Test Drive #3

[felldenmods]

Welcome to the November test drive! We're so excited to have you with us.

A few things of note:

✦ Test drive threads can be considered game-canon if you choose. They're essentially in a shared dreamscape and take place between your character leaving their world and arriving in the audience hall with their faction leader.
✦ Reserves will open at 12:01 AM UTC on December 1st, and continue to be until 11:59 PM UTC on December 7th. This is to reserve a character, not an application slot.
✦ Applications will open at 12:01 AM UTC on the 8th, and remain open until 11:59 PM UTC on the 15th, or until all application slots have been filled. Once Activity Check ends, we will have an application slot number available on the application page. The IC & OOC intro logs will be posted two days later.
✦ Questions? We have a FAQ that's chock full of good information! If they are test drive specific, we have a top level thread below that allows for OOC questions to be posted.
✦ The network is available to use! No matter where your character is, their compass arrived on their person. Please feel free to include a network post in your top-levels! Once opened, the compass will display instructions on use, such as using voice-commands to activate it. Usernames are your characters first name or their most common nickname.
✦ Below will be a header for OOC questions as well as a request for Fortuna if you risk having your fortune read in Kyst.
✦ Current players who participate in the test drive by tagging new players will be eligible for a secondary blessing in December.

All set? Perfect! Welcome to Fellden.

AS THE MOON RISES.♪ You’ll find yourself just outside the Temple doors, which will be locked if you try to open them. A little rude, keeping you out after bringing you all this way. The thing is, you can hear a lot of commotion in the distance, and smoke rising from the center of a district; you may want to check that out. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire! Except the smoke is not at all something to be concerned over. Instead, people are gathered near a large bonfire in the decorated city square, drinking and carousing, singing songs of celebration; Moon saviors have arrived! War winners! The residents of the city laugh and sing and dance in pairs throughout the square that's dusted with snow, grateful for those who have come to aid them. Their merriment doesn’t dwindle as the sun begins to set on the horizon, twin moons rising in its place. When you (and other new arrivals) are finally noticed by the revelers, do not expect to be left alone! Crowns and laurels of fir and juniper will be deposited upon your heads, seasonal fare of food and drink placed into your hands, while live musicians play loud enough for the dead to hear. You’ll be invited to dance, to drinking games, and offered food and flowers and other items of value. Some may cry when they look into your face, thanking you for becoming their champions during this long and exhaustive war. Hopefully you’re here to enjoy the festivities. Sneaking off is just fine, too, but don’t expect to be let go of quietly; the people of the Moon Temple are so happy to see you! Enjoy the celebration while it lasts long into the night. If you do manage to leave, a helpful citizen of the Temple will inform you of the nearby transport mirrors that will take you anywhere on the map, one of which they will provide to you.

THE SETTING STARS.♪ You'll find upon your arrival that the castle is not accepting visitors as they decorate the interior in preparation of the festive season that quickly approaches. Guards at the door will instead direct you to the center of the city where further preparations are being made. Venturing there, you'll be greeted either by those who are decorating for the evening's party that will enlist you to help, or perhaps you're a late arrival and the celebration has already begun! Festivities are in full swing in the Court of Stars. Starfolk have begun their celebrations of the new arrivals and the ushering in the season of the Winter Festival. Once hesitant, guarded, the Stars citizens now welcome new arrivals with open arms, celebrating their appearance with a deep gratitude. Large circles of dancers will pull you into the fray or pull you to dance one-on-one. Others will place bundles of cedar and juniper in your arms for decorating or perhaps learning to weave your own wreath to wear: some will even take pity, create it for you, and set the laurel upon the top of your head. You'll be invited to dance, drink, eat, and participate in the festivities through a snow dusted square. Even the soldiers will join, knocking shoulders and welcoming you to the Court of Stars. Whether you choose to remain for the festivities or wander off, one thing is certain: you are more than welcome in your new home. If you do manage to leave, a helpful citizen of the Court will inform you of the nearby transport mirrors that will take you anywhere on the map, one of which they will provide to you.

