synodiporia_ooc | Test Drive #21

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test drive

Test Drive #21

Welcome to the Synodiporia Test Drive Meme! Below the cuts there are two new prompts, and here are the prompts from previous test-drives, which you’re still welcome to use in this post. When you comment, be sure you specify what prompt you want to play with, and please put up your own threadstarter—it makes for a much more friendly environment than a forest of bare toplevels! OCs are especially welcome! Please take a quick look at our Directory & familiarize yourself with the concept and setting of the game before you jump in.

Our upcoming app round runs September 16th–26th. Our next Jaunt will be Night Falls on Yensid, a fantasy Jaunt taking place in a formerly magic kingdom whose history went awry when other Travelers failed to properly complete a previous Jaunt there, one of the many forgotten Jaunts from before Synodiporia properly began as a Dreamwidth game. There will be no Walkabout run alongside this Jaunt.

Prompt #55 takes place in a punishment Liminal Space for a Jaunt that the Travelers failed to solve.
Prompt #56 takes place during the first Jaunt the Travelers made to the Kingdom of Yensid, during its Golden Age.

#55

It’s difficult to make out the shape of this Liminal Space, at first, thanks to the decor; it’s somehow both pitch black and eye-searingly bright at the same time, the pulsing rainbow patterns cutting through the darkness making it all but impossible to properly judge distance. The truly persistent, or those who manage to abuse Liminal ‘down is relative’ gravity without hitting a pitfall for long enough, may eventually determine that it seems to be a giant egg. More so than many iterations of Liminal Space, it’s completely closed off.

Unfortunately, that’s going to be very difficult indeed to figure out. It’s not just the impossible coloration that makes navigation difficult; there’s a terrible storm raging, and the whipping winds and cracking thunder make it all too easy to stumble into a pitfall by accident. And those pitfalls don’t exactly want to let go of anyone they ensnare, either. Errant Travelers may find themselves supporting an impossibly heavy overhead weight, or pushing a boulder eternally uphill, or trying to catch an ever-lowering drink of water, or pouring water into a tub riddled with gaping cracks, or any number of other seemingly endless, pointless tasks. They can be escaped with help from another Traveler, or one person can be released from the task when another stumbles in.

The only respite from this - the colors, the storm, the punishments - is in the form of Travelers’ created spaces, but those are as difficult to get to right now as everything else. Good luck.

#56

It's a chaotic time for the Kingdom of Yensid. The Amulet of Yensid, that fabled magical artifact that must be rejoined each lunar year so that the kingdom's three races can continue their peaceful magical coexistence, has gone missing. Two-thirds of it, the humans' fragment and the Forest Folk's fragment, are nowhere to be found. The capital city is just as bustling as ever despite this, with reptilian Stonefolk flitting from place to place in their usual parkour-like fashion, small animal-like Forest Folk hawking various potions and crafts, and humans making all sorts of deals.

There's an undercurrent of urgency to the day's business. Small groups of three or four of various species move through the city with enchanted mirrors, dowsing rods, fishing lures, and all other manner of magical items designed to aid in the act of finding something, but so far, no one's turned up anything solid yet. A few of the stronger magicked items are leading their owners out towards the foreboding Birdlime Mountains, but that's the most promising lead anyone has.

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A tall young man (mid-twenties, maybe?) with a slightly crooked jaw and soaking wet hair and clothes wanders up to Jean, giving the damp cigarette a greedy look.

"You look like a kind, generous, and above all intelligent guy - if I dry that off for you and light it, will you lend me one?"

Jean listens to each one of those statements with various degrees of skepticism. That said, he has never been stingy with his cigarettes, as expensive as they are where he comes from.

"Why not." He plucks the wet cigarette from his lips and offers it to the stranger. "Do your best."

Eliot doesn't take it, but rather raises one hand into the air and makes an odd little gesture. It doesn't really look like fingers should move that way, but nonetheless the man makes the motion fluid, languid, almost lazy. When he does so, it almost seems like there's a heat shimmer in the air around his fingers, and then Jean will feel that same heat around his hand, focused on the cigarette. The small paper tube will suddenly lighten as the water is apparently evaporated out of it, and then a small red glow appears at the tip.

"Better keep your hand over it, this time," Eliot says, and holds out a hand for another for himself.

He looks at the tiny blaze with mild surprise, before bringing the cigarette back to his lips, hand cupped to protect it from the brutal rain as he was told. The first drag tastes really good, and really real.

