test drive meme #1

[historiadores]

TDM #1

LA LLEGADA

The Museum of Art and History is the largest and oldest in Llave, and contains a grand collection spanning from the time the first humans landed on its shores to the modern day. The building encircles an open courtyard where an art installation sits amidst many of the plants important to the settlers of Llave. Behind the museum is a wide, shallow field of hard-packed dirt lined by large stones, the petroglyphs on their surface worn by time—the earliest known playing field in all of the Caribbean. And further out are the areas where excavations are ongoing, uncovering the pottery, jewelry and artifacts of the ancestors.

After awakening, things move quickly. The museum is closed, and the characters ushered into the courtyard to wait. Any needing emergency medical attention are kept in one of the air conditioned galleries until the paramedics arrive. A group of women with a military bearing take charge of the situation; identified as the Bajari Bara, they question the healthy and able. They cede authority only to the Prime Minister when she arrives. Two more of their group flank the nation's leader, though they step aside when she begins to walk among the new arrivals to speak with them.

Each side has many questions and few answers. Characters are informed they are in Llave. It's October 2020. And efforts will be made to return them to their homes. But how they came to be here and why remain mysteries…as does how they’ll find their way back.

A hurricane shelter nearby is activated for use by the recent arrivals. There, characters are provided with food and clothing, a cot and other basic supplies. No one is allowed out, but through the windows they can see the lush green of the their surroundings. At night, coquí sing them to sleep. Those taken to a hospital will remain there until they are discharged. Each patient is allowed one visitor to stay with them overnight.

Over the next several days, all characters undergo physical and mental evaluations; are provided with their first immunizations; have the next legal steps explained to them; and are taught about Llave. Every character, regardless of age, has a caseworker who checks in with them daily. None have been arrested, they are assured. But they must also complete the quarantine process. To enforce quarantine, at both the hospital and the shelter, the Bajari Bara guard every entrance and exit.

Welcome to Llave.

EL AREYTO

As luck would have it, around the time quarantine ends, all of Llave is in the midst of celebration. Today is the Day of Heroes, celebrated every last weekend in October, which this year happens to fall on the eve of All Saints’ Day. So when the new arrivals venture out for the first time, Nona, the capital, welcomes them with color and music.

The people of Llave have a special love for music and dance, and it shows. All day, groups gather to play, and many more to dance. The songs center around heroes of Llave with the chief of these being Nuna, a beloved figure who is said to have led her people here to freedom. Those performing wear traditional clothes: guayaberas, long circle skirts, palm hats and headwraps, all brightly colored.

From early morning, artisans have set up under tents tables laden with goods. Clothing, jewelry, musical instruments, paintings, and more made from leather and wood, seashells and fish scales, aluminum and copper. Many create right at the table. Most popular are those working on cemís: sculptural objects, said to house the spirits of ancestors. Many carry them as amulets especially on this the eve to the days of the dead.

The food is equally rich and one of the cooks takes an interest in the new arrivals. Those who eat his food find their mood changing depending on what they ate. The tostones he prepared while speaking of his childhood home in Santa Cecilia bring on feelings of joy and contentment. The alcapurrias fried while arguing with a customer about last night’s wrestling match cause those who eat them to feel irritated. And the casabe, a flatbread made of cassava, that he explains he learned to make from his wife who passed, induces a profound nostalgia for lost loves. His wife, recognizable from the photo he keeps on the wall, sits beside those most affected and comforts them until the melancholy passes.

More dead can be found. An old man in a fine guayabera recalls composing the lyrics to a particular song. He points out the man playing the congas and proudly says his great-grandson will soon outplay him. When characters look back to the old man, he’s gone. Those with a sense for it will recognize many dead walking among the living. These next few days honor and celebrate the departed, and the dead have seized the rare opportunity to join the festivities once more.

For those who prefer the sea, the impossibly blue waters of the Caribbean are just a short walk away. Cobblestone and concrete paths line La Bahía de Nona. On one of the larger rock outcroppings jutting into the bay sits a silver-white dog. If called, he will trot over. Up close, one can see his color is due to the sand and salt that has collected on its coat. Though he allows himself to be petted, he does not step off the rocks. A passerby comments that the dog has been waiting for his master to return. How long? The man shrugs. When he was a boy, the dog was keeping watch; now he’s forty-three, and the dog is still there.

EL TRAVIESO

Or perhaps the characters were more distracted by how clean the water was, how clear. Enough so that the sight of a bottle bobbing in the waves seems offensively out of place. Anyone who chooses to snag it out of the water will find it’s a corked bottle of rum, apparently empty.

