𝔄 𝔐𝔦𝔡𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱'𝔰 𝔇𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𑁍 [WINTER TDM]

[gorelord]

Welcome to the Test Drive!

The TDM is welcome to current players and anyone who wants to play in the setting and is encouraged to be used by prospective players. If you are interested in joining the game, you will need to obtain invite from the mod or through an existing member.

For information on the game premise, setting etc, please utilize the navigation pages below. Questions specific to the TDM prompts or the setting can go to the comment thread. Anything else relating to game mechanics can go in the FAQ.

Events in this TDM are considered game canon and occurs immediately after the Chapter II eclipse event between chapters II and III. Any threads in TDM are considered canon as long as both parties agree.

Please make sure to identify in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.

GAME PAGES

premise
setting
faq
rules
glossary

i.
rise:
A Dream's Beginning

(cw:nsfwl; ritual sex, mood altering substances )

It begins with a nightmare, the details of which have slipped through your fingers. Only the curling echo of its dread lingers in your chest. Something has snapped you out of a catatonic state: a gust of icy wind whistling through the crack of a window, the soft beating of drums under the melody of strings, the cold kiss of fat snowflakes catching on your eyelashes, the smell of spiced wine and evergreen.

A few things become clear: You are not where you were, and you are not alone.

Feast for Saints

Tonight is a night of celebration for the Lonely Fortress. The horrors have been set aside, replaced with the warm mirth and grace of being alive. Whether this is your first night in the Crucible or your fortieth, all are welcome to partake in this renewing fete under the silver light of a full buttery moon. Snow dances like flower petals in a lazy array, leaving a shallow blanket of white. The fire roars in the hearth of the Great Hall, spreading its warmth throughout its adjacent parlors. Despite murmurings of a recent catastrophic eclipse cleaving the castle twain, its halls and buildings show no sign of decay. The Egregore has been cleansed, balance has been restored. Spirits are high, people are at ease.

If you choose to partake, there are a few select locations where people have gathered to celebrate:

𑁍The Great Hall is open for feasting and dancing. The fortress stores have provided a wintertime feast of roasted meats & vegetables, pies, fresh and aged cheeses, dried fruits, candied nuts, and seeded cakes. The hall smells of spiced honey wine and mulled cider, both packed with a warm and buzzing inebriation that creeps on unexpectedly. A makeshift band of strings and drums plays lively music for people to dance to.

𑁍The Velvet Parlor is a smaller hall branched off of the main festivities for those looking for softer and more intimate comforts under the candlelight. Tonight, its guests pay tribute to celebrate the passion of life and to beckon the sun to rise in a ritualistic tangling of bodies. Here is the place to become a true eater of sin. All furniture has been nudged to line the walls, making way for a sea of cushions and pillows for celebrants to laze upon as they imbibe in strong, distilled spirits, as the air above them swirls with a sweet, toasty incense imbuing a mellow calm and stirs carnal appetites. A masked man plucks away a sultry tune on his lute in a corner as the night gradually gives way to passionate bodies tangled among the pillows.

𑁍The Courtyard brings a breath of fresh, brisk air as snow falls playfully overhead. Large braziers line the yard offer meager warmth from their roaring fires as exiles partake in snow fights and release wishing lanterns bearing your inner most desires into the sky. Steam rolls off the yard's central fountain, which has been fitted to disperse heated water to provide a makeshift heated pool, a perfect place to thaw chilly hands or feet (or just go all in if ye be bold enough.)

A Colder Path

If instead you choose to abstain, it becomes apparent every dream has its limits.

The castle beyond the festivities is cold, dim, and abandoned. Behind every door, a drab and empty room (if the handle isn't locked or broken). The keep's gates are closed, the sunken village beyond a frozen wasteland. The further one strays from the warmth and merriment, the colder and darker it becomes.

Isolation breeds madness, too much time spent away from others may lead to paranoia. Figures shift in the dark, a breath tickles the nape of your neck. You may see familiar faces, hear familiar voices, beckoning you to stray further from your path towards uncertain doom: a crooked nail sticking out of the floorboards, a hurried shove off the top of the stairs, a door that opens over the edge of a rocky cliff.

As determined as you may be, the only way out of this dream is through.

ii.
revel:
Trials of Merciful Holly

(cw:potential for dubcon/noncon, mood-altering.)

As the midwinter evening persists, a visitor long awaited comes knocking at the Great Hall's doors. A tall man emerges with a body molded out of braided wood, bearing thorn-tarnished armor and a tattered crimson cloak. With every step forward, thorned vines that stitch across the walls and floors, blooming with plum purple leaves and small budding flowers.

"The Briar Lord," one exile gasps. "Gregor's returned," another praises tearfully. With a bow, he treats the celebrants of the Lonely Fortress with the innocence of a festive game.

"O' eaters of sin, indulge me in this friendly Midwinter game. Ye have survived a harrowing and for that ye shall be rewarded for purging of thy wickedness. I ask thee this final offering to purge this winter and beget a new spring. Give me thy blood and affection with honor and I shall see this cold vanquished. What I am given, I will return what was given me. Then, in trust and friendship, we shall part."

Bats and Lashes

The Lord's game is a simple marital task held out in the frost covered garden: a duel of branches. Each competitor will be given handful of briar as their weapon. The aim of the game is to whip each other until the thorns of the briar's branches draw blood. The first to draw blood from the opponent is the victor and the blood price paid.

Yet, not all these branches are created equal. A fortunate competitor may be given a Bewitching Branch. Those whipped by this branch will become utterly obsessed and infatuated to whom they've been struck by for a short period of time after, beholden to their branch master until the sting of thorns wane.

Tithe of the Mistle

If you choose not to partake in the Lord's game, the Lord warns that his winter's briar will collect a tithing of affection. The vines that bloomed with his arrival grow rampant behind seeing eyes. Buds turn into flowers, petals shed as they mature into plump white mistle berries that release the sweetest scent to draw you in.

Either you have accidentally stumbled upon the mistle, or it has decidedly grown itself above you without your noticing, but you become bewitched by its scent. As the tricksy bramble coils around your ankles, giving the gentlest of biting from its thorns, it becomes clear that you will be consumed if you do not pay the mistle its tithing. For some, it only takes a kiss, for others, the mistle will demand more. Give it something meaningful. Give it something real, and you will be released.

iii.
respite:
Midwinter Mourning

All good dreams must come to an end. The following morning paints a different picture of the Lonely Fortress witnessed in the night's collective dreaming. The Crucible sits under a thick blanket of snow, the waters surrounding the keep have frozen solid. None of the warmth of the night remains; it feels as though the world has died. The whole of the Crucible feels cold, quiet, abandoned.

Every hearth has burned out, every brazier snuffed under the snow, every candle smothered. It's quiet, empty, dark. Daylight may have come, but a thick layer of storm clouds casts a foreboding shadow. If the desire remains to leave, it quickly becomes apparent there is nowhere else to go.

Warm Winter's Kiss

With luck, you have woken in a bed under a pile of old furs to keep some semblance of warmth with you. With even better luck, you've woken next to company to keep each other warm throughout a cruel cold morning. Without proper protection, the cold is biting against exposed skin. Joints and limbs become stiff and numb, making it difficult to move around without constant tending if one lacks gloves.

While hearths can be re-lit and heated baths can be drawn, the true comfort from freezing can only be found in the close company of other living creatures. Exiles on this cruel morning keep each other warm through sharing heated breaths and pressing bodies. Expressions of passion and compassion help the warmth to linger just a bit longer for those who cultivate it together, granting brief autonomy of movement before finding another's heat is needed again.

Breakfast is served, but it's nothing remotely glamorous to the feasting offered by the Midwinter dream: simple porridge that leaves a stale taste that coats the tongue, nuts and fruits that are half rancid, boiled wine that's been watered down to detract from how far along it's turned into vinegar. Its only promise is to fill an empty stomach until more food can be found.

Outside, the snow begins to fall again. An omen that this winter is here to stay. Welcome to the real Martyr's Crucible.

Comments

QUESTIONS?