"Well, thank you", he says with genuine gratitude. Then he reaches into an inner pocket and flips his cigarette case open for Eliot.

It is a shame, though. That little miracle is only further evidence that Jean lost his mind. Not that he has ever been particularly attached to it, but the last thing he wants is to be a burden to his sister.

"The sensible thing would be to commit me to the cheapest place she can find. Visit me now and then if she feels like it."

He doubts that she will, though. Lotta is one of the most pragmatic people he knows, but she cares about him more than she probably should.

Eliot plucks free a cigarette and lights it in a similar manner as he had with Jean's - a little gesture, though this one produces a flame from his fingertip, which he holds to the end as he takes a long drag, eyes half closing in genuine pleasure. He, too, uses his free hand to shield things from the rain.

"Who's 'she'?" he asks, not terribly interested, but feeling magnanimous, now that he has a little tobacco in his lungs. "Are you married? I suppose that would explain the eyes."

Jean takes his time observing the stranger, noticing every little thing out of habit. The lack of interest, the pleasure of a true smoker, the weird little gestures...Now that he is watching them for the second time, he can tell there's something specific about them. Some sort of precision. Closer to playing an instrument than performing fairytale magic. Why would his mind come up with all this?

"She is my younger sister."

He shrugs, merely accepting the logic of insanity, in which one must explain their own thoughts to figments of their imagination.

"What about the eyes?"

Edited 2017-09-15 05:14 (UTC)

The gestures, when observed, are very specific. And odd - people normally don't move their fingers in that manner, so it must have taken some practice. The other thing that's immediately noticeable about the young man is his completely, ridiculously affected presentation. He has the air of some sort of shabby, down-trodden former prince, almost as though he were some grand actor playing one. He doesn't seem to be hiding anything - the fact that his manner seems completely put on doesn't seem the slightest bit embarrassing to him.

Also, he has very nice cuff links.

"You look tired," Eliot explains, gesturing with his cigarette before putting it back in his mouth. "There's a certain droop to your eyelids, though I suppose that could also be just your unfortunate anatomy."

Eliot definitely knows something about unfortunate anatomy with his weird, crooked mouth, though funnily enough it's not terribly noticeable when he's speaking, if only because his mannerisms are so theatrical.

"I always imagined marriage would be exhausting. I personally don't believe in the institution for myself, far too many potential compromises, and once one starts compromising on personal habits, what's next? Fashion sense? Taste in art? Wine? No, thank you."

Edited 2017-09-15 13:30 (UTC)

It's funny how the jaw is the last thing Jean notices. Perhaps that might be the point of Eliot's entire presentation. Or it used to be the point back in the day. He wonders if he was born like that or acquired it later on. No matter how frivolous the young man may seem, people can be cruel and one doesn't just turn out like Eliot without growing a thicker skin. Learning to move his fingers in such an unnatural way couldn't have been easy either.

He happens to know a thing or two about princes, and Eliot's rant and mannerisms bring a tiny smile to his lips, as if he were reminded of a private joke.

"I've never been married, but as embarrassing as it is, that does sound like my sister. We share most tastes, though, so there's no trouble."

Or rather, Jean doesn't mind bending to her will, except when it comes to very specific things.

"Doesn't this place make you tired?"

He is completely evading the question. But yes, his eyes are always like that. And no, he won't waste energy if he can help it.

"Oh, siblings," Eliot says, rolling his eyes, but he doesn't elaborate. He couldn't be any more different from his brothers if he tried, and ... well, he did try.

"But no," he adds, answering Jean's question, "It doesn't. It's tedious so far, but, you know, being shanghaied into another world holds a certain charm, enough to keep one alert, don't you think? I just wish some of these doors would open. I've tried a few, and they all seem to be locked."

Which has been his bad luck, really - if he had tried longer, he would have come across one of the open, public areas.

"And the background chatter is entertaining."

He takes a moment to process Eliot's response to the idea of "siblings". To Jean, those reactions are far more comprehensible than the whole crazy world around him. Maybe if he pays attention close enough, he will find a way out from the hole his mind threw him in.

"Background chatter, is it. I didn't try to move much for fear of falling into one of those pitfalls, but if you wish to continue..?"

He takes a drag on his cigarette and motions discreetly towards a rainbow that looks more promising than the others. Why? He doesn't know, but he's used to relying on his instincts.