From a nearby restaurant, someone yells and waves their hands—too late. By uncorking it, they have freed the bacoo. Immediately, everyone backs away. Two cross themselves.

Only one stays long enough to warn, “You have to trick it back into the bottle. It likes milk and bananas. Don’t ask it for anything.”

Turn around, and the bacoo is there.

Short and rugged with large eyes, long arms and legs, covered in unkempt hair and its fingers and toes ending in claws, the bacoo is a strange little creature. Stranger still, it can grant any wish—so long as it is kept appeased with a steady diet of milk and bananas.

A hungry bacoo will pelt walls with stones, move objects, keep its owner up at night, and otherwise wreak havoc until it is fed. A shapeshifter, they can be difficult to locate, much less trap. And a starving bacoo will turn vicious and its pranks malicious.

Best find a way to trick it into the bottle. Fast.

---

OOC NOTES

This TDM covers from mid-to-end of October. The first prompt lasts approximately two weeks; the second, a day. For now, all characters are restricted to Nona. Any attempting to leave will be gently, but firmly escorted back.

The TDM will also double as the first IC post of the game. Threads between any two or more characters who were all apped and approved will be considered game canon. As such, actions characters take in this TDM will impact the game once it opens. How characters behave will shape the inhabitants’ first impressions of them. Make it count.

Questions regarding this TDM can be asked below, while questions regarding the game at large should be directed to the FAQ.

Thank you for your interest and we hope to have you join!

NAVIGATION • IC COMM • OOC COMM • MEME COMM

Comments

lan wangji | the untamed

[quietroom]

▶ LA LLEGADA

[ The shelter is odd. After a year in seclusion, seeing only healers, his brother and his son on occasion, is disconcerting and frustrating. Too loud, after the silence of his home, and filled with too many people, especially for Lan Wangji, who dislikes groups of people at the best of times. And this is hardly the best of times.

He doesn’t have a protocol for this, almost suspects it’s a fever dream even though the wounds on his back are a year old. But without a protocol, Lan Wangji defaults formal and careful, looking at other people from beneath the sweep of his eyelashes, parsing his words carefully, greeting people who greet him with a bow.

The caseworker, as she calls herself, asks questions, and he presses his lips together when they probe too closely to topics he refuses to discuss. But she’s patient, and her smile sometimes reminds him of his brother, and so Lan Wangji softens, gradually, enough to dignify her with simple answers, on occasion.

Sometimes, closer to the evening, he’ll summon his guqin, pluck a few notes on it, although he’s polite enough not to do it often, not wanting to disturb the other people he’s trapped with, especially since they can’t get out. And sometimes, after he’s done, he eyes the guards, wondering if it would be possible—

No, sneaking out is beneath him still. There’s no good reason to do that. ]

▶ EL AREYTO

[ Music is a language that transcends barriers, and Lan Wangji, whatever else he might be, is a skilled musician. The festival finds him sticking close to the musicians as much as possible, putting to memory the songs they play. He doesn’t summon his guqin to join in, unsure of a welcome, unwilling to ask for the moment, and unsure he can get his instrument to match these sounds.

Later, when he has a moment, Lan Wangji finds a secluded spot and attempts to mimic the sounds he heard earlier. Maybe even indulges in a few other songs, ones he knows by heart and diligent training.

Eventually, even he has to eat. None of the food looks familiar, and he carefully skips over anything red, or seemingly spicy, or heavy with scent. Casabe seems safe enough until he takes a bite. Melancholy is actually not unusual for him: he’s had a year of grief, a year of mourning for a lost love who didn’t even know it. It’s just that he’s always been good at hiding his emotions, and for once, he can’t, an expression of deep sadness on his face as he turns away from the cook, seeking shelter behind a nearby tree, the sleeves of his robes fluttering in the breeze as he struggles for composure. Don’t talk to him, don’t talk to him— If someone does, his eyes are red, his voice almost watery. ]

[ ooc: if neither of these work, pm me for a starter, or leave your own ]

[singlelogbridge]

[Lan Wangji might not give into the temptation to play, but Wei Wuxian has always been more impulsive. It's a quality he would have spoken of proudly up until recently. Still, he doesn't regret it this time, the music flowing from chenqing a startlingly playful sound in comparison to the dour notes the instrument is used to. He matches the other musicians the best he can and even manages a smile or two as he does, his eyes brighter than they've been in months.

