TEST DRIVE MEME 003

[rubimods]

⚰︎ ⍢ ⌲ ⍚ TEST DRIVE MEME:

Welcome to RUBILYKSKOYE — a dark, horror-smut game where player choices will drive a mod-run storyline about the world and its NPCs. This test drive meme provides a medley of prompts evoking the game's general tone.

THESE THREADS CAN BE GAME CANON if both players are accepted into the game and agree to it. However, if players who'd prefer to start fresh are welcome to reuse these prompts in their own personal logs upon acceptance into the communities. Note: characters arriving in September's application round will arrive in the midst of a two-part event that will continue through October. Players may date their character's arrival any time from September 8th onward.

CONTENT WARNINGS for this game include: monsters, body horror, dub-con, non-con, religion, blood/violence, and marking/branding, loss of autonomy/self, and mental influences. This log additionally has warnings for: disorientation, loss of direction, hallucinations, time distortion/lost time, aphrodisiacs, group sex, dubious consent, cannibalism and cannibalistic urges, spiders, bondage/restraint, loss of autonomy, body horror, sadism, torture, cult behavior, assault, arson, caging, free use, and public sex.

If you have QUESTIONS about the test drive prompts, please ask HERE. Questions about the game itself or the general setting should be directed to the FAQ.

FAQ ✧ SETTING ✧ CALENDAR ✧ RESERVES ✧ APPLICATIONS

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE

The chirping of partridges in the treetops rouses you. Light barely filters through the canopy, just enough to suggest daylight. By the time it reaches the forest floor, the light has taken on a sickly green. You lie amongst the frost-covered mosses and ferns, the frozen soil cold and just a little damp on your bare skin.

Wherever you were before this moment, whatever you were doing or wearing, when you awaken in this forest, you find yourself naked and helpless as the day you were born. As you sit up and get your bearings, aside from a brief wave of disoriented nausea, you seem to be no worse for wear than you last remember.

The gnarled oaks and moss suggest no sign of civilization or sentient life. Just flickers of movement from curious squirrels or brave lizards emerging from a temporary retreat from the wintry weather. With your feet under you, and you'll find the wood is filled with berry bushes and nut trees, though much of the fruit has been picked clean. The freshwater stream that runs north-south, populated by both poisonous toads and delicious crawdads, is running actively again as the weather warms back up from the recent snowstorm.

You may start out alone, or among others sharing stories just like yours, or you may run into others who are fully clothed and ready for a strange expedition ...

LOST WOODS:

The expedition party made their way into the woods on September 14th expecting a direct route to the Void. Instead, they've found themselves lost and disoriented.

Their navigational tools seem useless, leading them around in circles as ancient trees, caves, water sources, and other reliable landmarks do not align with the maps. Trees seem to move — didn't you see that exact deer drinking from the brook a quarter mile ago? The ever-changing and impenetrable maze of the woods may separate characters from one another, or get them so lost that they wind up back at the edge of the wood, staring at castle walls or farmlands.

With no easy measure of their progress, and the treetops obscuring the light, time feels dilated. Characters may feel they've been in the woods for hours when it has been days, or for weeks when it has been hours. The amount of time that passes in the woods will be individualized for each character, and will not match the full month that passes for characters back in town.

DON'T SMELL THE FLOWERS:

While some folx are being turned around and sent back to start, those that make it deeper are in perhaps worse shape. The dilated time and the circuitous nature of their efforts may stretch their week's worth of rations too thin, driving them to rely upon foraged mosses and fruits for sustenance. The woods are full of fungi and edible flora with aphrodisiac side effects like increased bloodflow, heightened arousal, and increased tactile sensitivity.

Much like the animals afflicted by the Void, the plant-life here grows strange. The deeper they go, the more troubling the side effects of their foraged sustenance becomes.

Deep in the forest they may find:

• A moss that makes them hallucinate an idealized sexual experience from deep in their repressed subconscious, which they will determinedly act out.


• The pulsing fruits that grow amongst this moss will render them desperate to orgasm as if they have been edged for hours, but they will find themselves physically incapable of doing so — unless they succumb to its secondary effect, the hunger for still-warm human flesh.


• A nut that grows in bushes leaves those who eat it unable to feel satisfied by just a single partner, seeking out threesomes and moresomes with a lost hiker or another pair.

