aftr_ooc | A NEW WORLD COMING ( 024 )

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*test drive meme

A NEW WORLD COMING ( 024 )

A New World Coming

Hello, and welcome to LifeAftr! We're pleased that you're expressing an interest in the game. Here, you can test the waters, gauge how your character may fare in the world of LifeAftr, and even gain some in-game incentives, if you so choose.

In conjunction with our monthly Test Drive Meme, Reserves are now open! Applications will open on June 24th!

Two important notes:

1. LifeAftr's test drives take place on the island of Mu, which is always watching. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not

2. Due to the nature of Mu, threads in our test drive can not only be accepted as thread samples in your application, but are the game. You cannot choose who you are in this world. You cannot change fate. You cannot change fate. You cannot change fate.

In the meantime, feel free to refer to our usual rules regarding the TDM. All prompts are miniature versions of events that have transpired in the past. You may visit any of the links provided if you're interested in additional information.

And It's Just Around The Bend
The whole world is ending.

Beneath you, the first rays of a new sun slink across the ice-coated ground, sending whirls of steam curling up into the air. Everything will eventually be reborn to the way it was, much like the sun itself. At the very edges of the island, shadowy creatures that appear to have crept out of the darkest recesses of your mind mill about on the ocean shores, eager to avoid the burning eyes of the sun.

Of course, that's all happening a very, very long way down. Miles below you, in fact. The ground below is still cast in perpetual dark, while the sky itself is sunlit and dazzling.

As fingers of new light creep out across the horizon and ignite the air with a soft, daylit warmth, you find yourself sky high on one of many floating islands that shift and change within your presence. The landscape of these islands is extremely malleable, and not just in a general sense. Each island you make contact with will begin to "mold" itself to you, attempting to reformat its landscape to appear as a place that you desire to see again. Somewhere important. Somewhere comforting. A memory. While it cannot recreate people or exact circumstances, it can imitate landscapes and buildings, or make the nearest attempt to do so.

"Attempt" being the operative word. With the rapid change of these islands comes one key weakness - their instability. If you stay too long in one place, the island will start to blacken and twist. No matter how hard it strained to recreate your memories before, those familiar places will start to curdle over, crumbling like sand beneath the weight of your desires...and the weight of you. Chunks of the land fall away, blistered black and simmering like fistfuls of embers, burned through with a dark volcanic corruption. The more people standing on one piece of land, the faster this change will occur, leaving you with very little time to enjoy the sights as you race ahead to the nearest mana pool, your only access to the ground below.

In short, you'd better run. Run, while there is still ground beneath your feet.

The world is ending around you - and if you're not fast enough, you'll end alongside it, namely by plunging a long, long way down earth. If the fall doesn't kill you, the hungry, burning eyes of the dark shadows lumped below very well may.

There's A New Voice Calling
The Trial of Orpheus is a very particular practice performed by one group of LifeAftr's inhabitants, residing on the draconian civilization settled on the island of Ai'tuoh. Enacted only upon those who break one of Ai'tuoh's many laws, it requires those convicted to pass into the Standing Water - a slumbering city of lost souls.

A city you've just arrived in.

The first thing you’ll likely feel is the crushing, biting, bone-deep chill, paired with the sensation of falling down some great, fathomless abyss. No jolt or sudden impact awaits you, however. Instead, your fall will slow, even out, as though your personal gravity is reorienting itself, and you’ll find yourself blinking awake in...Ai'tuoh.

Or rather, in a very strange version of it - what can only be described as a dark, colorless mirror of the city of Ai'tuoh. The buildings loom darkly overhead, their edges strangely irresolving, as though being peered at through ripples of water.

If there is a way out, you don't know it. The means and direction are lost to you. But leave you must, for the longer you remain, the more tired you become. Thoughts begin to drift as you become lost to the ebbing waves of time; the longer you remain untethered, the more likely you are to succumb to an endless repose.

Your only hope is the connections you make with others. Be it emotional or physical, positive or negative, this journey requires you to remain part of a pair, talking, hand-holding, even carrying each other through the city as you seek out the means to escape. The pervading sense of exhaustion that grips your bones almost seems core to the city itself, and the longer you remain, the more that lethargy will sink into you. There will be nothing more tempting than simply lying down and closing your eyes...but you have to keep moving. Do you understand? You have to keep moving, because if you don't, there really won't be any saving you.