MARKETS OF THE COAST.♪ The coastal city of Kyst is abuzz for the holidays, some calm finally beginning to settle in after the rocky past few months. Newcomers will be welcomed with smiling faces from merchants as they look to try to sell their pricy but beautiful wares. Tavern owners and barkeeps will beckon with the promise of warm food and delightful drinks, a place by the fire, and stories of holidays of old. The air is rife with music and the smell of delicious baked goods. Perhaps you'll hear or smell something you recognize from your home; as Fellden is the beginning of all worlds, it wouldn't be an impossible likelihood! Those looking to help out might be coaxed to assist in decorating homes with laurels, garlands, berries, and other bright green, red, silver, and gold colors. Those who seem very eager to help might be recruited by shopkeepers to stand outside and try to get customers in to see their wares, to have a drink, or to rent a room. Anyone willing to do so even for a day will receive free food and drink for the duration of their assistance. And for the auspicious, some may notice a person who has set up a mild little stall in the back of town, sipping eggnog as she offers fortunes. "Fortunes for the new year, my friend," she tells any who approach her. She offers only a small smile. "A laurel for a card. Only one."

BEYOND THE CITIES.♪ In the distance from Kyst, a large forest looms, the Gods Wood imposing even from this distance. Should you travel there, everyone you encounter will urge you to be respectful while within the forest. There, people can be found visiting intricately decorated shrines, prepared for the upcoming holiday, while people leave seasonal offerings in the bowls and plates within the shrines. You're free to leave the crown you were given at your faction celebration, or perhaps something else that you've been granted since your arrival is better suited for your offering. Be mindful of your actions though; those that show disrespect will be forcibly removed from the Gods Wood by the trees. Best foot forward! If the forest is too intimidating, there appears to be a gathering at the nearby Lake Theta where the Festival of Aeons is taking place. You'll be drawn into the fold readily where people will inform you that it is a celebration of souls, both living and passed beyond the veil. You'll be taught how to make paper lanterns to be set into the sky when twilight falls, with further revelry coming after. Be prepared for a long night of celebration ahead of you as the dancing, music, and festivities last long into the night.

Comments

[hobbitstho]

The Setting Stars

[By the time he makes it through the crowd into the open, he's had a wreath laid on his head and a cup pressed into his hand, and all his protests cannot keep the starfolk from shoving him nearer the dancing. It's there he plants his feet, before someone can sweep him into one of the circles, and there he will stay even if someone grasps his hand to pull him in.]

They are merry indeed here! Is this not a country at war, as I was told?

[Later in the evening, he will find his way to a dimmer, quieter corner, near a fire and out of the path of the more wine-soaked. One hand is closed around the wreath that sits across his lap; he sits staring into nothing, his other hand running slowly over his chest, just under his collarbone.

It is extraordinary. The memory of the pain is so near-- not even a day old, to his mind, though whether his mind has reckoned time correctly since he slipped into blackness he does not know. He pulled this arrow out himself, though he could not pull out all of them-- are the rest marked now by these scars, as though they had had a year or more to heal?

He lets his hand fall. As he does, he notices his cup is still nearby. He drinks from it for the first time.]

--

Lake Theta

[The Gods Wood reminds him too much of the witch-wood of Lothlórien. The memory of his time there - the test laid on him there by the ancient Lady of the Wood, the eyes that pierced his mind and the fierce war he waged in his heart - is still too fresh. He avoids it, and turns toward the lake.

His hands are better-suited to the sword than to the delicate work of folding paper, but he allows himself to be drawn into making a lantern. When it's finished he holds it and stands by the lakeshore, a little apart from the crowd. It was ever above and not among the common people that the Steward's son stood, when Minas Tirith celebrated the turning of the year.

He would be merrier were he back in Minas Tirith, among his own people.

If approached, he will incline his head respectfully; he does not think there is anyone here to whom he would bow, but he is a newcomer, after all, and a foreigner besides.]

...They say it is a feast of souls. Is that, then, what the lantern signifies?

{ lake theta }

[hipshoots]

Can't say I rightly know.

[ Ashe isn't from a place where they release paper lanterns, so her curiosity has led her here too. ]

It would make sense, though, to let a soul go into the sky, beyond our reach.

[ She lifts her lantern. It's somehow lopsided so she sighs and sets it before her once more to refold the lines. ]

[hobbitstho]

[He opens his hands with a small, wry smile, showing that his, too, is... less than perfect.]