The music is unfamiliar, but someone accustomed to the sound might notice. They might recognize the sound of it. Someone who has heard it often enough might know the instrument of destruction for what it is.

He doesn't see the person standing behind the tree, doesn't pay attention to much at all. Wei Wuxian keeps his eyes closed and plays on.]

[quietroom]

[ The breeze catches on the sleeves of his robes, sending them fluttering, and bringing him notes of a dizi, of Chenqing. After a year, he can still hear it, high and vibrant and full of power.

That bread is powerful and he decides to avoid food for the rest of the day. Luckily, he can still practice inedia here, his spiritual power still running through his veins.

Still hearing those notes, he heads back to the musicians. Wei Ying isn't possibly present, but he can't resist the call of that music. Even if it is only in his head.

At one point, he thinks he spots a flash of black amidst all the color and turns sharply to look around. ]

[singlelogbridge]

[When Lan Wangji turns, he will find himself faced with what must appear like a memory to him.

Wei Wuxian is still playing, now standing across from a man with a stringed instrument that he doesn't know. It has a different sound from the guqin entirely, not quite so soothing, but he finds that he enjoys it immensely in its own way.

Though he has been here long enough to know that his wardrobe sticks out, he hasn't felt the need to change. Perhaps eventually he will try something else, spurred on by the sticky heat that reminds him of Yunmeng at the height of summer more than any insecurity, but for now he remains clad in familiar dark robes. As the song comes to an end, his eyes flutter open, and he offers his partner in song a playful bow and the twitch of a smile.

His music may not have the Lan healing abilities, but it soothes his soul all the same.

Tucking Chenqing back into his robes, he steps out of the small crowd that is now dispersing and coms to a full stop at the sight of familiar white robes and an even more familiar face.

Wei Wuxian's eyes widen first in surprise and then in something much worse when he remembers what Lan Wangji must know. He does not have the time to be glad of his friend's appearance as his stomach drops out and everything in him screams at him to do something. To run. (To fight, but no. he couldn't. Not even now.)

He doesn't. He only stands and stares with his heart beating against his ribcage so hard he thinks it might burst through.]

[quietroom]

[ It has been a year— technically, one year, two weeks, and four days— since Lan Wangji last saw Wei Wuxian, hanging over the edge of a cliff, begging him to let go. It's been a little less than that since Lan Wangji kneeled in front of his uncle, asking about right and wrong, and received 300 strokes of canes to his back. The wounds still sting, even if they've mostly faded to angry scars, not yet given the time and chance to fade.

Lan Wangji knows Wei Wuxian is dead. A body was never recovered, but he saw him fall. Saw his face, at the end, and knew he could do nothing. When he turns, when he sees Wei Wuxian, his eyes widen and lips part.

This must surely be a ghost. He stumbles forward, lips parting wordlessly, and thinks about the song he's played constantly, whenever he had the energy and could sit up, the questions he's asked and received no answer.

Now is his chance. Wei Ying is a ghost but that's okay, for now. He can talk to spirits. ] Wei Ying.

[singlelogbridge]

[He isn't yelling and for all that he looks shocked and something else Wei Wuxian can't place, he isn't looking at Wei Wuxian like he's the biggest disappointment of his life. It's startling enough to make him take a step forward rather than back, and then another, slowly closing the distance until they are standing in front of each other.

Does he not know?

Has he not heard what Wei Wuxian has done? Did he come to be in this place before it had happened? Would word have reached them in the Burial Mounds if the noble Hanguang-Jun had gone missing? He doesn't know. Maybe not.]

Lan Zhan. [It's strained, his entire body tense. What exactly is he supposed to say?]

[quietroom]

[ Hearing Wei Ying's voice makes Lan Zhan go remarkably still, careful and cautious. A ghost. This is a ghost. He repeats the mantra in his head, even as he stares at his dead friend.

He doesn't reach out and touch, although he wants to. But this is a ghost. Maybe a memory brought on by the food. He can't touch. So he clenches a hand behind his back, wishing he had Bichen in his hands. But that had seemed prudent to hide. ] Wei Ying. Are you well?

el areyto

[wolfchild]

[ having had a run-in with the bread herself, she knows better than most how powerful it is. it dredged up her dreams, and in that one bite she tasted her brothers' laughter, her father's warm smile, the comfort and safety of her mother's arms. it nearly doubled her over.

she trails him quiet as a shadow and takes up her position on the other side of the tree, shooing away those who come close. task complete, she sits on the warm stones, picking at her sandals, the ruffled sleeves of her shirt fluttering in the cooler breeze. a soft hat covers her shaved head. ]

I don't like to be watched either. [ spoken more to herself than to him. ]

[quietroom]

[ In a life with very little love, each memory is a dagger in his heart, and it's unacceptable. He'll eat later. Much later. When food actually tastes like food and not memories.

