Test Drive (December & January)

[sixthiteration]

Main Navigation

Full Navigation

Logs

OOC

Network

Premise

Rules/FAQ

Cast

Guide: Setting

Guide: Bestiary

Guide: Flora

Guide: Locations

Guide: Colors

Guide: Tech

Maps

Lodging

Application

Holds

Test Drive

Want Ads

Drops

Points Exchange

Mod Contact

Player Directory

Test Drive

→ Holds and applications are always open. Holds are required for all applications.

→ Choose one of the scenarios below or make up your own. Feel free to try multiple scenarios.

→ Write LOGS or NETWORK prompts, or both.

→ THERE ARE ONLY THREE RULES FOR THE TDM:

1. It has to take place in the 6I universe.
2. It cannot be the character's arrival into the game.
3. Please only test new characters who do not have a version in the game. Our cast list is here.

→ TDM threads cannot be used to meet AC, but if the character is accepted into the game and both players agree, you may keep the CR.

→ Character want ads are here.

Prompts

1. SNOW BLIND - It's snowing, a lot, and pristine landscape though it might create, it also brings plenty of problems, especially when you live in an Edwardian-style village with a serious lack of snow shovels. It's currently blizzard conditions and visibility is nil — Maybe you gave in and ducked into the nearest house for temporary shelter, and discover someone else had the same idea (or just lives there, oops). Maybe you're stubborn enough to still be out in it, struggling against the wind and snow. Or maybe you've tromped into the South Village Inn like a human popsicle, and are just hoping you don't lose any fingers before you make it to the fireplace.


2. JUMPED-UP - Winter's here, which means it's the perfect time for an expedition to warmer, southern climes. You've joined a group following the river all the way down to the far southern beach, for fun and for science. On this latest break in your journey, you've spotted a large, jewel-colored feather and picked it up, maybe as a specimen to bring back or just a feather for your cap. Turns out it's an archaeopteryx feather, and you're now, well... let's call it a little gravity-challenged. Not a bad benefit once you figure out how to control it.


3. COLD CALL - The snow has slacked off, leaving behind a winter wonderland. Sure, there's plenty to do, but after being cooped up inside for days, most people won't blame you for a morale-booster — That is, unless your way of starting a snowball fight is to pop up and throw them at unsuspecting passers-by. Making a snow man or snow angels might come with a little less retribution, but you do you.


4. WILDCARD - Choose your own adventure. Maybe play powers roulette.

Network

All characters are fitted with a smart watch-like device on their left wrist, which they can use to send text and video messages to other villagers.

- Text and/or video, any length
- Display names may be changed by characters on the fly, but anyone can tap to see someone's real full name

Please list your CHARACTER NAME, CANON & PROMPT in your SUBJECT LINE.

Comments

Snowblind

[ombranera]

Since the storm took a turn for the worse, Zevran has for the most part kept inside. Or at least he intended to keep inside but- the daily meal is a thing and there is precious little in the home he's settled in for the night. Risking the chill for a hot meal and roaring hearth seems wise enough.

Fifty steps north, thirty northeast. Simple. He'd counted when he'd noticed the winter growing, he'll be able to find his way there in no time at all.

Or, alternatively, he'll huddle into his coat, hair whipping about his face, eartips red and stinging, head down- bore full body into a lean, whippish slip of a man wandering about somewhere between steps forty three and forty four. "Brasca-"

He skitters, steadies himself and catches at the man's elbow to keep him from falling over. He doesn't ask, doesn't wait for an answer before he firms his grip on them and resumes counting, out loud, and walking. "Forty five, forty six, forty seven- We shall be at the in soon- Forty eight-"

[sundr]

The blizzard would be bad enough on its own-- especially when Loki is dressed no where near warmly enough to combat the bone deep cold determined to seep into him-- without being knocked into the snow drifts quickly building up around him, and the last thing he's truly expecting is something solid catching squarely up against his side.