[gorelord]

Questions specific to the TDM prompts and setting can go here. More generalized questions relating to the game mechanics can be submitted to the FAQ.

nature magic re: the brambles?

[wenche]

way the wrong journal but if a witch tried to use nature magic to get those mistletoe brambles to wilt or chill out, what might happen?

follow up question: what if, say, the witch angrily called them a brat while she did it :)

[pharmacy]

do current exiles remember the eclipse and earlier, or does the dream induce an amnesia?

[babysitters]

i might be overthinking it, but do formerly dead characters also wake in beds after the dream? i assume so but want to check bc steve waking up in the dead lady puddle would be hilariously horrific

[lambencies]

is the network back to normal in the dream and in the morning?

[queimar]

for the duration of the dream, can characters use their powers without getting tired?

ilya rozanov — heated rivalry (new character, current player)

[hattricked]

I. THE GREAT HALL

( it definitely feels like a dream, like a nightmare. one moment ilya's wrapped up in familiar arms in a warm bed and the next--- horrors. whatever this place is. he's not actually sure what it is or what the fuck he ate, drank, or watched for his brain to come up with this.

he doesn't like it one bit.

where's shane?, he thinks. there's an unease in his stomach, a nausea that threatens to rise until he's at the party. party he knows. parties he can do. shit, dancing is great. sure, usually he's doing a different kind of dancing but ballroom's not exactly unfamiliar from the sort of events his father dragged him to in fancy mansions and under the watchful eyes of government officials who saw the future of russian hockey in ilya rozanov.

dressed in finery that's not his own, he feels like a puppet guided on strings through a crowd. it's not until he has a taste of wine, then another, that he feels himself. he glances around the crowd, clearly searching for someone.

but eventually he pauses, seems to stop his search and focus on whoever is near. this is a dream, it'll be fine. he thinks it over and over, drinking more wine until the warmth of it almost makes him forget. and then there's a grin on his face, an offered hand to a stranger who looks like they're trying to stay out of the crowd and a question in accented words, ) Shall we dance? I'll only take 'No' for answer if you know where we can get something stronger than wine.

II. THE COURTYARD

( 'i don't want to hide,' are the words written on the lantern that floats away from ilya's hands if someone manages to catch them. he stares as it as he releases it up into the air, brows furrowed and lips pursed. he watches it until it floats away, glancing around with narrowed eyes as if daring anyone to ask about it.

but when it's high enough not to be seen, then the stiffness in his shoulders fades and he lets out a breath. then the focus of his attention is the fountain of warm water, the steam rising from it. he's fucking freezing, it's tempting enough.

it's not a sauna, no, but he's not about to punch a gift horse in the mouth or whatever the english expression is. instead he peels off his shoes to slip his feet into the shallow water, groaning as it warms him up just enough. he sits on the edge. )

Come here often? It's warm. Better than freezing feet or something worse off. ( he asks when he notices company; flirting, friendly even with somewhat gruesome implications, though it's not really the former. not anymore. he just can't help his tone sometimes. and if you're nice maybe he'll share the bottle of wine he's brought outside with him, taken from the festivities inside. )

III. TITHE OF THE MISTLE
( NOTE: limited to smooches only from baffled dream boy! )

( competitive as he is, it'll take more than a creepy looking creature with flowers sprouting all around him to get ilya to fight. he looks like something out of a fairytale, a forest creature with his heart hidden away in a faraway cave or lake. but the challange? well, that makes him sure it's pulled from his subconcious. the whole thing reminds him of the sort of games he used to play with his friends in the schoolyard, flicking each other with birch branches and laughing at whoever couldn't take the pain of it. he watches for a while, tempted and easy baited, but in the end he turns his attention away.

the dream is--- well, it's lasting a while. he can't figure out how to wake himself up, how to get back to his own bed and home and not-- whatever this is? maybe he watched too much of vikings but this isn't exactly giving him old england and the halls of valhala or whatever. it's more like something from a movie ilya definitely wouldn't watch. too few fast cars, not enough rap music as a good soundtrack.

he is trying to get out of the room, to explore and maybe find that someone he's desperately been hoping to catch in the crowd when something coils around one of his legs and he goes tumbling to the ground.) What the fuck?

( a glance around, a glance up. he sees the flower growing from the roof about him and what the fuck is that? and then he realises he realises that another vine is wrapping up his leg, up his calf. he tries to pull at it, but as he does his movements grow sluggish. it's whatever he's breathing in, he thinks but that's not his biggest concern. and if there's anyone near by to help, well, he's not losing the opportunity--) Hey! You! Fucking help me with this! I can't move with this fucking plant trying to eat me!

IV. WARM WINTER'S KISS

( for someone born in a place that is dark and cold most of the year, dreary and no stranger to snow, ilya rozanov hates the cold. he groans as he's pulled from sleep, brows scrunched together as he tries to bury his face into the blanket wrapped around him. )

No. Absolutely not. ( he groans it, directed to no one in particular, as if it'll stop wakefulness from calling to him. he opens one eye, realizes he hasn't actually woken up in a familiar bed. nope, still dreaming. lucid dreaming? something like that.

except he feels the chill biting to his bones, causing his teeth to ache. he's not alone, he realizes, but that's fine because he can sneak out of this bed and maybe take some blankets with him as he finds more layers to shield him from the cold. but the main question he asks himself, aloud, as he rubs a hand down his face is the one that's been gnawing at him this whole time: ) Why the fuck can't I wake up?

V. WILDCARD

( ooc: feel free to reach out at moryana if you'd like to plot something! ilya is coming from the end of episode 6 in heated rivalry, though i may use some details from the book series to add some flavour to tags. nsfw things are limited as of now to dream kisses, but let's make things awkward or too comfortable platonically for now. he'll also think this is all a dream until he has an epiphany or proof otherwise ♥︎ )

THE GREAT HALL

[mountreal]

[ Ilya is at home at parties where Shane sticks out like a sore thumb. He can't play casual at the best of times, which this certainly isn't, and for a while he won't even admit to himself who he's looking for as he scans the people milling around like movie extras. As he wanders around pretty sure that he looks as dumb and confused as he feels. People keep glancing at him, aware in a way that doesn't help him build the dream narrative he keeps trying to conjure up for himself.

Because if this isn't a dream then he's losing his fucking mind and Shane just does not have time to deal with that right now. He's got a boyfriend. He can't be going crazy just when it feels like his life has finally started.

And just as he has that thought, he sees him. Tall enough for him to spot, handsome in that way that punches the breath out of Shane every single time he sees him. Makes him feel like he doesn't deserve to even look, especially when Ilya is cleaned up and dressed well and dancing --

and he's fucking dancing with someone else.

There's a loud crash and a tinkle of glass after Shane takes a too-quick step forward and walks directly into a someone carrying a tray. He's a bulky guy, far less graceful than he is on the ice, and the collision is catastrophic. Everything hits the ground like a percussion section and what feels like every eye in the entire room turns on Shane before he can even think to duck down and help clean up the mess he's just made.

Every eye. Including Ilya's. ]

Uh. [ Oh look, it's what might as well be his second-worst fucking nightmare. Becoming the center of a humiliating event. He can't even move as the tray-carrier buzzes away, disgusted. ] Rozanov?

[ He snaps back to the last name in public like a reflex, swallows like he's choking on something. If it wasn't for what just happened he'd be running at him, even in such a crowded place, but it's like Shane is glued to the spot among all the shattered glass. And despite everything, he still manages to give Ilya's dance partner a withering glare. ]

i. the great hall

[xsquad]

I don't even know where the exit is, why would I know where they keep the good booze?