At first, he doesn't catch sight of the girl, but it's only because he's busy trying to restrain his expression. But eventually, he notices her, observing from the corner of his eyes as she shoos people away, then settles. ]

Mn. [ An acknowledgment of her words and an agreement. He moves from behind the tree, studying her, a contrast to the bright world around them in white robes. ] My thanks.

[wolfchild]

[ she wore robes when she arrived, but hers were black on one side, white on the other. (she keeps them bundled among her things, buried at the bottom.)

she looks little as she did. the pale green blouse she wears with ruffled sleeves and white shorts are nothing like the buttery soft robe she earned with a poisoned coin and a quick slit from her knife. her shorn head now has a brown fuzz as her hair slowly grows again. her face is long and solemn. as always, her eyes are her most striking aspect. grey as winter and terribly old and sad even when she smiles.

straightening, she nods to him. even here, helping, she keeps a safe distance between them. she balances lightly on the balls of her feet as if about to take flight. her feet are tough, a testament to miles and miles walked, and the hand she raises to tug her hat further down holds the calluses proving her preference for blades.

she has counted only ten and one summers in her short life.

she cants her head curiously. ]

Are you a priest?

[quietroom]

[ He carefully keeps expression off his face, but his eyes give him away sometimes. For now, his eyes hint at sadness, from the food, from the strain of memories; it feels horribly exposing, in a way that would disturb him at another time. Expressing emotions is not something he particularly enjoys. He prefers to keep impassive, hiding behind a fixed facade, with his white robes and cool gaze keeping everyone distant.

Children are a curiosity in his life, at least as he'd grown older. For a long time, he hadn't noticed children or considered them beyond the abstract, until he'd snatched one from the jaws of death and claimed the child as his own. There's actually nothing about the girl that reminds him of his son, but he can't help but think about him as he studies the girl from beneath lowered lashes. The contrast, he thinks; her eyes are terribly old. Those are eyes that have seen death.

As much as retreating into silence would be somewhat welcome, he does not shake his head in response but answers her directly. He appreciates the distance she keeps, and appreciation should be granted. ] I am not. I am a cultivator. [ And he's been here long enough to learn no one quite understands that. ] A warrior, with abilities I have been told are considered magical.

[wolfchild]

[ she regards him with new interest. the faceless men were not warriors, though they could play at being one. they served. valar dohaeris. she remembers the itch of the new face when it was applied to her own. valar morghulis. all men must die.

but the girl child she is here does not know of the faceless men or the house of black and white or the many-faced god. she must be only a little girl. only curious. ]

What kind of abilities?

[quietroom]

[ Cultivators were well-known in his world, their skills lauded, their presence welcome in towns. It's not the first time he's been asked to explain his abilities, but it's still a little awkward.

Her eyes are still too old, but he's never been able to refuse a child. ] Heightened senses. Improved stamina. Healing abilities. Calming and vanquishing resentful energy. Cleansing the mind.

[ A whole host of others, too. ] Not flashy. Do you have such abilities in your home?

El Areyto

[shiliu]

[ "Octopus trap" is what they'd called it, and a name that sounded like someone from Dong Ying. For this, he'd been assigned a caretaker that stuck to him like glue. She wouldn't even let him eat or drink freely, only letting him have the tostones. A little bland but not objectionable, and for some reason made his chest feel better than the handful of pills they shoved at him each day.

He's still only moving about slowly, stretching his legs in a slow perambulation in lieu of dancing, when the fluttering of sleeves catches his eye. Gu Yun has never been that good at reading people, even less so under the influence of the tostones. Thus he approaches without a care and says: ]

Oh — you're the one with the guqin. It's nice, made me think of home.

[ He smiles, the (quite literally) heart-breaking aspect of "home" having been stripped away by the tostones, into a flurry of disjointed happy memories. ]

[quietroom]

[ Very, very few people he's encountered possess any knowledge of the guqin, or if they did, used other terms for it. Someone using the proper name actually gets a second look. A close, careful look, direct enough to be almost improper at first. Tsk, tsk, Lan Wangji, forgetting courtesies.

The man is no one familiar, although his clothing makes Lan Wangji think of home. But there's only been one person he's encountered yet that was, and that was—

Perhaps it's for the best that he had few encounters with anyone from his home. ]

You are familiar? Do you also play?