Immediately he thinks it must be some sort of beast. There's one long moment suspended in time where the cold feels less daunting in anticipation of claws and teeth he's sure will be finding him next when he knows he'll only have similar means of defending himself. Much as he isn't use to the cold, he isn't use to being left so laughably vulnerable either, and the idea of being without weapon or magic to defend himself with has been a perpetual source of dread settled low in his chest since he'd arrived.

But instead of claws there is a hand clutched firmly around his arm and instead of a beast there is--a man, barely reached to his shoulder and dragging Loki along though the snow as if he's a child.

He'd been on edge even before this stranger had startled him, tired and cold and irritated, and Loki doesn't stop himself from the urge to wrench his arm free from the other's grasp, snapping out over the wind, "I don't need to be led, thank you."

[ombranera]

"Do you know where the inn is? Mm? Do you have any idea where it is you are going? No. If you did you would've diverted left or right of the path ten steps ago, twenty steps ago to duck into one of the other houses." Zevran snaps, actually snaps, feet planted, head tipped up to face this fine featured fool, golden eyes narrowed. "It is cold. You are not dressed for it. Shall I leave you to freeze to death?"

It's tempting if only to spare him whatever shred of arrogance might follow. This is not how he handles people in the village. He plays kind, he plays patient, he is all smiles and good humor but this cold sinks deep into his bones, takes him by the heart and squeezes. It is a cold like death, like a frigid night at the highest peak, recalling Haven has never, ever brought him joy.

Not many endure their sins laid out at their feet with a wink and a smile.

"So. Unless you wish to become an ice sculpture to be admired once the snow melts-" He offers his hand this time. "Come with me."

[sundr]

Outside of his family, few have every dared to speak to Loki so sharply. Whether through the protection and expectation of whatever station he's claimed or because of his reputation of responding to disrespect with cruelty, most tend to keep there disagreements with him where he cannot see it, harboring their grudges and resentments out of sight. They do not yell at him, and the moment this stranger turns on Loki his features harden, his jaw tight and his chin raised as if looking down upon the other with a gaze edged like a fine blade could leverage him more power over the situation.

Anywhere else it might. Loki knows he's intimidating when he cares to be. Thor's fury is much like the lightening he calls to him, white-hot and devastating, but Loki's has always been more like poison, intended to linger and rot in whoever he chooses to bestow it upon--

But ineffective, surely, when it's so obvious Loki has little choice or influence of the situation at hand. In the absence of either, his anger makes him look sullen and petulant, and knowing this, knowing this stranger is right, only makes his mood darken.

Still, he isn't foolish nor spiteful enough to wish to stay out in this weather just to prove a point. Whether he likes it or not matters little; he takes the offered hand.

[ombranera]

"As I thought." Zevran sniffs, recounting the steps he has taken under his breath before shouldering onward. He'll consider the cost of his frustration later. For now it is far too cold to linger on the slip, far too frozen about his boots to bother with patently false kindness. He'll sugar coat the means after he is tucked by the roaring fire, soup in hand, wine warm in his belly. Onward they trudge, onward he hauls this slender slip of a human man, human noble if he were to take a guess at it, his features too well formed and his grace one of gravitas and that should leave him wary.

It is hard to worry about putting his back to the man when he is just as lost as the rest of them in this snow.

Ten, fifteen steps more finds them on the porch. Zevran shoulders the door open and hauls his wayward duckling into the heat and warmth of the in, stalking directly to the roaring hearth for warmth. "Here. Sit."

Kindness now in shards, perhaps. He shucks his coat to drape it across the back of a chair, leaving his ward long enough to fetch two mugs and two bowls, balancing them carefully as he wanders back from the kitchen, wrapped bread tucked under his arm, a knob of butter balanced on a plate with some cheese on his head. Table set he sits, slumps, and sighs for the warmth. "Now you may bitch about the weather and propriety."