The more of these that an individual consumes, the more pronounced the effects as their secretions build up in the body over time. It may become a common sight to find a friend tucked behind a tree, stark naked and desperately masturbating.

REVENGE OF THE SPIDERS:

Monsters thrive this far out. Huge, blood-red spiders the size of hunting dogs drop from the treetops. In addition to their venomous bite, which contains a fast-acting paralytic, these creatures are clever: they attempt to use their webbing to entangle any trespassers, binding limbs together or to trees. If you're unfortunate to become fully cocooned, you don't have long before this forest will be the last thing you see.

However, some of the clothed expeditioners will be able to tell you that the Duchess of the nearby town has a special relationship to these spiders, and players should expect their treatment of the spiders to influence future events

BORDER CROSSING:

The void can play tricks on your senses. As madness sets in and you lose all sense of direction, you may also lose control of your body — what is that steers your hands to turn against your friends? Why does it sound like your own voice whispering?

In the fog, you may also hear the voices of those familiar to you — people you know from the town, or people whom you know with almost perfect certainty aren't here. these figments may recreate unhappy memories or force trespassers to hallucinate their worst nightmares. Nothing is as it seems in the void, and when you swing at these figments, desperate to silence them, it might not be a figment at all, but a friend in the flesh trying to help you. By the time you see their true face, it could be too late to stop yourself.

There are risks associated with Void proximity: increased aggression, paranoia, emotional instability, accelerated monster transformations, and hallucinations.

As the time dilation worsens, characters' monstrous transformations may happen in uneven stages. For instance, a character may manifest a physical aspect or supernatural ability or urge that suits their fully transformed state even if the other aspects of them remain human. These changes can happen totally unprompted, or as a result of their generalized Void proximity symptoms.

Even untransformed, the closer they get to the Void, the more intensely those on the expedition feel intrusive violent and sadistic urges — not just to lash out at others suddenly, but also a fascination with inflicting pain (emotional or physical) that may or may not be erotic in nature. This sadism seems especially potent in anyone with a Niez mark. Those who notice the pattern may be inclined to urge some of their friends to turn back now, before they reach the Void ...

writer's block?

If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try: naked hiking, fighting or getting webbed up by spiders, acting out a hallucination, or grappling with aphrodisiac flower symptoms!

TOWNIE TROUBLES

Turn your back to the darker, shadowy parts of the forest and eventually the glow of manmade lights and the curve of a dirt road may come into view. At the edge of the wood, you'll find a town surrounded by a fifty-foot wall of beige stone. The only entrance is an iron gate positioned on the southern edge. When you arrive, the gate is already open, welcoming people inside.

This quaint, historic town of five-thousand has cobbled street and signs lit by gas lamp. Wooden shutters protect otherwise open-air windows on the buildings, which are all under three stories with gabled roofs. A number of businesses hug the main street — a clockmaker, a cobbler, a grocer — while residential homes sprawl outwards towards the wall. At the far end of the main street, visible about a mile to the north now that the trees and the enormous wall is out of the way, sits a castle with three towers.

When you enter, the streets are full of people, but despite any efforts on your part to hide or make excuses, they don't seem offended by your nakedness. Even families with children don't gawk or look twice. Those determined to find proper clothing regardless will find that modern clothing stores aren't available — the closest this town has is a tailor's shop and a stand in the central marketplace selling scarves and blankets.


BUNKING UP:

The locals may still direct newcomers to the boarding house for both clothes and a place to stay. Accessible through an embellished iron garden gate and obscured by hanging plants, trees, and vines, beyond an overgrown yard in the residential sprawl of the town is a bright-red door, which opens to a spacious cottage of several stories. Parts of the house still bear the dust of disuse, gathered on various furnishings — bedding, sofas, curtains, wooden tables. However, it's already full of people! Anyone who's already appeared in the village just as you did today lives here.

Don't spend too much time exploring, though. You'll want to claim a bedroom quickly because each one only has two full-size beds, and there aren't enough spaces for everyone. The last people upstairs will need to double up to squeeze in. Roommates will not be mod-assigned; players should coordinate directly with one another to determine their living arrangements.