[ Few people ever smile at Lan Wangji, and he still has the grief of lost love residing in his heart; he has to look away, finding that space to center himself, studying the other man from the corner of his eye. ]

[shiliu]

[ Under the man's almost-improper gaze, Gu Yun's smile curls into a grin, and he thinks about throwing a wink—until that question.

When the man breaks eye contact, he looks down. ]

Um... haha. No, not I. The guqin is for scholars. Mine is a military family.

[ The tostones are still bathing him in their warm psychic glow, otherwise that question, one he'd normally laugh off, would cut deep. ]

It's good enough that I know a few words.

[ He'd learned to write, as a child, the same way he'd learned to wield a sword, entirely by feel. But what kind of sadist would try to teach the "little marquis" how to play a musical instrument, particularly one as refined as the guqin?

What kind of sadist?

That thought does pierce through the warm tostone blanket, as well as whatever protection those pills were affording him. He stifles a cough, swallowing back the familiar coppery tang. ]

[quietroom]

[ A military family. While his clan might be the only one to cultivate with music, none of the clans would make such a distinction. ]

I possess some skill with both sword and the guqin. Are you familiar with cultivators?

[ In his world, everyone would know that term, even the most common of souls. But he’s realized by now that the people here are from places Lan Wangji has never even heard of, times he didn’t think possible.

In the same way he misses his brother and his son, misses Wei Wuxian— except he’s here, he doesn’t need to miss— Lan Wangji misses his home. ]

I can play more.

[ An offer, although not direct. Lan Wangji will play and an audience of one will not be unwelcome. ]

[shiliu]

[ A brief pause. He clears his throat. ]

Um... martial arts, you mean? Naturally, it's a requirement for the military.

[ He grins, finally throwing that wink he'd been suppressing. ]

For a moment, I thought you meant cultivation as in "cultivating immortality." You seem a bit young for that, haha!

[ Where he's from, "soul cultivation" is for the eccentric and the old contemplating their mortality, and the charlatans who cater to them. ]

[quietroom]

[ His face only shifts slightly at that wink, frowning. People don't wink at him, except for one person, and that's still discomforting to think about. ] Martial arts, but also it is possible to cultivate immortality.

It is something we strive for. [ At least, it's supposed to be something they work toward, cultivating enough power to achieve immortality. Rumors of a few abound.

Lan Wangji would have tried for it, once. Now, life is vastly different. ] One can never be too young to seek a goal.

la llegada.

[broadswords]

[ Nicky listens. He asks some questions, he takes a walk around indoors when his legs get stiff or impatience claws at him, but mostly, he listens, quietly. There's always been a path, and Nicky trusts himself, after having centuries to re-orient, but truthfully: it has always been hard, without the family around. Separation was always a choice, before, even when they had been cornered. ]

[ In the evening, he drifts a little aimlessly until he hears the notes, and then narrows in on its scent, approaching on quiet feet. ]

May I sit here?

[quietroom]

[ Even through the sounds of the strings, he hears quiet footsteps, and when he's approached, Lan Wangji flattens his hands on the guqin, silencing it instantly. ] Mm.

[ He nods his head in addition, an acceptance of quiet company. There are not so many people here that he hasn't noticed the man before. But he prefers quiet, hiding in the back until he has a full measure. ]

[broadswords]

[ Nicky sits near, arms draped over his knees, listening. Sometimes, he closes his eyes, and feels the movement of it through his body, but throughout, he offer no interruption, no suggestion of song. No opinion, and no unnecessary glances, towards the instrument or its player. Only after, during a longer lull between the music, he says, ]

You are very skilled. Thank you.

[quietroom]

[ Playing for an audience, even of one, is different than simply playing music to talk to the spirits or practice, and with polite, well-mannered company, it can be a pleasure.

While he cannot appropriately bow over his instrument, he does nod, mimicking a bow. ] My appreciation for listening.

[broadswords]

[ Nicky offers a little nod back, a slow exhale of breath. The music had taken something out of him he'd been aware was tense, but had no means to soothe it himself. There is no other member of his family within his sight, and always, he's unsteady without them. ]

[ Unwavering, true, but unsteady. ]

Do you play other instruments? If I may ask.

[quietroom]

[ A simple shake of his head and a moment of consideration before he speaks, observing from beneath the sweep of his eyelashes. ] My family picks their instrument and spends a lifetime mastering it.

[ Especially the guqin. There's a language to learn, after all. ] Do you play?