[ of all people to bump into on this set, it had to be her ex-boyfriend's arch nemesis. at least, what she's hoping and praying is just a film set (or a bad dream as a result of working long hours on little sleep combined with one too many shots of kahlúa). she stares at his hand and looks around, as if waiting for an AD to suddenly appear in the crowd and give her direction.

after a moment, she takes it, sliding her hand into his and gripping his palm. warm. maybe it wasn't a dream? but dreams could be very deceiving. ]

ii. courtyard

[longlegs]

[ She's boldly in the water, covered where it matters, eyes shut and thinking of the showers she'd take for a little too long back home. Cellar will probably regret going all-in when it's time to step back out, but she's living in the now and making the after future-Cellar's problem. At the telling sounds of someone approaching, someone dipping in the water that licks around his skin and sends soft waves in Cellar's direction, she opens one eye and then the next. A new face, if she's even qualified to deem anyone 'new' at this point. She feels like she just got here, but she also feels like she's been stuck in this place for years. She has yet to figure out if that's the Crucible's fault or her own. ]

No kidding, [ She answers, audibly self-indulgent. Heated pools are just the bomb, okay. ] You should see what we were working with before.

[ Flirt away, stranger. He's hot and she's lonely. ]

What're you drinking?

[ She knows. Question is: am I drinking it too? ]

the courtyard

[babysitters]

( no worries about the low key flirty tone, Ilya. Steve has absolutely no gaydar. just ask Eddie Munson.

is this slightly before Steve decided to lay down in the fountain, or after, and he's being slightly more reasonable about it this time? doesn't really matter either way. because Steve has still not recovered from the gnawing cold he's been unable to shake since... well... he's not sure when it started, actually, but ever since Quentin got here is a conservative estimate. he's so tired of being cold that he will keep coming back to the fountain until the sensation of warm contentment stops being novel. )

To the fountain? Or the creepy ass castle. ( he's just clarifying. he does come to the creepy ass castle often, since he's been stuck here for weeks now. one could even argue he has not really left it, unless dying counts as leaving. )

sloth bear – original – new character/returning player

[snakeshead]

THE GREAT HALL

[sloth’s fingers twist into the bedsheets so tightly her nails dig into her palms through the fabric– no, around a glass of wine. her heart is a heavy beat in her chest, the cool draft sweeping gently through her hair. the tension around the glass is relaxed, though her nails have left their half-crescent reminders. someone is speaking to her, and, slowly, her attention is drawn from the source of cold to the person in front of her:]

I’m sorry, what were you saying?

[she’s smooth in her recovery, raising the glass to her lips while a flurry thoughts flit through her mind: what was i doing, where was i, what happened before the party. normally she can remember everything, but there’s an ugly space of darkness prohibiting further details. the wine coats her tongue and warms her throat on the way down, but she can’t quite pull her eyes away from the open window. she feels a compulsion to close it, to forget the socializing and ignore this stranger(?), but she stands firmly in place, burying the urge.]

THE COURTYARD

[perhaps an uncanny pair of eyes reflecting in the dark catch your attention as sloth releases a lantern, a seconds worth of a flash gone when she looks in your direction. that can’t be right, can it? she smiles, something euphoric in her expression before the moment is gone and she’s wandering around the courtyard, sometimes pausing to look up at the sky, watching the snowflakes as they float gently down, down, down to catch in her hair and melt over skin.

she seems utterly unbothered by the winter temperatures despite her pink cheeks and reddened hands, hands that find the warmth of the fountain’s water soon enough.]

Pretty dreamy, isn’t it? I think it's kind of nice.

[she asks anyone who’s within earshot, icy blue eyes looking at them with an unwarranted amount of intensity, as though she’s trying to take dismantle something inside of them, something they haven’t realized yet. using dreamy was deliberate– sloth is trying to determine just who has figured out their predicament.]

WILDCARD

( hello friends!! here is some info on her, feel free to play around how your character finds her. open to any prompts! feel free to pm me or hmu over at turnt w questions/etc :> )

the great hall

[longlegs]

[ The person Sloth is talking to — maybe they're real, maybe they're not, maybe it's all the drinks in Cellar's system that make her think their speech is distant and muffled, neighbors next door talking about their plans or an unsolved issue in their relationship. It makes them easier to ignore, when she places one hand on each of Sloth's shoulders, sliding them to her front so she can hug her from behind, cheek pressed against her, curved down to make up for the height difference. It hasn't been that long, but it feels like she's missed having her girlfriend in her arms for an eternity.

The stranger and the window will have to wait. Cellar indulges in the warmth, the familiar scent of smoke and copper that follows Sloth everywhere, stealing her away from the conversation without moving an inch. It's in her hair, on her skin — every perfect part of her that Cellar gets to have tonight. ]

Found you.

THE COURTYARD

[hattricked]

( icy blue meets icy blue, Ilya cocks a brow as he looks at the young woman beside him. she doesn't look familiar, but in dreams the characters aren't always people that he knows. usually, though, he wakes up and he can place them. maybe he'd met her at a club once, she looks striking enough to remember.

and at her words he snorts, looks up at the sky for a moment. he wishes he had a cigarette and wonders why the fuck he wasn't able to conjure that up in his dream. he's pretty sure tobacco was a thing whenever this is meant to be and if it wasn't, ilya's smoked since he was fourteen. surely his brain wouldn't skimp out. he tucks his hands into his pockets, still seated on the edge of the fountain facing the water so he can keep his feet warm. it's doing a better job than his shoes.

the words the woman speaks are said with meaning and, well, Ilya's already got that part down. this is, in fact, a dream. usually no one else in the dream knows that even when he does. weird. )

Yes. Very dreamy, ( he says dryly. ) Very.... ( he waves a hand in the air, thinking, then snaps, wondering if the world will start shaking now. he hopes that one french actress who's name he can't remember pops out of somewhere. ) Gothic winter horrorland meets Inception.

shane hollander | heated rivalry (new player/character)

[mountreal]

● 𝐈. 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍 / 𝘖𝘗𝘌𝘕

[ It's the strangest dream that Shane Hollander has ever had by a long shot, because what else could this possibly be? He isn't an imaginative guy. He's barely all that into movies, barely has references for what he's seeing -- something out of history, it seems like. Maybe that conversation with his parents had made him feel even more like a kid again than he realized and he's gone back to grade school in his dreams, is remembering history lessons he didn't know he'd learned.

But why is it so cold? He's never been cold in a dream, never been this confused. Dreams have a weird sense of logic to them, don't they? Shane feels none of that here. He certainly wouldn't have picked out these clothes either, suits and sweats his only points of reference if his stylist hasn't picked something out.

All his theories don't last long but he has nothing to replace them with. All he can do is walk around the has-to-be-a-dream, looking comically out of place. Some slow meathead with wide eyes, he assumes, is what everyone else is seeing when they look at him. Because it sure as hell feels like everyone is looking at him in the Great Hall but it's while he's escaping that cavernous room, more sure than ever that there are brains behind the eyes looking at him, that he stumbles past The Velvet Parlor.

Whoops. What the hell? This is a mistake. Stop lingering at the door. Stop looking, dude! But the air smells weird here and there's a bunch of people just fucking in public and Shane watches like he's been hypnotized for far too long. When he finally breaks away he practically runs outside, finding himself in the snow blanketed courtyard breathing incredibly fresh, cold air.

What a relief. It's even a relief to see someone else standing close by, someone who looks almost normal. The people throwing snow a little farther away make the place seem instantly innocent again, childlike. ]

What the fuck kinda place is this? Have I gone insane?

● 𝐈𝐈. 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋: 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 / 𝘖𝘗𝘌𝘕

[ For an anxious guy he's doing more or less okay until Mr. Nightmare Garden shows up. It's like he can't process it, can't take it all in at the same time. Once the panic has truly set in Shane just goes very, very quiet, unable to look directly at the apparition or else his heart does something that feels too much like cardiac arrest. He's moved where he needs to be, told something that doesn't make a lick of sense to him. Flowers and vines have never seemed more terrifying before.

But shit, can Shane follow directions, though. Even in this state he's good at that and hitting someone with a branch is simple enough. Almost muscle memory.

So is getting hit, apparently, even if it hurts like hell. ]

Ah, fuck!! What the fuck, that hurts!