ON THURSDAY WE HAVE ORGIES:

On Thursdays, religious ceremony spills into the streets as soon as the sun and the children are safely abed. Dancing locals paint their faces painted red and purple and black and yellow. They all wear revealing clothing that, to your sensibilities, may seem sexually suggestive. Some individuals openly expose their breasts and nipples, while some others may incidentally reveal when they turn around to tend to their errands that their dress is backless — entirely! Notably, the locals' choice of clothes reveal a mark on their bodies. An astute person will notice that there are four varieties — and a very astute (thirsty) person might notice that their fellow woodsfolk also have one of these somewhere on their body.

The folks dancing and selling their wares are all offering their energies to give thanks and ask for their god's patronage! The abstractions are all familiar — fertility, harvest, peace. Smalltalk makes them eager to chat and draw you into those festivities — including some ceremonial wax-dripping on the exposed parts of your body! In addition to dancing and the lighting of any number of candles, you may stumble upon fighting rings inspired by Terry Silver's basement club, where the locals brawl until they're bloody and unable to move.

CULT CONSCIOUSNESS:

Usually, the people of the town are very generous, but the atmosphere of the town this month is a little ... darker.

Word has spread around town that some of the void-touched chose to remain behind, and perceptions turn critical rather quickly. Even those who thought they might offer support in alternative ways, or who weren't quite up for making the trek for various valid reasons, will be seen as refusing to help the Duchess. The townspeople increasingly consider those who stayed behind to be a threat to their beloved matriarch.

This unpopularity has consequences, as the townspeople of Rubilykskoye not only see no problem with acting upon their everyday violent urges, but feel that it's their civic duty! Newcomers who are just settling in won't be spared either, as they're found guilty by association for emerging from the wood instead of staying within it to join up with the expedition team.

As a result, the void-touched who stay behind will be targeted for everyday acts of violence and intimidation: they may be attacked on their way to work, or at the tavern. One reckless individual tries to set the boarding house aflame. Players are welcome to invent and resolve their own conflicts here, but please make sure to reach out to a moderator if you feel it might be something that leads to meaningful consequences.

This behavior escalates over the course of the month, and by mid-month, the blacksmith has produced a number of stocks and human-sized cages to sit out in the town square. NPC townspeople will not hesitate to gang up on the void-touched, strip them, and throw them into these devices to 'learn a lesson' about being a part of this community. Similarly, the townspeople see no issue with sating their sexual urges with the folx who are caged, whether they're willing or not.

writer's block?

If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try: acquiring clothing or other inventory items, staking your claim on a bedroom, or wrassling with a local who's trying to throw that character into a cage!

Comments

[nepotist]

[So Quentin is just going to stand still, in his way? Fine. Cesare stops as well, watching him.]

Pushing yourself into people's minds, where you do not belong. [He rolls his eyes and steps past Quentin, not bothering to give him enough distance and knocking the other man's shoulder with his own as a result.] You did not help me. You distracted me.

[pharmacy]

Dis--yeah, distracted you from doing murder!

[ It speaks more to Cesare's point than he'd like to admit that Quentin is just accustomed to this kind of collision. He rolls with the impact and falls into step again, chirping over his shoulder as they move. ]

The whole town is wound up over the Duchess' expedition, and more people are showing up every day. You've seen the cages, right? I'm not going to let someone fuck things up for themselves and everyone else by picking stupid fights.

[nepotist]

[Cesare used to care about murder once. He still remembers the first time he did it, when he pretended he had merely won a duel and that the other man had deserved it. Nowadays Cesare thinks his decision to do it is reason enough.

He scoffs and turns back to Quentin, smiling playfully, overconfidently.]

You think they will cage me? [He says it with a level of doubt and mockery that will almost definitely result in him being caged.] Tell me how.

[pharmacy]

[ Oh...this guy is going to be trouble. Quentin's jaw flexes, mouth screwing to the side. This is serious; his desire to help is sorely tried by the flippancy. ] They can cage anyone.

This stuff that happens to us--you think it doesn't happen to them? [ The mark that Cesare worked so hard to scrub off his thigh--Quentin simply tugs up his rolled sleeve to show off his own niez mark emblazoned on his arm. A snap of light blue rolls over it. ] They all have one. They've been doing this for years. They know how to bring scarier things than you to heel.

[nepotist]

[Cesare's skin prickles at the insult, but he moves past it, humming instead as he steps closer to hold Quentin's arm and lift it into view. They're close like this, Cesare's head dipped in thought. His thumb moves idly over the niez mark, watching the glow of it shift under his touch.]