Where is the sense in it? Why should we not hold them close, while they are within our grasp? [He's a grave-faced man, the kind who makes everything he says sound serious; but the question is gentle enough. A little sad, but an old sadness, not fresh and grieving but long since woven into the years.]

[hipshoots]

Well, I guess I'm thinking of the ones who are gone.

[ Her gaze lowers to her lantern, but she keeps speaking. ]

It's not healthy to hold on too tight. Memories are all well and good, but if you let the past overtake the present...

[ Trailing off with a shrug, she lifts her lantern again to view it. ]

I'm no expert or anything. On, uh, souls or lanterns.

the setting stars

[colorofthesky]

[ The people of the court are festive, indeed, but Zack doesn't feel much like celebrating. He smiles and is generally pleasant to everyone; still, there's far too much on his mind for him to really enjoy it.

Later on, he also wanders away from the revelers, lost in his own quiet reverie. He's not so far gone that he doesn't notice others, though, so when he happens across Boromir, he pauses. He doesn't know them man, has never seen him before in his life, but something in the other's gaze, the way he touches his chest...it's familiar and not in a good way.

He leaves the man alone for a moment, but finally, he does approach. ]

Hey. You mind if I sit here?

[hobbitstho]

[Boromir comes swiftly back to himself. He sits back, shaking off the memory. Almost successfully. He gestures with the hand holding the wreath.]

You're free to sit where you will. Though I warn you, I am perhaps less merry company than you wish-- I am newly come here.

[colorofthesky]

[ Zack smiles faintly at that -- a somber expression more than anything. ]

It's okay. I wasn't really feeling very festive myself.

[ He sets the rather large sword he's been carrying to the side and sits down next to Boromir. ]

I've only been here for about a month, but I can try to answer any questions if you have them.

lake theta

[sweariff]

[Arts and crafts and Bigby go together as well as oil and water, or peanut butter and ground glass. His fingers are thick and clumsy and uncoordinated, not at all suited for the delicate paper that's been shoved in his hands. His corners are messy and rumpled, like he's had to refold them multiple times, and even then it still doesn't look like a lantern.

By the time Boromir finishes with his and goes to join the crowd, Bigby has more or less given up. The more perfect he tries to make his, the worse it ends up looking. In the end, he settles on half-mangled as opposed to completely mangled. When he walks into the crowd holding the wrinkled mass of paper that looks like it's going cave in on itself the moment someone sticks a candle in, he picks out Boromir's shape and approaches him. In no way whatsoever was he watching him out of the corner of his eye as he made his own lantern, trying to copy his technique when he could. Nope.

» It's their way of paying respect to the dead.
» It's an end-of-the-year tradition.
» That's a pretty good guess for a newcomer.
» ...]

Probably. I've heard of things like this being done before to honor the dead.

[He answers with a slight shrug of his shoulders, freeing up one hand to shove in his pocket as he stands behind Boromir.]

Never seen it done in the winter, though. Or with lanterns. [He looks down at his, the paper crinkling lightly as it presses against the side of his arm.]

[hobbitstho]

[Boromir's isn't going to win any awards, but it looks significantly more prepared to fly than this stranger's. Well, they're none of them craftsmen, are they.]

In my country, we sometimes honor the dead with light, as well-- though not with lanterns, as you say. Not in this fashion.

[He looks at the lantern between his hands, too, turning it over. It is a small thing, and fragile. He glances back at Bigby.]

You, then, are also a stranger in this country.

[sweariff]

[Bigby's answer to both is a hum, a gravelly rumble that sounds like it came from the back of his throat.]

For about four months, yeah. The word they like to use is "Otherworlder."

[He's not a fan, and the irony that he's seeing things from the other side does not escape him. Otherworlder sounds like something from a sci-fi movie but it's a hell of a lot better than "mundy", he supposes.

Some of the people ahead of them are already starting to release their lanterns over the lake. Bigby figures they must be passing out candles at the front of the line. He watches one lift into the air, carried higher and higher by the wind like a balloon.]

What do your people use instead of lanterns? [He looks back at Boromir.] Fire?