[ One slash and he's snapped back to himself a little, grounded in his body by the pain and pulled straight out of the abyss in his head. Like a reflex he pulls his own branch back and strikes the opponent who just hit him, seeing them for the first time. ]

● 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄:

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 / 𝘊𝘓𝘖𝘚𝘌𝘋 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘭𝘺𝘢

[ He shivers awake again, this time noticeably more uncomfortable than the last. Smelly furs he obviously doesn't recognize, a shabbiness to everything that immediately tells him he isn't anywhere familiar. Still not his cottage. Still no Ilya. Shane sits up fast, alone, and that aloneness seeps into him worse than the cold.

Ilya is gone. He's still not home and Ilya is gone.

He hadn't understood what was happening the first time he'd woken in the dream but whatever the fuck is happening now, Ilya has to be somewhere, doesn't he? He was here before, whatever 'here' was before he'd woken up, so he has to be. He has to be. Shane holds onto that thought like a lifeline, uses it to keep from spinning out immediately.

But when he lurches out of the rough bed, if it can even be called that, Shane realizes instantly that he isn't wearing enough to even open the door, let alone go looking for his missing boyfriend. So he loads one of the furs up over his shoulders, wraps it around his body until he's breathing in what he's pretty sure is very old bear musk, and shoulders out through the door.

The need for secrecy is utterly forgotten. There's real fear in his voice when he starts yelling for him, his name traveling easily and clearly across the barren landscape. ]

Ilya!? Where are you? Ilya, please!! Ilya!

𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 / 𝘖𝘗𝘌𝘕

[ This is it - his greatest hurdle. A shitty breakfast. He's sure the dream is over now, he could never torture himself like this. ]

Are we seriously supposed to eat this? Will we die?

● 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃 !

( Let's plot or just hit me with something different! Shane is gay, closeted and prone to anxiety on a good day, nsfw stuff will be limited but i'm always up for awkward encounters with him! he's coming from the end of season 1. | pp anytime @ kaitniss )

time for tears and panic ♥︎

[hattricked]

( it's so cold out in the hallways that Ilya is sure that an icicle could drop from his nose if it were running. he's lucky he's escaped that cruel fate for now, the unpleasantness of tears in his eyes freezing down his cheeks.

he hates the cold. hates it so fucking much right now, when his heart is also pounding in his chest and he is starting to suspect-- no, he knows -- this isn't a dream anymore. but he hopes that it is still, somehow. that he'll wake up for real, back in a king-sized bed in a familiar cabin with Shane tucked into his side and Ilya's nose pressed into silky, soft hair that smells faintly of sea-salt and citrus. back where he's wearing briefs, if anything, and that's warm enough. here, now, he's in layers, sure, but the wool blanket he's got wrapped around himself is doing nothing for the cold and his teeth are clattering as he makes his way down a twisting labyrinth of hallways, walls lined with vines and breath turning to plumes of steam dancing in the air.

he hears his name as a he turns left, determined to put some distance between himself and the room he woke up in. it's too full of relevations, too confined. the moment he'd realised this was real the panic set in, the dread because if this was real then where was Shane? they'd just had a few nights, just a few moments of peace and what sort of sick cosmic joke was this if Ilya was pulled away from the first place, the first person that felt like home in too many years for this bullshit.

'what else would you expect? that you deserved all that?' a cruel voice that sounds too much like his father taunts, loud and vicious. it hisses once again as Ilya turns right, unsure where he's going when he hears something completely different. something real.

he knows that voice, would know it anywhere. his heart jumps into his throat and relief floods his system that Shane is here. Ilya spins, doesn't realise that he's running until his joints protest and his muscles ache going from a slow shuffle to a sprint. ) Shane??!!!

Shane! I'm here! ( he screams, answering just as loudly with no care of who can hear them. where is here in this goddman place? he's not sure. but Shane's voice grows closer and then suddenly he sees him. ) Fuck. Shane!

( when they reach each other, it's a crash. Ilya's arms fly around the bulk of Shane's torso to pull him close, as if enveloping him in his arms will push out the cold and soothe the aches away. the fear too, if Shane's heart is hammering in his chest like Ilya's. it makes this feel real, suddenly. terrifyingly so. even more than being told that this isn't a dream he can't wake up from. he's awake now and Shane is here.

he pulls back, hands cupping the sides of Shane's face as he takes him in. he searches for any sign of injury, for anything wrong or off even if his vision is starting to blur. ) Thank God.

I-- I'm here. Are you okay? ( and what a fucking question. he asks it with his lips pressed to Shane's brow, as if he can't stand the distance between them. he fucking can't. )

jaime lannister | a song of ice and fire. ( current character )

[whitecloak]

I — RISE: A COLDER PATH.

[ looming on the fringes of the festivities like a dutiful kingsguard is wont to do was a mistake. instead of being in the position to properly guard and observe, jaime has unknowingly invited in the darkness — and the cold. there's a bite in the wind that makes him shiver, practically demanding his attention as he tears his gaze away from the courtyard to glance at the entrance to the keep, catching a glimpse of what appears to be— ]

Cersei?

[ it's not his twin sister; and yet, without a second thought, he steps away from his post and into the shadows, making his way towards the entrance. ]

II — REVEL: THE BRIAR LORD.

The Briar Lord, [ an echo of the nameless exile's statement, accompanied by a scoff and an overly dramatic roll of vivid green eyes as he regards the visitor with something that teeters on boredom.

he ought to find the appearance of a wooden man covered in vines more horrifying, and perhaps a part of him does, but the appearance of someone dressed like some monstrous decoration plucked right off the walls of highgarden seems par for the course at this point. like a thorny, grotesque reimagining of what the children of the forest had looked like before the dawn of the first men.

jaime snorts at the supposed lord's words. ] What does an overgrown rosebush know about honor?

[ another promise tied to another bargain... the knight had zero interest in giving up his blood, affection, or his honor; least of all to some walking, talking tyrell effigy. ]

III — RESPITE: BREAKFAST IS SERVED.

[ the food is terrible, but he's had worse. compared to the meager scraps he was given while imprisoned in the dungeons beneath riverrun and the absolute filth the brave companions fed him while he was ill following his maiming and barely lucid, it's not bad. he may be the only person at the table picking at his plate without making a face or complaining about the taste. food is food, and he learned the hard way that it's better to eat whatever's available than to stubbornly (and pointlessly) starve to death. ]

Better to retch when there's something to bring up [ he gestures with his stumped arm in the general direction of the stomach of the person sitting nearest to him ] than with nothing in there at all.

IV — NOTES & WILDCARD.

hit me up via pm or @ vivir if you want anything specific! good with both [ brackets ] and prose, happy to follow your tagging preference lead ❤

III — RESPITE: BREAKFAST IS SERVED.

[vermax]

I'm not sure I agree. ( jacaerys says in response, not looking at the man who spoke but instead at the bowl in front of him. the slop within it can barely be called food, for it has the smell of something rotten. in his cup there is wine that smells too sour to stomach. but maybe that is because he is a prince and the food he's eaten all his life the best there is offered.

jacaerys is aware that there are plenty in westeros that have fared with worse than this when food is scarce. that when winter comes and spreads through even the warmest of lands, crops will grow scarce. he wonders what life will look like then, if his mother will sit the throne and fulfill the prophecy their ancestors have passed down to them.

he clears his throat, picking up his spoon again and brings the watered-down porridge to his mouth. he should be able to do this, he does not wish to die for his own stubbornness. he shouldn't have added the pieces of apple, he thinks belatedly, for that makes his stomach roll when he swallows and then ends up coughing. when the fit has stopped, he groans. ) Surely, there's some bread somewhere.

rose landry | heated rivalry. ( new character, current player )

[xsquad]

I — RISE: THE GREAT HALL.

[ rose landry appears to be doing a fantastic job of keeping it together — but it's all an act, because that's what she is: an actress. a very famous actress where she's from who, upon arrival, mistaken believed herself to have somehow blundered onto the set of a film that was in production alongside hers. she spent an embarrassing amount of time asking exiles she believed to be extras where the rest of the crew was and why she couldn't find the entrance to the studio backlot. she's still not fully convinced this isn't a movie set, but she's beginning to worry.

either these extras are doing a damned good job of staying in character or rose has finally fulfilled the prophecy foretold by her filmography: she's been kidnapped. ]

This had better be some sort of fucked up dream, [ she grumbles to herself, pushing the food on her plate around with an ornate fork with zero intention of actually eating any of it. ] That is the last time I let Miles talk me into drinking Kahlúa after midnight.