Eliot gives no sign that he's noticed the motion, other than to point his feet that direction and start ambling toward the indicated rainbow. Or rather, he looks like he's ambling, but he's actually going very carefully, because he has no interest in ending up in a pit, either.

"Yes, the voices, all talking with each other? ... you don't hear them? This is going to be incredibly embarrassing if I find out I've gone batshit and no one told me before now," Eliot complains, as if hearing voices is equivalent to having a bit of broccoli in one's teeth.

Jean follows Eliot, making sure that every step he takes matches the other man's path. However, when Eliot speaks of his concerns about his mental state he has to stop on his tracks and let out a fast, short breath that may or may not be laughter.

No, he won't start an argument about who is hallucinating whom. He can well predict Eliot's reaction if he tries.

"Have you any experience with those?" he asks airily, resuming his careful walk. "Going batshit? Visiting other worlds?"

As far as Jean is concerned, there is no difference between those two. As much as there is no difference between the wild landscape before his eyes and the random voices in his mind.

Edited 2017-09-16 23:38 (UTC)

"I suppose I can get a little crazy when I'm drunk," Eliot opines, blowing a cloud if smoke out into the damp air. It's immediately whipped away by the wind. "And madness in old age is generally considered derigeur among a certain set. But hearing voices outside of the setting of having ingested massive quantities of drugs? No, that's new to me."

He pauses, then, glancing over at Jean speculatively.

"Other worlds ... Well, that's not entirely novel. Uncommon, absolutely, but not completely unheard of. What about you, my sloe eyed acquaintance?"

"Jean." he offers. Some sort of manmade construction emerges across the terrible weather. He was right after all, thank goodness. "Jean Otus."

"I can't say that I have experienced either." he shrugs. "But it wouldn't be surprising if madness runs on my mother's side. In fact, one of her sisters comes to mind."

Maybe that's the problem, he thinks with quiet stoicism. Inbreeding messed his genes and here he is. He can accept that as long as Lotta is not afflicted as well. Their grandfather seems normal enough, at least.

"A certain set...Are you some sort of celebrity?" Drugs, alcohol and madness in old age, the description would fit except that singers and actors can't afford being that elitist. It wouldn't sell well. "No, that can't be..."

It's something else, obviously. Something more old fashioned, though why his brain would come with that particular dandy-shaped puzzle is anyone's guess.

Eliot can't help it, he lets out a little chuckle at the 'That can't be', lifting his chin a little. "Is that so unlikely? I feel I should muster some sort of offended protest, but I'm really not at my best today, so I'll give you a pass."

He adds, quite casually, "I'm a magician, actually. Eliot."

He doesn't normally tell people that, but fuck it, whatever weird place this is, it hardly seems to matter. Besides, probably this guy will either think he's saying he's some kind of non-magical illusionist or won't believe him, despite the spells he demonstrated earlier.

He nods with a tiny wry smile at Eliot's generosity.

"People usually don't pay others to be themselves."

A magician. The possibility of Eliot being an illusionist is actually the first thing that comes to Jean's mind, except that the other option matches everything better, the tricks, cigarettes, Eliot himself. It also fits this whole impossible world like a glove.

Ruminating on the whys rather than the hows, he takes the lead and opens the door in an almost official manner. A look inside reveals Vargas' lovely kitchen. It's the first thing he sees that feels remotely like home, and it moves Jean in a way everything else didn't.

"I can hear the voices as well, Eliot." he says as he holds the door, looking down at his shoes to gather his composure. His voice has become lower, contained. "I'm weak to alcohol...so I'm afraid I'm an unpleasant drunk to be around. I never tried drugs myself, so I'm not quite sure if hearing voices would be expected. Huh, now that I think about it, you should probably not talk about illegal substances around me."

He's one of ACCA's finest, after all.

Edited 2017-09-17 15:52 (UTC)

"Why not? Are you a cop?" Eliot asks, apparently unconcerned, because he walks right past the blond into the kitchen, looking around with great interest. He wonders if there's any wine ... the magician is a little more than weak to demon rum, he's a full fledged alcoholic.

"If you are, they weren't my drugs, someone slipped them into my drink at a party, honest, officer. Also, you might want to get your head checked, I don't think they allow you to be a cop if you're actively hallucinating. ... it might come in handy if it turns out we're both psychic, though."

Edited 2017-09-17 17:01 (UTC)

Amused at Eliot's lack of concern and party story, he closes the door, enters the kitchen and proceeds to thoroughly inspect the refrigerator in search of something sweet.