[It's an educated guess, mainly based off what he knows is the case with his own home — his original home, before New York City.]

lake theta

[wipedclean]

[He’s never done paper folding before, but he’s gentle and precise with the paper, even with his metal arm. When they’re done, and watching the lanterns float away, he thinks of the people he’s killed, and wonders if there’s a prayer of some kind he can say for them, or for himself.

When the man next to him speaks, he shrugs.]

It seems right that they would. I don’t really know.

[hobbitstho]

[Boromir takes in the metal arm with interest. No one else in this crowd goes armored, at least not that he can see. Thus far every place he's been has felt far from war-- farther than he's been in years.

But the man's actions are not warlike. He is a better lantern-maker armored than Boromir is unarmored; when their lanterns lift off, he sees that the other man's ascends faster before both are lost in the swarm.]

...Whether they are or are not, they are beautiful.

[He thinks of every man who died holding Osgiliath; of the desperate, dwindling Guard in Minas Tirith; of the hobbits, and the Ringbearer. Should he light a lantern for them? Do they yet live?]

...You are the only man here armored, [he observes after a silence, still looking out over the lake.]

[wipedclean]

[The comment takes him a little by surprise. No one has actually said much about his arm since he’s arrived, and it takes him a moment to realize that’s what the man is talking about. He looks down at his hand and flexes his fingers a little.]

I suppose you could say I’m always armored.

[He holds his hand closer to the stranger, as if offering a handshake.]

My arm is made of metal. I lost my natural arm during a fight, and this one was put on me instead.

lake theta.

[unabatedly]

It seems so.

[ The answers comes from a thin and willowy elven woman, who stands rather short in comparison to Boromir himself. Her hair is loosely pulled back into a braid, a few flowers threaded through the pleated knots to make her look like something truly of the forest that rests far beyond the lake. She stands with a staff in hand, one she seems to be holding onto in a manner that suggests she's using it to remain upright, though her smile is a gentle and easy one, not betraying any kind of handicap she may have.

Though, perhaps he white wrap of bandages barely hidden by the lip of her collar might be a good hint as to why she's doing so. ]

I was told that we are to write the names of the departed along the sides of the lanterns and then to send them into the lake. It's...a way of letting go of the past while still remembering and honoring it. Recognizing the cycle of life and death as it comes and goes.

[hobbitstho]

[He comes more alert when he sees she's an elf. It is rare, to see them not surrounded by their kind. And the memory of Lothlórien is still close, in all its beauty and all its pain. The last time he met an elven woman, she looked too deep into his heart.

He's practiced at seeing when someone walks wounded, though. Is this, finally, a glimpse of the war he was told to expect here?

Though wary, he inclines his head in a brief bow.]

In my country-- my city-- my forefathers are buried in stone. They are well-remembered there, and well-honored.

[unabatedly]

[ In turn, she also bows, and the tip of her head is deeper...though maybe that's just because she's shorter. Who knows?

But beyond that, there's an inquisitive little glance as she considers the lantern and then what he says. Her brow knits briefly in confusion. He's... Is he a native of Fellden? He must not be, as he doesn't know the festival any more than she does. So-- ]

I'd ask if you were a dwarf but clearly you have me beaten for height. Humans in my world burn their dead...or bury them, in very rare cases. The dwarves are the only ones who return their people to the stone.

Is there significance to it, for your people?

lake

[takenalive]

[There's something by the lake that looks like it might be a small horse or quite a sizeable deer, at first glance, and at a longer glance is Very Not. A scarred steel-blue entity holding very very still and looking blindly out over the water with all available eyes, radiating an odd sensation - a tingling-numb crawl, a ringing like after a head injury. Imagine you knew a song intimately associated with paralytic indecision and an edge of fear and found someone playing it using strange instruments; that's about the effect.

People don't seem fussed, though they do appear inclined to avoid that aura. It's hardly celebratory.]

[hobbitstho]

[He think he's not seeing it correctly at first-- he tries to make himself see the deer he wants to see, fails, and has to really look at it.

He doesn't immediately associate the sensation he feels with the creature itself. It looks fearful and strange-- why would he not feel fearful and strange, looking at it? Only when he sees the way others skirt it does he think that there is something inherent to the beast, some ghost of evil that hangs around it-- it is oppressive like the air in the mountain passes that lead to Mordor, though the fear is not exactly the same.