II — REVEL: TITHE OF THE MISTLE.

[ the thorny vines curling around her legs, keeping her rooted in place is rose's breaking point. she's managed to make it through most of the day without freaking out, but this— this is too much and rose screams, twisting about and reaching for something, anything that she can grab onto to pull herself free of the sinister plant's grasp.

she grips the arm of the (un?)lucky person who had the (mis?)fortune of passing by tight, refusing to let go. ] Help me. Please.

III — RESPITE: WARM WINTER'S KISS.

[ free from the nightmare, rose awakens in a cold, unfamiliar room that her groggy mind falsely believes is an airbnb close to set that the production team rented out for the cast and crew. why they hadn't bothered to turn on the heat or throw some wood in the fireplace is beyond her, and rose rolls over to snuggle further into the covers — and in to the side of the warm body of the person sharing the bed with her.

that gets her to wake up the rest of the way as she sits upright, staring down at her bedmate. ]

What the hell do you think you're doing?

IV — NOTES & WILDCARD.

hit me up via pm or @ vivir if you want anything specific! good with both [ brackets ] and prose, happy to follow your tagging preference lead ❤

II — REVEL unlucky misfortune has arrived

[mountreal]

[ Shane, anxious and hyper-vigilant as ever, has managed to stay out of the grasp of the creepy plants - because why would you get close enough to get caught? - but her scream gets an immediate response from him. He hadn't known she was here until that exact moment but hell, he knows that scream from her movies. He could recognize it anywhere.

In the future he'll make a joke about another kidnapping but Shane acts fast, sprinting over to her and sliding to a stop on his knees, more gracefully than even he is expecting. ]

Rose!? [ He gives her an astonished look that's a severely abbreviated acknowledgement of 'holy shit, we're both here!' but then he gestures immediately to the vines snaking up her legs. ] Oh my god, Rose, what--? Hang on, hold still!

[ He hesitates another second or two too long, then reaches out and tries to pull the plants off of her, working slower than the vines are moving. ]

bonnie bennett | the vampire diaries ( current player, new character )

[goeth]

rise | feast

The tiniest woman with a sassy little bob is eating an astounding amount of food. Just going to town. She's two cups of cider in, too. No manners, no decorum, no etiquette!

In fact, she's snatching an entire pie off of her neighbor's plate with zero remorse or so much as a glance.

rise | parlor
▷ cw | mind-altered dub-con

She's so tired of being alone that Bonnie will take whatever this freaky psychosexual dream situation is giving her. Should she be worried about the fact that she's getting dream faded and stumbles as she picks through the parlor to reach for the stronger stuff? Probably, sure. But she's so tired of being all alone.

There's a lap that looks like she'll fit right in (she's lap-sized, okay, there are few laps she won't fit in) of a warm body to cling to. She smells like the delicious foods in the hall, like spiced cider, like magic if one is so inclined to smell that too. She's warm, impossibly warm, as she lowers herself down for a kiss with little preamble aside from—

"Don't touch my hair and keep your teeth off my skin."

revel | tithe
▷ note | she might get chastised by the briar lord, possible additional games on the horizon~

Plopped down on her rump and seemingly lounging back on her elbows, Bonnie seems to be growing out of the ground itself, her legs a twisted sculpt of bramble. But— ah, no. Her legs are entwined inside of it, held fast as she complains at it.

She looks quite silly. Blood drips from her nose as her splayed hand hovers above the vines.

"I'm not into hentai, you stupid—" Whap, slashes a briar, knocking her hand away and eliciting a yelp of surprise and pain. She swats back at it, instinctively, and off they go in a bloody game of patty cake.

respite | warm

When she half-wakes to find an external source of warmth in bed with her, Bonnie becomes a bony octopus of a woman whose short sharp limbs, for a moment, seem impossible to escape.

Then she freezes as consciousness begins to set in: she sleeps alone. Hell, she sleeps diagonally on her bed by herself without ever worrying about ridiculous things like having to share. If she isn't alone it's because she's crammed into either Elena's or Caroline's bed with the both of them in it with her.

There's a hard thud as she hits the floor after scrambling out. Then a harsh slash of a gasp as the cold immediately grips her by the feet and begins to travel upward. She dives back in, cold toes now desperately seeking warmth, the worst bed partner ever.

wildcard

( feel free to reply with brackets, i am not picky! hmu klingoff if there's anything you'd like to plot out. she'll be wandering around throwing caution to the wind because she's coming from a long stay in a pocket dimension all alone~ )

rise | feast.

[xsquad]

Rose helps with the pie snatching, pushing the plate over into Bonnie's space without so much as a single word of protest in regards to her pie theft.

"Have at it. You couldn't pay me to eat that. To eat any of this." Rose gestures to the rest of the food covering the table with a wide sweep of her hand. "In fact, no one's paying me. Are you getting paid? Did you sign a contract for this? I didn't sign a contract for this."

brienne of tarth | a song of ice and fire. ( current character )

[wenche]

courtyard

Brienne has never seen snow. She was born in a Spring, and it's been a long Summer since it began during her childhood. She seems to relish the cold, even without her ever-present armor to give her a little barrier from it.

In fact she marvels at it, eyes wide with wonder and delight, crouching down to press a hand-print into a pile of snow with a delighted shiver or stretching back to try to catch a snowflake on her tongue. She's on her second cup of cider, though it isn't one of her vices, and she's warm with the knowledge that Jaime has recovered, and Alicent remained safe, and Steve... he looks hale and hearty, and maybe everything will be all right. Maybe she made the right choice.

When a snowball explodes against the back of her neck, cold snow melting and dripping down her back, Brienne yelps with alarm. There's something instinctual that happens when a snowball fight breaks out in a crowd, as people take sides and dive for cover with laughter and shock on their tongues.

She scrambles to her feet, slipping and sliding so that her cider falls out of her hands and she's scooping up snow instead as she runs, turning to lob her own poorly-shaped projectile only to take another one right to the dome.

It may be the first unguarded smile she's ever smiled as she shouts and dives and tries again.

tithe of the mistle

( cw & note | likely description of facial wounds and scarring; brienne has some very specific kissing trauma )

This big strong lady wearing trousers, tall and bearing the scars of a lifestyle not meant for such a young and naive woman, really loves a pretty flower that isn't a rose. Brienne loves many beautiful things (she's been not-so-surreptitiously and longingly gazing across the room at the Crucible's most beautiful knight all dream), and it doesn't take much for her to drift toward the brambles to reach and feel the soft petal under her thick and callused finger.

But these brambles reach back, worse than calluses, and she gasps with the pain. Without armor and boots and a sword, she can only pull at it. More and more frantic as the bramble climbs, less and less willing to accept what she must do to escape.

"Please if you could— do you have a knife I might use? I seem to be tangled..."

warm winter's kiss

( cw | vague mention/reference to the very everpresent danger of rape in brienne's world )

She always sleeps in her armor. When there are men about, when many of them are dangerous or unpredictable as they are in the Crucible, Brienne will take discomfort over vulnerability. It is the way of it since she left her father's hall on Tarth, whether she is in Renly's war camps or on the road searching for someone else's honor. There are few men she can feel a modicum of comfort around, who she allows near to her without at least the bare assurance of a dirk stuck into her boot or her belt.

Now that she has felt the Egregore glutted on loss and pain, it will be a cold day in the seven hells before she's without her armor again. Pretty cold, today.

Her body is large and takes up a lot of the bed, long legs and long arms dense with muscle, and warm. She's a Southron girl, an island girl, used to the heat of the Summer Sea even as a cold storm rips through to batter the mainland and whatever ships are caught in the in-between. She's been battered, bruised and demoralized, and she is used to a lack of comfort.