The most definitive way out is a bright strand of color that winds through the abyss, vibrant red and almost threadlike, gradually ascending upward into a glimmer of light. Find someone to connect to, hold onto that guiding thread tightly, and whatever you do, do not let go.

Or you risk sinking into that endless slumber, possibly for good.

You Can Hear It If You Try
Of course, if you'd prefer to relax within your dreams, the white-picketed community of Ziziphus may be precisely what you're looking for. An idyllic town located on a fairly remote island of LifeAftr, Ziziphus comes with all your modern amenities - electricity, cars, showers. Here, you can spend your evenings watching the television, tucking in your kids or playing drinking games with your roommates. And in the morning, it's time to meet the day, whether work, study, or housework awaits you. Why, it's the perfect picture of textbook suburbia, from the neat squares of well-manicured lawns to the incontrovertibly cheerful sound of the newspaper thwacking against the doorstep each morning.

Sorry - you've never had this job before? You don't have kids, or even want them? Of course you have, silly - you've been here for the last five years. You've gone to the same school since you became old enough to study. In fact...you've been living here your whole life.

Is that wrong? Of course it isn't. There's nothing wrong here. There's nothing wrong here. There's nothing wrong here.

Right?

Ziziphus is no peaceful neighborhood, of course, but rather an island that traps its visitors in a dream that seeks to provide a constant state of euphoria. Hence, your tragic past is no more. You are no warrior, no hero. It's time for you to take up the role that suits the most ideal fantasy you have of a fulfilling life. A successful businessperson, a busy student, a completely normal individual in a completely normal life. There's nothing wrong here.

If you think too hard about this eerily cheerful life, about how you technically shouldn't even know what "electricity" is, or about any of the inconsistencies that run counter to the life you thought you had...well, don't think too hard about it. Don't think about the creeping scent of rot that swarms up into your nostrils should those awful thoughts ever cross your mind. Don't start asking questions, posing innocent queries to the perfect smiles perpetually stamped across the faces of your friends and neighbors and children who carry out their daily routines with all the soulless efficiency of wind-up toys. Don't start thinking about how, if you dwell too much on the uncanny nature of this neighborhood, it starts to feel like you can't...quite...breathe...

Oh, god. You have to get out of here. You - you have to not think about it. You have to not think about it, so don't. So don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

Everything, and everyone, is precisely as they should be.

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

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[Fell strikes him as ironic, for some reason, though he can't quite put his finger on why. Maybe he's just distracted by the handshake, especially after it lasts a moment too long. Crowley reclaims his hand, tucking them both into his pockets as he tries to work out why he feels so fucking weird.

Up close, there's a little more to him than just "posh businessman", his suit is expensive, but the cut is slimmer than normal, his shoes are scuffed, and the snake belt buckle is more bold than might be expected. It's bright enough to justify the sunglasses, but they don't look particularly expensive, like what might be typical for someone in the kind of suit he's wearing. Everything about him is just slightly left of center.]

Old family name, I think. Haven't really given it much thought, maybe you've seen it on a headstone or two.

[His family has lived in this town for at least a few generations, or... he thinks they have.]

[Aziraphale notes the details, only half-conscious of the way he stares — especially at that belt buckle, which strikes him as both beautiful and frightening. It's not that it's a snake that's bothering him; he has no dislike for the creatures, at least not that he knows of. Not that he'd admit, anyway, being a man who's supposed to Love All Things.]

Ah.

[Right. He blinks his attention back up to Crowley's face.]

Maybe. Can I interest you in... a tour, perhaps, or...?

["Interest" doesn't feel like the right word, as if the grammar of it is wrong, although he can't imagine what should be in its place. But he's also aware that he's the one who stopped here in the first place and that's kind of weird, he should probably try to explain that.]

Oh, no, I wouldn't want to take up too much of your time, it's just-- [It's just that he's got this strange ache in his chest and it had intensified the moment he saw the church. A longing and a fear all tied up together, like nothing he can ever remember feeling.] You know, I've lived here all my life and I don't think I've ever set foot in this church. You'd think there'd have been a wedding or a funeral, those kind of things happen at churches, but still, I've never...

[He's rambling, and he feels a bit stupid, except he's struck with the sensation that it's alright. He's allowed to say whatever is on his mind. Maybe that's just the effect of talking to a priest, they're supposed to be someone who'll listen, who won't judge.]