It is strange that the crowd parts for it, but does not flee from it-- is this also its design?

These are more questions he cannot answer. His sword is with him. He came carrying it. He lets the paper lantern fall from his hands and moves toward the creature, one hand wrapped around it, ready to draw the moment it proves itself as foul as it feels.]

[takenalive]

[Alloran's tail is curled and the blade lies low, nearly touching the ground. It's not how warriors hold their tails, but more importantly it's not how Esplin would hold his tail, ever. What a strange feeling - emptiness. It's good, obviously, but also, what does he do when he isn't being forced? He keeps waiting for his body to be moved, and keeping his tail low is a building reminder that it won't be.]

<He really isn't here. What must I...>

[It's sort of a voice, it's easily mistaken as sound, but it doesn't have the sense of directionality, of source. Or accent, or pitch. Tone is there, sort of; he is at a loss.

His ear twitches as if shooing an insect, and one stalked eye turns to look towards the human approaching.]

<Ah. Is that a weapon? If you attack me, I would advise decisiveness.>

Stars

[strander]

[The wreath on Sam’s head is lopsided, soft needles caught in tousled hair. It covers one side of his brow, almost touching an eyelid, making him half-squint at the man before him. All around, people dance in a circle. The two of both them, though, stand like immovable pillars — awkward bulwarks in a storm of festivity.

It’s overwhelming.

This amount of people, this amount of noise. This... city. He misses the emptiness of grassy plains, paths winding over rivers. At least the treachery of a mountain pass was never so raucous, only silent in its danger.

A random passerby presses a cup into his hands, and is gone just as quickly — the pressure of the touch causes Sam to back away, and it slips from his hands, clattering to the ground and spilling the liquid at their feet.]

Shit. [A hissed mutter, apologetic all the same.] Sorry— sorry.

[hobbitstho]

[Boromir takes an instinctive step back, trying to keep the wine off his boots, and collides with someone twirling past behind him, which sends his own cup sloshing over onto his sleeve and his wreath down into his eyes. The curse he utters belongs much more to a common soldier than to a son of Denethor.

His patience goes. He steps in closer to the other man, out of the way of the dancing. They could be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder in a crowd of enemies at this distance.]

Think nothing of it. [He casts his own cup down after it.] You care for dancing as little as I do. How shall we escape them?

[strander]

[Should he feel better that his clumsiness has domino-effected itself into another man, causing him to spill his drink in an equally inelegant way? Probably not. Misery loves company, as the general rule states, but Sam circumvents it wholeheartedly — it’s embarrassing. Dropping things is an action that his brain flags as wrong, written into his figurative programming via the frightening shock of adrenaline that surges through his veins when he fumbles cargo, a package, something marked as fragile that should not be dropped in a river.

A drink is a far cry from that. But the body reacts in the same way. Twofold now that the other man’s done the same. He’s anxious energy when the other draws closer.]

Yeah. [He mutters, then repeats for good measure. Nerve-wrecking, yes, but not the worst he’s ever been through. Calm down, Sam.] Yeah… Okay, look. There.

[He gestures at a gap in one of the dance circles. Someone must have just left. It’s about to connect itself again, but they have a few precious seconds to pass through it if they’re quick about it.]

theta

[irondad]

Something like that.

[ dressed warmly for the weather, Tony meets that respectful incline with the uptick of his chin– "what's up" is fairly universal between worlds. the sun has since dipped past the tree line, and the first few scattering of stars are winking in the velvet-dark sky to the east.

he offers the stranger a lit taper, after lighting his own lantern. respectfully hushed, his tone is light, keeping his own mix of doubts to himself and cradling the small paper cube as if it's something highly valuable, ]

A sending-off of the souls of the departed.

[hobbitstho]

[Boromir takes the taper, after a second's hesitation. He lights the lantern and watches the sides puff out gently with the heat.]

Is there a soul for whom yours is lit?

[This is not an invasive question in Middle-earth.]

Setting Stars

[comburst]

Oh, we're definitely at war. But most of the otherworlders aren't that into it?

[ A shrug. ]

And the people who are native to this place are just really happy we're here. I guess.