Without armor, without the steel of duty guiding her hand, with the soft and fuzzy memory of sweet lips on hers she gives in to a moment of rest. She stretches, feels another body, and freezes in panic.

Normally low, her voice is girlish with worry as she ventures: "Hello...?"

wildcard

( give me a holler if you'd like something bespoke. i'd love to do a bewitching branch with someone with some plotting! find me over at klingoff )

tithe of mistle

[vampirella]

"Sorry, cupcake. Seems I dropped my sword." It's a real funny thing for such a slip of a girl to say. The dry raspy delivery might indicate sarcasm. Super weird joke though.

Carmilla tilts her head, dark eyes contemplating. She looks a bit like a cat that has been beckoned and is both somewhat sour about the presumption and intrigued by the request. That does look like a real snarl, but why is it her problem, exactly? She should know better than to get baited by blonde damsels in distress, she literally just died (AGAIN) for it.

She steps closer, not exactly close enough to get tied up herself, but enough to eye the plant. "Cute." She flicks at a leaf, which does not help Brienne's perdicament any. "Magic mistletoe. That's a new one."

the creature. frankenstein (2025).

[creatura]

THE COURTYARD.

( his presence here is a puzzle, and he lacks the pieces to make the picture clear. the creature watches, for now, lingering at the corners, finding shadows to linger within. people mill about, aimless. subdued. even happy. it is strange, but surely not terrible, to be permitted so close to the quiet machinations of man. conversations flitting through the air like bird wings. it is a comforting quiet.

until it isn't. a particularly playful exile lobs a ball of snow at unsuspecting revelers. some protest in tones that imply amusement instead of anger. others return fire, turning one stay strike to a battle with multiple sides. sparks of laughter ring like bells. people join the fray and leave it just as easily. it speaks to a levity in the human heart that the creature has experienced scarce little. it is impossible not to find some charm in the play. so he watches, a half smile hidden.

he could not name how long he watched before a stray snowball scatters against his chest. the creature stiffens, forcing the fragments of his body from the instinct to cower. a pelting of snow is not the same threat of buckshot, the sear of gunpowder — even if the sudden impact drags the memory forward unbidden. he winces, slow to return from memory to present. the expectant look on the stranger implies the invitation to the game was intentional, not accidental. made in jest, not in jeer. it would be sensible to slip away, before tides turn. only — well — why not?

the creature does not anticipate his hands might be larger. his arm span supplying more snow. his strength more than necessary. alas, he only realizes it after absolutely OBLITERATING the bold soul that had tried to invite the towering monster to the snowball fight. guilt consumes the instinct to flee, and the creature scampers over the snow to the person he's knocked over, falling to his knees much like a tree toppling after the final lick of an axe. ) Forgive me. ( his voice is dark and graveled. the creature looks for injury, hands trembling just shy of contact. )

A COLDER PATH.

( the castle seems to resent exploration. every step darker and colder than the last. the creature is too foolhardy to pay the oppressive air mind. he storms onward, with no care to quiet his steps. the weight of his steps echoing down the halls are heavy enough to sound like the approach of something wrong, monstrous, frightening. at the moment, the description is not far off.

he wanders until he finds the gate. it seems the closest path to freedom. being heavily shut should be of no consequence. the creature approaches, stoops long enough to jam garish fingers under the bitter cold metal. lifts, strains and grits his teeth. even roars, frustrated and inhuman, when the blockade does not even have the decency to budge.

he fights it for a minute. longer. releases the gate only to beat at the metal with his shoulder. his assault echoes in the empty air, impossibly loud. he roars again, louder still, as if embracing his rage will make him stronger. it fares no better. the creature is not one to fold easily, and takes his failures to mean he has simply not tried hard enough. a running start, perhaps?

he means to take ten strides. on his last step, his foot falls upon a broken tile. had it always been broken, or did it pry loose as he barreled across the first time? the wicked edge cleaves into the meat of his bare skin, flaying deep. the roar this time is tainted by pain, surprise, and frustration in equal measure. it slows the creature to a limp, and then a collapse, falling into an exceptionally large puddle of ungainly limbs and furs. )

TITHE OF MISTLE.

( there is no escape from the merriment, though the creature lingers at the sidelines all the same. he cares not to eat, nor invite hands upon his ragged flesh. the gleeful game of blood and lashes turns his stomach. the safest place to linger seems the courtyard, even though he has haunted it once before. even though the cold starts to weigh heavy in his mismatched bones.

the creature does not see the snarl of vine until it has already locked at a bare ankle. he yanks it free, only to step upon another. and another. the sounds of his distress sound inhuman, dark and resonant. fighting only ensnares him more, at his wrist, arm, throat. when he finally stills, his breaths are heavy, rasped, nearly feral. an eye glints red from the depths of his shadowed hood.

soooooooo who wants a kiss??? 😌 )

WARM WINTER'S KISS.

( despite the threat of mistle, the creature is sick of this castle's shit and STAYING in the courtyard. and his awareness of his cage forces his rankle to lower. he goes from actively avoiding the presence of other exiles to ignoring them. if they have grievance with his presence, they may raise it or find a place he is not.

his reanimated heart pushes the electricity needed to function through his lymphatic system. his father's design emphasized longevity, and likely never considered comfort a once. a corpse generates little heat, and what is he but the stitched together remnants of war? suffice to say, he is beginning to feel the pain and ache of standing around in the cold for hours.

so the creature folds, eventually, trudging to the fountain to stick bare feet in the water. dragging blue fingers through the water, wincing a fist open and closed to try and help the warmth sink deeper into scarred flesh. if someone watches, they are met with glaring silence. he has as much right to comfort as anyone else, does he not? so WHAT if he's ruining the fucking vibe? )

SUNDRY & WILDCARD.

hello friends pls let me know if you'd like me to try and avoid spoilers! baby boy is feeling shy to start so please assume in all prompts his face is hidden until he decides to reveal himself!

if you want to play with another prompt, feel free to wildcard me, and you can also catch me via pm or stalfos for further plotting! )

tithe of mistle 👄

[bloodrops]

[ Louis has no interest in the little game, not after the recent quest involving other wooden men. the adventure ended in a triumph (allegedly), but he doesn't trust himself with the blood that's supposed to be spilled in the visitor's honor. his own wounds have healed, yet the grave hunger lingers still. he distinctly remembers the taste of Aemond's blood on his tongue, but he's also pretty sure he saw the man walking in the Great Hall few hours ago, whole and alive.

his confusion deepens... only to be disrupted by a strange groan of anguish. Louis doesn't care for another look into his own madness, so he decides to follow the sound instead. what he finds is a large man covered in rags and vines, helplessly trapped. Louis doesn't have to guess twice to know whose handiwork this is. they're going to need a knife! ]

So what did you do to piss off the green man?

adder / kingdom come: deliverance 2 (new player/new character)

[polishsausage]

i. the velvet parlor
(potential for sex, mind-altered dubcon)

( this is a nightmare. no, this is hell. no, this is only a dream. no, this is death.

adder watches the tangle of bodies, drawing in a lungful of air thick with incense and sex, and is reminded of a story a tottering old drunk had told him a long time ago. "i nearly drowned once," the drunk had said. "i nearly drowned and i saw hell. the demons there were beautiful and depraved and fucked like whores and offered a man whatever he wished."

adder had laughed back then. said hell didn't sound all that bad.

now he wonders if there was truth to the ramblings of an ale-soaked old man.

but

he can't deny how drawn he is to it. he can't deny how he aches to join. every part of this is more intoxicating than the finest drink he's ever had.

maybe it's hell, or maybe it's a dream.

either way it won't really matter what he does, will it? )

If it's local custom, ( he remarks with a mischievous grin (and as a guy who rarely gives a shit about any local custom), ) then I suppose it would be rude not to join in, wouldn't it?

ii. the courtyard

( without the immediate allure of good drink and companionship in front of him, adder's mood plummets into more bristly territory. the heated pool does catch his interest, but before he can head that way he notices some poor soul releasing one of those stupid lanterns into the sky. adder may not know what it says but he'd heard what they are - people's greatest desires, sent floating to the heavens.

foolish, he thinks.

however, it isn't personal when he opens his mouth to snap about it. this just happens to be a convenient outlet for his mounting frustration. )

For fuck's sake, what's the point? You think it goes straight to God?