It's like someone's telling me to go in. That sounds kind of crazy, doesn't it?

[Aziraphale listens, and he listens well. He has a kind face, a welcoming face — a face that says I understand and let me help you. He nods as Crowley speaks, as if what's being said makes all the sense in the world.

On some level, it does.

He smiles.]

It sounds a little bit like God to me.

[But I don't believe in God, he wants to protest, except that's not entirely true. Somewhere deep down he knows that there is, without any doubt, a God. The problem is that he's not sure how he feels about it all, religion and all that, especially not when confronted with... what? A message?]

That sort of thing doesn't really happen though, does it? Not in real life.

[He doesn't mean to say that God is like, fake, but the whole - God actually speaking to people. That's made up, right?]

That depends entirely on what you believe, doesn't it? Who am I to tell you what it is you're hearing, what you're feeling?

[He gestures at his feet, his shiny shoes atop the lush grass.]

I'm all the way over here.

[Those are very shiny shoes, Crowley's mind absently supplies, followed by a stray thought about how jeans look very strange on the priest. Not just the fabric, but the color of them. He should be in something softer.

What the fuck, Crowley thinks.]

I really feel like we've met before. [Just veering right off the path here with absolutely no segue, and it's not even that he's trying to avoid that whole thing where apparently God is talking to him, he's just... unfocused, right now. Everything feels off kilter, he can smell something rotting, foliage that's been left in the dark and damp too long.] But I'm sure I'd remember, you don't sound local.

[too Southern for that.]

[Aziraphale's expression changes from pleasantly neutral to darkly concerned in an instant, the lines of his face all pointing to a very deep sense of discomfort — something far below the surface, something that shows up all the way in his eyes, even.

But then it's gone.

Stranger and stranger.]

It's funny. [He says this with an uneasy laugh.] You're not the first person to point out my accent. I don't... I grew up here. Might've been something I picked up off of the radio, who knows?

Sorry, didn't mean it as a bad thing, it's just...

[Something is wrong. Crowley isn't sure if it's him or the priest, but he has the sinking sensation that all of this is off somehow, neither of them should be here like this. He takes a shaky breath and feels something tighten around his chest, weighing him down.]

Something's wrong.

[There's an edge of a hiss in his voice, and he casts a glance around like he expects to see someone lurking there.]

Can't you feel it, angel? None of this is right.

["Angel"?

Aziraphale's lost enough of himself that he makes a face at that, half confused, half indignant. He's not an angel, he's —

And this man doesn't even —

Just where, exactly, does he get off —

Aziraphale draws a breath, and that's when it hits him. The smell. It smells like Death, and it knocks the wind out of him.]

— Crowley?

[The title he'd used hadn't even really occurred to him, it had been habit, something that slipped out the further he gets to the surface off his thoughts.

But then he hears his name, said like that, and everything comes crashing back around him.]

Aziraphale.

[He exhales the name quietly, as if it's more for himself than the angel, like he needs to hold onto something. Crowley looks at him and feels relieved and terrified all over again. And in that tangle of emotions all he can manage to put into words is:]

You look ridiculous.

What? I —

[The angel looks down at himself, momentarily taken out of whatever it is that's happening. He feels like his head's being split across the middle.]

Oh. Eugh.

[No offense, of course. To priests. Of which he is not one. Right?

He smells the rot. Then he smells the roses.]

[In a snap second decision, Crowley takes his glasses off, utterly confident and utterly hopeful that his eyes will look the way they're supposed to.]

Focus, angel, we've gotta get out of here.

[There's a loud crash to his right as one of stained glass windows shatters, as if blown outward.

Whatever this is, it's falling apart.]

You're not a bloody priest, you're a Principality, and I'm a demon.

[This is important, they have to hold onto this.]

[Whoa those are some really weird eyes this guy has is he okay because OH RIGHT. Aziraphale blinks quickly and shakes his head, trying to wring himself away from whatever's taken him over.

And then there's the explosion, which helps.

He bounds into action, grabbing Crowley by his wrist.]

Well, come on, then!

[Crowley isn't sure if it's because he's here or if it's just some ill effect of whatever this is, but as Aziraphale takes his wrist, the church starts to corrupt and decay behind them, as if taken over by something.

He can feel the weight on his chest more readily, now, as if something has him constricted. A snake? No, that's him. Ropes? Can't be that, too heavy.]

Vines, it's vines.

