distinctly a different language, that might kind of sound like French while definitely not being French:] Hello? [And again, in not-German:] Anything?
[Stroud would give him so much shit for not practicing properly, if he were here.]
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Yeah, no hablo. [She makes a fist and smacks it into her chest.] Ellie. [Then she points to him, and looks up questioningly.]
no subject
Fantastic. Andraste's ass, what a pain.
[No choice but to bumble their way through it, though, even if it makes him look like an idiot.
He points at her, confirming:] Ellie. [The sounds are easy enough to copy. He pats his chest in return.] Carver.
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[How do you tell someone you're friendly?]
[...She realizes he has no reason to trust her, just underestimate her. She gets that gentle, unsure feeling in her gut, the giraffe all over again. Ellie stands and scrambles to open her backpack, pulling out a wrapped bit of jerky she found earlier. She holds it out, before realizing a knight wouldn't know what jerky is. Did they have jerky a billion years ago? She isn't sure.]
[She opens the wrapper, snaps it in half, and puts half in her mouth before holding the other out.] Here? See?
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ii
What strange magic runs this place? It spooks him a moment when he sees another figure in this other world he's viewing, the first he's seen thus far. Then he keeps watching. He can see the man's lips move but he can't hear anything. Hmmm, time for a little out of the box thinking.
The Norse teenager breathes on the mirror to fog it up and writes something down. It's a single word in Norse runes, but it'll translate to whatever language they speak in Carver's world. ᛁᚢᛅᚱ. His name: Ivar. Unfortunately, he also forgot to take into account that the word comes out backwards on the other side when written down.]
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More bloody riddles. [He's squinting warily as Ivar writes, eyes flickering between his face and his message, like he's expecting Ivar to abruptly smash through the glass.] As if I haven't wasted enough time already.
[But, okay, this is at least another person. That's... something.
He frowns, focuses, visibly tries to sound the word out. He also forgets to take into account the word might have been reflected. Give him a minute, sometime it takes a bit for his brain to warm up.]
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It's a lot of runes, followed by a strange mark that looks almost like a lightning bolt with a dash through it, the Viking Age's equivalent of a question mark. It comes out to the phrase 'Do you understand?']
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Under his breath:]
No, I don't bloody understand. What am I—
[Click. There it is.]
Ohhh. Shit, alright. Hang on.
[He copies Ivar, writing in condensation, not bothering to try to resolve the mirroring issue:
'YES'
'CARVER'
'WHERE?'
Where he is, where Ivar is. Doesn't really matter, any bearings are better than none.]
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'WHERE?' Does that mean where he is? Heck, he doesn't really know the answer to that question. After thinking a moment, he writes down what it looks like around him.
'Darkness and moonlight. You?']
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If Ivar tries, he'll feel guilted enough to try too, even if he's absolutely miserable at reversing the letters. Hopefully it's good enough. He writes back:
'Sun's out.'
And then, with a palpable moment of hesitation:
'Can you come through?'
The mirror, he means.]
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'Weird. It's definitely night here.'
At the question, Ivar taps the mirror cautiously with his fingertips. It doesn't seem to give way. He pulls out one of his many knives and traces the edges of the mirror, trying to see if there's some hidden trick to it he's missing. After carefully running the blade along the entire thing, he decides there isn't.
'Doesn't look like it.']
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Either way, Ivar is being extremely gentle with the mirror, in his estimation. Carver solves problems by smashing them. He pauses his pacing long enough to write:
'I could break it'
The mirror. It doesn't even look like it would be hard. The only reason he doesn't immediately try is, again, he doesn't understand the magic and isn't sure what would happen.]
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i.
Stop! [ she shouts, surprising even herself. It's more instinctual than purposeful; she just knows that she doesn't want to watch this man be overwhelmed and die in front of her due to his own hubris.
Putting on her most queenly tone, she commands, ] Lower your sword and come with me!
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He doesn't understand her words, but he definitely understands her tone, and it's— well. He's never really been the best with authority, put it like that.]
If you've got another plan, I— [here he has to throw another shadow off of him, hurling it nearly full-bodied to the ground] I'm all bloody ears.
[Not that he'd be able to— whatever, it's the principle of the thing.
Lowering the sword, no. Making a break in her direction, though: you bet he is. He's proud, not stupid.]
no subject
Smart man. He knows who to listen to.
She realizes the next moment, however, that this means he's drawing the creatures over to her. Unlike him, she has no sword to protect herself, and no dragons, either; she feels entirely defenseless, and the sight of these shadowy monsters moving towards her makes her blood run cold.
The man with the sword. She decides that, for the time being, she'll stay close to him. Dany breaks into a sprint in the opposite direction from the shadow creatures, thankful for the riding pants she wears beneath her tunics and the mobility they provide her. ]
There's shelter ahead, [ she says as she runs, breathless, then feels foolish. He certainly doesn't appear to speak her language. She'll have to see if he speaks one of the others she knows soon enough, but now doesn't seem the time to translate it into every tongue she knows. Instead, she points towards a building a ways ahead, adding ] There! [ for emphasis. ]
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Fortification is good, though. Bottlenecks are good, for how many of these things there already are, and more still rising up behind them. He's done enough silent communication in his time to get the gist of what she's going for.
Once they get close, though, he'll skid to a stop before the door. Her first, then him.]
Go! [With an exaggerated wave of his arm. He knows words are probably pointless, but he can't help it.] I'm right behind you.
i.
The first shadow comes in a shape Ruth's never seen before; she's startled, wondering wildly if all her visions of death are going to end with one she never imagined. But she isn't alone--the man fights it with the clank and clatter of armor and a defiant attitude, full of words she can't understand.
The next one licks out, and though she has to bite back a groan of pain, she perceives its shape: the silhouette of a man, strong but awkward-looking, whose hair seems to drift up like a column of smoke. Ruth's mouth goes dry.]
Pardon, pardon-- We have to go.
no subject
He'll protect people. It's what he does, what he's always done— or what he's always tried to do, at least.
He breaks off in her direction, steps between her and the shadow that just unfurled. Not a darkspawn, this one. He isn't sure what that means, isn't sure he likes it.
He also can't understand her, either, which is only going to make this harder. They've only got so much time before these things are on top of them.]
You can't stay here. [But he can, apparently. Not that he's chomping at the bit to.] You need to run. [He points, like that will help.] Go. I can keep them off you.
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[The shadows are unsettling, but this one--the silent, dark one who's all lean, hard-won muscle and too much hair, raising a hand at them--they can't fight this. Even though she knows it's not him. Ruth's fought David as much as she's had to in his own skin. The last thing she wants right now is to be around for somebody else stabbing at him.
("Wh...who are y--?" "Truth is, I think I'm kinda supposed to be your nemesis.")
There's sickness in her, and only some of it is physical. Her chest aches right now for reasons that have nothing to do with the splitting headache she's got. Never mind what this guy thinks he's doing, shadowboxing, they have to go.]
C'mon. Please. [She waves her arm in what she's hoping is the universal sign for let's go, hurry up, the other one pressing at her head, palm hard against the side of her blindfold.] Help me find a door--