( brusque, a little rude, maybe a touch condescending. adder isn't always the most skilled at putting his best foot forward. )

iii. tithe of the mistle

( adder takes little interest in the lord's game, and he scoffs at the mention of a tithe of affection. shall the lord's retinue make the rounds requesting a sweet kiss or a gentle fondling? he doubts it, and so he doesn't worry about it, either.

the promise of a tithe is all but forgotten once he finds himself entangled in bramble, and the notion that this is the tithe doesn't even cross his mind. he's too busy trying to free himself to entertain such an absurd thought.

but it's no use.

by the time he spots potential help, the bramble has nearly snaked its way to his waist and his hands are bleeding from his efforts. )

You! Fucking help me with this shit, won't you?

iv. breakfast is served

( it's fucking cold. the kind of cold that settles into your bones and hurts and hurts and hurts. adder feels like a man twice his age when he takes his place at the table with his sad breakfast.

he's had worse than the porridge. he's even had worse than the soured nuts and fruit. that still doesn't mean he wants to eat it. he'd rather try to warm his belly with watered-down wine.

the person sitting across from him becomes an immediate target, a poor sod who might be charmed out of their wine if he can only make his case for it. )

Will you trade? You can have this shit - ( he nudges his bowl of porridge with his knuckles ) - in exchange for the wine.

( nailed it )

v. wildcard

( hello! i spotted this tdm on plurk and it really piqued my interest so i figured i'd come play around a little. please feel free to reach out to me with any questions or plotting stuff via pm or at commodore, and i have an info/permissions post here. )

courtyard (with a little flavor from the parlor)

[pharmacy]

[ Straight to God! Quentin finds the idea laughable himself, but it wasn't the first thing that he thought of when he saw people writing and releasing their little lanterns. It seems more like a New Years Eve wish to me, and he's still mulling over what to put in his own when he hears the heckler a few feet away.

[ Turning to look over his shoulder, the back of Quentin's neck prickles--a cold breeze and a sense of déjà vu running over his spine. Where's he seen this guy before? That's right--in the hazy dim of the Velvet Parlor, skin rosy-damp and lips just barely split to allow him to drag in deep breathes, eyes distant, distant, distant. They hadn't touched; Quentin was well occupied a few bodies over. But he remembers the new face.

[ His mouth curls a little meanly. ]

It's local custom, asshole. It's rude not to join in. [ His head tips to the side, inviting--or ordering? ] Come here.

quentin smith . dead by daylight . current character

[pharmacy]

FEASTING cw: drinking, probably discussions of violence

Things got bad here, so bad. But he did his research. He talked with people who know best. He put his whole heart into making it better, and--a few missteps aside--it worked. There's no chance that Quentin is sitting out this celebration, not when it's been so long since he felt good, not when they've all earned this. 

Finally warm in his bones and unhindered by sprains or scratches or bruises, Quentin buoys cheerily in the Great Hall, eager to eat and drink with the familiar faces and the strange. For the familiar, you don't have to be a good friend to get a warm side hug and a cheers, a grinning ask: "We did good, huh?" 

His hands may find the waists and palms of his fellow exiles during the dancing, and look--he's learned steps since the last fete! His rhythm is decent, and he only misses a move every few phrases. Quentin even has enough knowledge to teach for anyone who's really floundering, though a more experienced exile may occasionally come in to correct both him and his partner. Oops! 

You don't even have to know him for him to drift into your orbit. If your cup runs low, expect a here, here from just over your shoulder, before he takes your cup and fills it again from the nearest pitcher. "Look, I know it's all a little crazy," Quentin laughs, nose and cheeks glowing pink from his own servings, "but it's not gonna be less crazy if you're sober."

 
FESTING

Between drinks, games, and dancing, he wanders the Courtyard to watch the light snow and keep quieter company. After spending weeks frozen to his very core, Quentin watches his breath steam in fat clouds with a giddy sense of wonder. Maybe that's partially the spiced cider making everything a little more magical. He's warm enough with his feet dipped in the heated pool that he actually folks the warm woolen jacket to use as a seat to keep the snow off his trousers. He pats the end of it to anyone coming near to use the pool. There's space on his cushion! 

The whole night, Quentin keeps himself moving. Drinking, dancing, eating. On the very edges of his mind (or more towards the center, if someone starts mulling about it too long), there's a siren singing, a reminder that this night will end, and things will be dark again, dank again, frozen again--and he can't stand the thought. When he runs out of people to cajole, conversations to have, steps to learn, he can be found in the Velvet Parlor until the wee hours of the morning. Sweet voice, spidering hands, silky tongue and giving spirit, Quentin does his part for the vibe with nearly reckless enthusiasm.

FREEZING 

In the icy morning, Quentin gravitates towards the body near him without a hint of gall. He's a cuddler on a regular day, nevermind when the chill is trying to nip at his exposed skin. His fingers sift between strands of fur, feeling for the aura of heat coming off someone else. They sew around the nearest waist, stitching the person closer to him. His nose, chilly as the air, presses to spine--between shoulderblades or at the base of neck or wherever--but the great humming sigh that comes out of him when he snuggles near is plenty toasty. 

His fingers and toes and nose may be chilly, but Quentin is at least versed in getting the hearth burning again. It's cold in the corridors, but it's still very superior to the ice that seized his whole body only a few days ago, so he walks the halls with a spring in his step and a smile he can't shake. For new folks, he's quick with directions or a word of advice, pointing out the places to rummage around for extra clothes, advising against hoarding, and (again) filling up empty cups with sour, watery wine. He pulls a face as he plucks a few pieces of rotted fruit out of his lukewarm porridge. "No, it's fine," Quentin assures to his tablemates, "Just pick around it, you're gonna want to eat while you can. At the very least, the calories will keep you warm."

OOC

Info is here, I'm wide open to wildcards! Don't be shy about reusing prompts, excited for new TDMers and new CR from current players! I kept my TLs pretty light bc he's had a rough month, but I'm very down to go dark/fucky : )

freezing .

[vocoder]

( little more than a precursor to death, touch seldom portends anything but violence.

kylo ren doesn't touch people he doesn't plan on harming, after all.

his waking motion is a tapestry of action — never mind the comfort of warmth, the single rarity of such an embrace. he punches away, has a hand around the throat of the offending party, hover fingers before his eyes, all before he has a moment to exhale. )

You'll tell me who you are. Now.

( his voice betrays some astonishment, but he keeps the demand even-keeled. the force prefers it, he finds. )

max guevara | dark angel (new player, new character)

[revvedup]

THE GREAT HALL. (cw: death by point-blank gunshot, mild nsfw)

[ max remembers her body flush with pleasure, arching underneath logan's body, hands roaming and twisting in sheets, up until he pulls one of his back and holds it in front of her for them to see, his fingertips painted with blood. her blood. there's the crack of a gunshot, a flap of crow's wings above them, and then -

then, she's at a party. in a place she doesn't recognize, with strangers surrounding her and a glass of honeyed wine in her hand. ]

What the fuck.

[ immediately uneasy, max eyes up her surroundings, both the people and the environment. people, for the most part, seem to either be at ease or pretending to be. it's not altogether surprising; one of the earliest lessons manticore had drilled into them had been to blend in if you couldn't keep moving.

so she tries. she smiles at the people beside her, gesturing with her glass without actually drinking from it. she's built to be resistant to poisons, but she doesn't think she can trust anything here. ]

So this is quite a party, huh? What's the occasion?