[That's what it is!

The world comes crashing down around him as he wakes up, to the ground covered in vines, to himself covered in vines, though they seem to let him go once he starts getting to his feet.

He's exhausted, bone deep, a rare feeling for him, but he pushes through it when he realizes that Aziraphale isn't right beside him.]

Aziraphale! Where the fuck are you!?

[Crowley says vines, and Aziraphale doesn't quite know what he means. Yes, vines? What about them? There were some climbing up the wall of the previously-beautiful, now-destroyed church, but —

Oh. Where's he gone?

That man. The one with the strange eyes.

Aziraphale looks down at his empty hand and blinks, then glances over his shoulder. The church is back, and it's fine. The roses are fine. It's all fine. There's nothing to run from.

What did he say his name was?]

Crow... [His brow furrows as he makes his way back to his work.] Crow-something. Hm.

[Crowley panics for a good minute, tearing through vines in search of Aziraphale before his single fucking brain cell kicks in and he realizes, oh yeah, angels sort of give off a general sense of holiness and goodness that he can find if he tries hard enough.

And try he does, letting the sensation pull him almost a twenty minute trek north, until he spots white hair and tan clothes. That stupid bowtie.

He feels sick at the sight of it, there's so much death here and he can almost see the way the vines are draining energy from Aziraphale. Crowley thinks knife and thinks sharp, and there's a blade in his hand, allowing him to start cutting away the offending vines. Despite his worry, he's being ever-so-careful not to bring the blade too close to Aziraphale.]

Wake up, you stupid angel.

[Angel. The word rings in Aziraphale's head as he steps back into the church, the distant sound of it drawing his gaze to the large stained-glass window behind the altar. There, shining in the sun, is a white-haired angel, brandishing a sword.

He's always loved the way it looks in the mornings: It projects a rainbow of color out across the whole of the place, warm and happy and inviting.

Angel. What a thing to be called.

Stupid angel.]

Excuse...?

[He hears that voice again. It's Crowley. Crowley-the-demon, calling him, Aziraphale-the-angel, stupid. This happens more often than Aziraphale would like. It's accurate more often than Aziraphale would like.

A thunderclap crashes down on him, followed by the distinct, sharp sound of glass cracking in a thousand places.

He wakes up in the middle of throwing his arms over his head to protect himself and, in the process, smacks Crowley in the face.]

Oh — !

Ow. Watch it.

[It doesn't really hurt, the protest is automatic, as Crowley disappears the knife back to wherever it came from, safe in the knowledge that he doesn't need it anymore.

Because Aziraphale is okay, it's fine, and he has all this nervous energy that he's not sure what to do with now. So he just sort of kneels there, wondering what the fuck is going to happen next.]

Tell me you've got some kind of idea about what on Earth that was about?

[Aziraphale blinks at Crowley, drowsy and stunned, looking for all the world like a child who's been woken up on a school day.

He examines the vines. Peers at their surroundings. Feels the dirt under his hands.

And he goes deadpan.]

Nothing's ever been more self-explanatory, my dear.

[Mildly:]

I should've left you to rot.

[He doesn't mean that, but he's feeling anxious and the best way to handle that particular emotion is by being petty as all get out.]

Don't be rude.

[Here's the thing: Aziraphale feels drained. Literally. Probably because he literally was. He lifts an arm to look more closely at the now-dead vine dangling from it, hovers his free hand over the thing to see if he can sense any strange magic dissipating into the air.]

Were we... [Finding nothing, he shakes the vine away and begins dusting himself off.] Sharing a dream?

I'm a demon, I'm meant to be rude.

[This is an old, tired argument, but it's a comforting one in a way. Like a well-worn coat. As long as they're arguing, it means they're both fine.

Talking about sharing a dream is less fine. Crowley makes a face, shrugs.]

Seems like it, just don't go blaming me for the fact you were wearing jeans.

[That's not on him, he won't take the fall for that.]

[That brings a little half-smile to Aziraphale's face, which lasts only as long as it takes Crowley to mention the jeans.

Aziraphale doesn't understand, either.]

Humans like jeans.

Humans are weird.

[He's worn jeans before, but he's significantly less fussy about his appearance than Aziraphale. Or... he's fussy in a different way, since they both have their own quirks when it comes to dressing themselves.]

We should get out of here before these things have a second go at us.

A NEW WORLD COMING ( 024 )

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