You mean the beasts...What do you become?

[pharmacy]

...I don't know. [ His voice drops quieter. They're much closer, after all, and no one's asked him that before. It feels stupid not to know the answer. He swallows, wrist flexing under Cesare's thumb. There's a reason he doesn't know, a valuable one: ] I won't risk hurting people to find out. I keep it under control.

[ But the light under his curse mark rings around one eye when he looks up to Cesare. ] ...There's a lot to take in. I'm trying to help you.

[nepotist]

[Cesare smirks knowingly, well aware of precisely what keeping the beast at bay entails.]

I know you are. [His voice is softer now, perhaps even gentle in its tone. Quentin's intentions are good. Cesare can see that.] But you should help someone who needs it.

[pharmacy]

And you don't? [ A splotchy flush races over his nose and cheeks at that look. It leaves his explanation feeling grimier than he wants, shameful about something he didn't think he carried any shame over. ] You're afraid of our main way of communication. You just about start a brawl over lunch. What exactly do you have going for you?

[nepotist]

[Cesare doesn't feel the need to explain himself. He knows his strengths in stratagem and his skill with a blade, and that is not even mentioning his father. He will win this war, no matter how strange it is. He won't allow any alternative.

He smiles, stepping in too close, hand still grasps around Quentin's arm. Cesare has only ever been with women in his life, but sometimes the line between intimidation and seduction can become strangely blurred. His voice is a growling whisper when he speaks.]

You tell me.

[pharmacy]

[ His breath hitches behind his teeth, blue light crackling behind his eyes, around the inside of his mouth. He can't tell if the zadza rush is coming from wanting to shove this this guy away, or from wanting to-- ]

Stop. [ His voice isn't as steady as he wants, so he wets his mouth and swallows and tries again--inside Cesare's head. ] Stop it.

[nepotist]

[He isn't remotely deterred by Quentin's protest at first. It's only when it rings through Cesare's mind that he reacts to it at all, lurching back and scrunching his eyes. Nausea floods through his stomach and chest as he curses under his breath. What did he say about Quentin doing that? With some small distance between them, he tilts his head back and swallows, his adams apple shifting in his throat as he tries to recompose himself.]

If you invade my skull again, I'll crack yours. [He doesn't say it angrily, just matter of factly, as clearly as possible so that Quentin can understand the risk. Cesare has no intention of experiencing that again.]

[pharmacy]

Don't touch me, and I won't have to.

[ The accusation is more venomous than it might have been, a bad cocktail of embarrassment, frustration, and confused arousal. He tugs his sleeve down, already taking steps back. ] When you end up at the clinic, ask for House.

When you end up in a cage, I'll be sure to say hi.

cw: mention of sickness. blood.

[nepotist]

[Cesare rolls his eyes and walks away, disinterested in continuing this conversation any further.

He never expects to see Quentin again after that. But after a couple weeks, Cesare finds that his balance is off kilter. His tongue has a blackened film that he can't remove and his eyes seem shot with gray. He is sick, and so he heads to the clinic, rolling up his sleeve as soon as he's sat down so that the doctor can let some blood and fix his humors.

It is then that he catches sight of Quentin and sighs.]

I was hoping for a doctor... [At least Quentin might enjoy cutting him.]

[pharmacy]

[ For his part, Quentin had fully anticipated seeing Cesare in one form or another. For a few days after their meeting, his eyes are peeled, breath baited for the man to show up cowed. He hopes for it. When it doesn't happen, the hope takes a back seat in his mind, but it never disappears entirely; his first sight of Cesare when he comes out of the supply room gives him a bright burst of schadenfreude-- 

[ but the sputters out quickly when a second glance shows off that Cesare seems able-bodied, unhumbled, and dismissive as before. Quentin rolls his eyes (one of them green with faded bruising, same as his neck, his broken lip, the locals have been zealous) and waves for Cesare to come to him. ] 

Doctor's out. [ Has been intermittently. This time, Quentin hasn't seen him for days. The nurse is caged. Cesare has limited options here. ] I can help some stuff. What's the matter with you. 

[nepotist]

[Cesare casts Quentin an unimpressed look but continues.]