BATS & LASHES. (cw: violence, childhood grooming/soldier training, potential nsfw)

[ turns out, her training only extends so far. manticore had yet to get to the part of her training that involved getting close to the enemy or entwined with them, so as time goes on it's harder to fake her enthusiasm, especially as she's herded into the courtyard as the sun rises. she's reminded again of manticore, of instructions on the most efficient ways to kill people or incapacitate them, especially when she's handed a switch and asked to use it against the one unfortunate enough to be brought into this with her.

she stares at the switch in her hand, then looks up at the person across from her with a slight shake of her head. ]

You really don't want to do this. [ it's the only warning they'll get, if they decide to fight anyway. ]

WARM WINTER'S KISS. (cw: seizure mention)

[ when she wakes for real, it's with a start, sucking in breath with a shocked gasp, her hand grasping at her chest. she stares down at her palm when she pulls it back, not seeing any blood, but she does realize that it's trembling. she worries for a moment that it's a precursor to a seizure, but then catches sight of her breath in the air and shoves deeper beneath the furs, taking a few moments to try to take stock of what's real and what was a dream.

when she eventually makes it to breakfast, she sticks to the porridge, swallowing it and the wine down with a grimace. ]

Never thought I'd want to go back to sleep.

WILDCARD.

[ if you have another idea or have any questions, please feel free to throw them my way! i can be reached at vdova. max is coming in towards the end of episode 1x21 of dark angel, shortly after being shot to death by a clone of herself as a child as she tried to destroy the military operation that created her. ]

bats & lashes

[pharmacy]

Hey, what the Briar Lord wants, the Briar Lord gets.

[ By contrast to Max, Quentin is...fairly flippant about this. It's been a good night. A fun night! And he's wearing a layer of wine that protects him from worrying and (so he hopes) the potential pain of getting a little scratched. It's never been a better time to whip each other with whips.

[ He turns the switch over in his hand mindless, feeling out the safest place to grip it tight. His grin is more than a little cocky. ]

Trust me, I can handle whatever you've got. Do we shake hands, or...?

louis | iwtv (closed starters)

[bloodrops]

tithe of mistle (Da-Lua)

[bloodrops]

[ the scent of the fresh mistle berries draws Louis to the cold garden and it seems he isn't the only one lured in. when he steps under the trees weighed down by heavy snow and nearly tangles his foot on the bramble, his attention catches on a familiar, tall figure. a friction of his imagination, a ghost, surely, because he can't be alive. just as the blond man he saw at the hall couldn't have been Aemond. Louis saw them both die. one very up close. ]

You. What the hell. [ his stomach lurches. he's hallucinating again. or was last night a dream? ] You're not supposed to be here.

[ he should turn around, leave and clear his head, forget about the phantom, but he comes straight at it, stepping over the green that's suspiciously growing among the snow. he's going to prove this isn't real. ]

steve harrington. stranger dbd.

[babysitters]

THE COURTYARD.

( steve feels like a tape that someone sent back without rewinding. like trying to make sense of a movie that started in the middle. everything is over now and that's ... good. objectively. everybody is happy. he wants to be happy, too. so he needs to get his shit together. considering his tendency to be constant miserable slouch might have jumpstarted the eclipse in the first place, he really needs to man up and get over it already.

easier said than done, though. in hindsight, Steve doesn't get how Nancy put up with him for almost a year before losing her shit in Tina's bathroom. he's goddamn sick of parties. drinking and eating and fucking and pretending things are all cool. he used to be so good at it, too. what's wrong with him? why can't he just get over it?

Steve is attempting to fix his rank ass energy, at least. he's been cold for forever, practically, so the fountain made into a meager makeshift hot tub? deal. sold. that is something he can get behind. in fact, he was so desperate to be warm when he saw it he just stumbled in, clothes and all. his sneakers and socks appear to be the only thing he managed to peel off ahead of time, as they're strewn abandoned on the ground. steve harrington and getting in a bath with his clothes still on because he's having a bad brain day because the crucible kinda sucks, name a more iconic duo. he is laid flat, because that's the only way to be almost entirely covered. head lolled against the stone, hair sticking to the back of his neck. understandably, people seem to find it pretty weird and most seem to give him a wide birth.

anyone close enough to approach will find he's awake and alert, at least, even if he's almost entirely slumped. in fact, company gets enough of his attention that his eyes slide in that direction. ) Got a smoke? ( he asks like he already knows the answer and is trying to prepare himself for the disappointment. but you miss every shot you don't take, and he could really use a cigarette. )

A COLDER PATH.

( he's damp now, after his misguided soak. but whatever. it's fine. Steve lingers at a door, not quite committed to going through it yet, but staring at it like he's scheming something, and that can't be a good sign.

the party and fun is firmly behind him, and yet Steve can't quite turn back in that direction. it's just... well... well what happened to it? that knife. that knife cellar gave him. he doesn't remember giving it back, and he doesn't remember what he did with it. which doesn't make sense. he wouldn't just leave it behind.

it's really stupid. giving her back that knife is not going to fix how ugly things went. it's like putting a bandaid on an amputation. and yet Steve can't stop thinking about it. he has to get that knife, and he doesn't have it, so where is it? ostensibly, there's only one place it could be, and he doesn't want to go there alone. so he's just Lingering. Contemplating. Considering his options. )

TITHE OF MISTLE.

potential spicy and/or dubcon option, but if u want more than kisses i want to plot first 🫰

( maybe he adventured. maybe he didn't. either way, he's back, and hopefully fully dry by now. coerced to at least try the merriment, apparently, because he's got wine. and there's a bit of flush to his face that might hint he's already had some of it. he isn't as broody, at least, though he's definitely still in his head. staring up at a vine that is slowly flowering above. the color is all wrong; white instead of red. it's obviously magic, because mistletoe doesn't grow as you watch it (it's kinda trippy to watch, actually?? how long has he been watching? how far will it grow?). Steve knows it isn't quite the same as the mistletoe he's thinking of.

but he finds himself nostalgic, and a little homesick, sitting there staring at it. thinking back to when his life was somewhat normal. about stupid parties with glittery plastic berries, putting himself underneath of it to kiss nameless girls and taste the eggnog on their tongue. sitting with an arm around Nancy on her sofa as Karen Wheeler cooked enough for an army. actually seeing his mom for awhile, because she had so many Christmas parties she had to recover from. cookies and dumb movies and hot chocolate. sure Christmas got worse as he got older, and yet he can't help but wish he could go back. just one more. he wouldn't even complain about the stupid sweater his mom would undoubtedly make him wear.

when someone approaches, he stays in his head a beat longer, but crawls out again eventually. ) You think we missed it? ( Christmas, he means. he doesn't even look to see if his company would actually have any clue what that is, just assumes they'll get it. no, he just keeps staring at the slowly winding mistletoe. )

SUNDRY & WILDCARD.

steve is an existing character. because he died last event and i am waiting for more details as to how his wakeup goes, morning after prompts are not an option for wildcards. i am game to plot other things though, via pm or stalfos!

mix of colder path + thought-speak

[longlegs]

[ Raíz lets her agents die, but they don't stay dead. Whatever happens to them, no matter how abominable — she visits and she puts them back together, then she marches off to snap the culprit out of existence. Just gone, there one moment and gone the next, death taken to its extreme. Except there's no death, no torture, no future. All that's left of the killer is someone's certainty that they were real up until a moment ago.

Cellar's idea of death has been a little skewed because of that. Surrounded by reckless people who would rather stay alive but don't have to worry too much about dying, most of the veterans treating it as a break, not a permanent leave, while the newbie sits and wonders how in the world anyone can come to that point. Every death feels devastating, and every time it chips away at something, and when it's someone she likes, she feels like it's her fault. Take that and see it crumble tenfold when memories of Steve flash in the back of her mind, fighting to save everyone while Cellar couldn't even save him. The screaming, the blood, the horrible noises that monster made as it desperately tried to find a way to crawl into the young man's body. Her friend's body, while hers couldn't summon shadows long enough to make that fucking thing implode.

The last thing she's thinking about is the knife, when she learns that people have seen Steve, that he's not someone who was just real up until that terrible moment-ago. She searches through the celebrations, hair swinging along her jawline every time she turns her head and asks again: Have you seen Steve? It takes her too long to think to reach out with a thought, inexperienced on top of the scrambled connection around the eclipse, but — why not start here? If anything is worth it, it's getting to hear Steve's voice again. ]

Steve? Is this working?