"Close. I work for the Inspection Department."

He looks over his shoulders when the man starts talking about hallucinations. He is not sure whether their conversation taking that turn is a good thing or not.

"They don't. But if I'm hallucinating this much, keeping my job will be the least of my concerns." Would his bosses wait for him to become sane again? Perhaps give his sister a small pension for his past efforts? "I can't see how being psychic could be useful for any of us, though."

Color him intrigued.

Edited 2017-09-17 18:13 (UTC)

"You've never wanted to read someone's mind?" Eliot asks, locating a nice bottle of red with startling speed. He makes a spiraling gesture with one hand to pull the cork, then starts examining cupboards for glasses. Along the way he starts oulling out ingredients - if they're in someone's kitchen, might as well cook.

"There are spells for that, of course, but they're not really my speciality. And what the hell is the 'Inspection Department'? The Inspection Department of where?" the magician asks. "Do you inspect drugs?"

Edited 2017-09-17 21:28 (UTC)

Realizing that Eliot knows precisely what he is doing, Jean moves back to enjoy the show and relish the scent of wine and ingredients. He's not good at cooking, or anything housework-related, but his strong love of good food runs in the family.

"ACCA." he replies, brow faintly furrowed. Everybody knows what the Inspection Department is. It's the sort of thing kids learn at grade school. Doesn't the figments of his imagination know better? "I inspect people. Usually district authorities or other ACCA inspectors."

He pours wine for the two of them. Just because he is a pathetic lightweight drinker, it doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate the value of alcohol.

"...People are not that difficult to read once one looks at them."

Edited 2017-09-17 21:49 (UTC)

"ACCA?" Eliot asks. "Never heard of them. So you must be some kind of internal affairs wonk, I bet the other cops love you."

Meanwhile, he's located some tomato sauce and fresh herbs, and he starts heating oil to sauteed the garlic he's chopping up. "Can you see what's in the fridge for protein? Seafood for preference."

Those thin blond eyebrows raise a millimeter. Not knowing about the Inspection Department is strange enough. But never hearing about ACCA is as impossible as lighting a cigarette with magical fire.

"Well, popularity has always been my sister's forte rather than mine." He steps forward to look into the refrigerator once more. "...Except perhaps for that time when my best friend was elected prom king but ditched the queen to spend the evening with me."

No, wait. Every single girl from their class hated him for that.

"Will salmon do?"

Edited 2017-09-18 01:32 (UTC)

"You know, something similar happened to me, but I suspect for entirely different reasons," Eliot muses, and then he looks over at Jean, eyeing him up and down with a critical gaze, putting his head to one side briefly. "Or maybe not."

There is that lapel pin, after all. And the cigarette case.

"And salmon, hm. Not as good as shellfish, definitely better than cod. Let's give it a try."

He points to a spot on the counter next to him. "I need a baking dish, the olive oil ... hmm, and see if you can find a lemon."

Edited 2017-09-18 04:17 (UTC)

Or maybe not. Feeling the weight of Eliot's attention - watching is infinitely easier than being watched - Jean obeys those simple orders, biddable like a good puppy. He feels particularly victorious when he finds fresh lemons.

After spending so long in the rain, the smell of the homely kitchen is like a blessing. Always easily swayed by sensorial stimuli, he takes off his wet overcoat and stretches his arms, thoroughly enjoying the warmth of the oven.

"Something similar?" he asks lazily, interested in Eliot's stories in general, but also trying to remove the focus of the conversation from himself.

"It wasn't the prom king, it was one of the runner-ups. And we weren't hanging out so much as I was giving him a blow job in the bathroom. Since we were both caught walking out of the bathroom together, he told his buddies I had come on to him in there and they proceeded to take turns kicking the shit out of me," Eliot says casually, the same way someone else might talk about taking the dog out for a walk.

He lays out the fish, glances over at Jean, and blinks as though remembering something. He claps his hands together, then twists them opposite directions to each other, before pulling them apart with his fingers point at odd angles, muttering to himself something that sounds like some kind of Scandanavian language. His fingertips shimmer with heat haze and the blond is enveloped in a toasty, cozy warmth, and all of his clothing, overcoat included, is suddenly dry.

Then Eliot goes back to what he was doing (chopping shallots), and asks lightly, "Were you fellating your best friend?"

55

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Liminal space has the psychic network, where all the Travelers can talk to each other in their heads

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