I feel drunk. [He's not drunk. He wishes he were.] My humors are imbalanced. [He holds out his forearm, offering it to Quentin with a bit of a thrust, a "go on then". Come cut at him.]

[pharmacy]

[ The arm is...weird. Quentin scowls and reaches for it anyway, going to take vitals. ]

You feel drunk. Let's start with how much have you been... [ Fingers still pinched around his wrist, Quentin stops short when he gets a better look at his eyes. Something's off. ] ...drinking.

Hey, hold still a minute.

[ The hand at his wrist relents, drifts directly to Cesare's jaw to keep him still for a good look at his eyes. ]

[nepotist]

Not for days. [Only cups of mead here and there, which don't count.

His gaze meets Quentin's, eyes relatively steady considering how Cesare's world is starting to sway. However the sclera has darkened, dark veins shading it a muted gray.]

Do you intend to treat me, House? [Because right now, Quentin appears to be ogling at him instead.]

[pharmacy]

[ He's less thrown by the implication than he is by the name. Quentin's eyes jump towards the door nervous, come back down confused. They're close enough and, as Cesare is sure to know sooner than later, Quentin doesn't have much of a filter on his inner workings; he has a front row seat to the gears turning. When it clicks, he snorts--thumbs the skin of Cesare's brow up for a last look at those tinted whites. ]

I'll treat you once we know what's wrong. It's not humors. Breathe regularly for me. [ He doesn't have to bow his head too far to listen to the lungs. ] ...I'm not House. You can count yourself lucky for that.

[nepotist]

[Cesare doesn't bother to ask Quentin's real name. He has no doubt that will become apparent eventually. Instead, he just shrugs, allowing the inspection to continue.]

My breathing is fine. It is my mind. [A lack of balance, a low, growling fury in the back of his brain, the temptation to put his hands around someone's throat even more so than usual.]

[pharmacy]

[ His breathing is fine. His pulse too. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with him except for his eyes, and his testimony. Of course, House warned him very early on: the signs of zadza build up are different for everyone, but they all point to disaster. Quentin points to a nearby cot. Sit down. ]

There's something wrong with your eyes. You said you feel drunk. Something's wrong with your mind--what does that mean? [ He's got to grab a pencil, a paper. This is good data. ] What's your name?

[nepotist]

[For the first time in a while, his name doesn't precede him. Does he feel frustration at the snub or freedom caused by the lack of scrutiny? He's not sure.]

Cesare Borgia.

[He sits himself down, thankful to be resting on something steady and stable.] Wine affects the mind. [And that is all he's going to share with a stranger with too much gumption and not enough sense.] I presume it is not accustomed to being invaded by others either. [Maybe it is right that he is being treated by the man who likely caused this.]

[pharmacy]

Like I told you before, Cesare Borgia: being able to hear people talking to you isn't them invading your mind. It might take a second to get used to, but it shouldn't be fucking with your head. Not physically anyway.

[ Pencil and tablet in hand, Quentin frowns through spelling this name--but there's still only one symptom underneath it. He feels a little better standing while Cesare sits, the first time the man hasn't swamped him. Gives him a little more confidence, a little more ease when he pushes: ] If you want my help, you have to talk to me. What does you mean when you say you feel drunk?

Dizzy? Elated? Suicidal? Nauseous or--feverish, or...

[nepotist]

[He says nothing for a second, letting out a quiet growl under his breath. His jaw clenches as he considers his response.]

Impassioned. More tempestuous, perhaps. [He has a short fuse at the best of times, but now it is barely there at all.] When you are drunk, you act on your instincts rather than your wits. [And Cesare has certainly been tempted by his instincts throughout the past few days.] And the world shifts under your feet.

[pharmacy]

[ His eyes tick up from his notes, look wary and knowing. ]

...You aren't venting your zadza. [ A guess, but he's pretty sure about this. Surprised, yes--but sure. ] You're getting...urges. Sexual urges. Violent urges.

It seemed like you already knew this would happen. So what--performance anxiety?

[nepotist]

[Cesare dismissively shakes his head.]

I am accustomed to "urges". [He repeats it with the exact stress that Quentin used in his voice. A parody.] They may frighten someone like you, but it does not concern me. [Besides, he's been trying to figure out this infuriating little town, its strange rules and its key players. He's busy.] I do not care about my "zadza".