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

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?

[creatura]

( the vines ravage and tighten with every twist and turn. the creature is keen enough to take the hint that struggling only worsens his circumstances, yet that does nothing at all to soften the heat of his rage. he needs help and yet he is proud and stubborn when presented an option for it. he stares, silent, huffs of breath shaking his shoulders, that are more akin to bull than man.

he seethes, taking in the stranger. he is affable. handsome. it is unfair to begrudge the charm of his features, and yet it roils in the monster all the same. this errant stranger is someone who could find grace and affection wherever he sought it. even the crudeness of his tongue could be ignored for the gift of flitting through life as winsome as a painting. like the sort of hero that dances across the pages of fanciful storybooks. strong of jaw, bright of eye, warm of voice. he could be hideous inside, and no one would ever suspect it.

it takes long, measured breaths to find his way back to the part of his brain that can reason. it is harder to pick out an answer when he would like to go back to feral gnashing, for all the good it was doing him. since his would be hero has not yet fled, what is the harm in appealing to his good nature — despite the obvious err in presuming he has one. ) I had naught blood nor affection to spare. ( his body language and tone imply both of those things are still true. ) The more I fight the worse it tangles.

( got any ideas, Louis? because brute force seems to be out. )

[bloodrops]

Fair enough. I didn't care for his games either.

[ Louis gives a good-natured shrug, agreeing with the big guy. the vampire's casually sizing him up under the pretense of studying the vines trapping him, but he suspects what's under them is more interesting. his size makes Louis think of Da-Lua and how he suddenly grew wings from his back, which he suspects is not the case here, otherwise the man would have fled from the plants, but something is certainly off. the stranger doesn't smell normal and the sound of his heartbeat is... strong. Claudia would have been so fascinated to find out what this guy's deal is. Louis's own curiosity is more reserved, but he's sympathetic toward his struggle. it could be him under there. ]

Let me try. I'm stronger than I look. [ he offers after a pause, half-smiling to himself with the private joke. he extends his hand first, thinking that he'll just rip the vine right off his wrist, but it's when he's close enough to do so, one of the vines slashes into motion and coils itself around his ankle. Louis glances down. ] --Ah.

[creatura]

( it's a good thing his face is mostly covered. because it contorts into obvious incredulity as Louis absolutely disregards not only his eyes (surely the man saw at least some the fight made against these invasive plants??? does he strike this stranger to be somehow lacking in strength of his own?), but a perfectly clear elucidation of the current straits as well. what part of the more I fight, the more it tangles implies they should just try the same thing again? his father considered all men that were not he simpletons, while entirely disregarding his own predisposition to idiocy. the creature wonders now if all handsome men are simply some shade of stupid.

the creature growls, frustrated, as the entirely expected occurs. what a surprise, more pulling has made the matter even more dire. if only someone could have warned them, before both of them were snarled in such proximity. perhaps it could have changed things! the creature stays still and sour. if Louis would like to writhe and worsen his trouble, he shall play no party to it. he is already tangled enough. )

He wanted blood, or affection. ( graveled out, word by word. remember, Louis??? the big guy already mentioned that, too. as loathe as the creature is to admit it, it seems they are trapped in the briar lord's game now, and must choose some sort of penance to gain their freedom. )

[bloodrops]

[ yep, that may have been a dumb move, but at least the vampire doesn't make it any worse after he tests his strength on the closest vine. he gives up fairly quickly, figuring that his powers don't hold up against magic or whatever this is. his bad. ]

I'm sorry, I messed it up. [ he laughs meekly, aware how spectacularly he's failed to help. both of his ankles are trapped with the stranger and now that he's forced to stop and think about it for a second, he's pretty sure he knows what this is. the branches were supposed to draw blood and the vines haven't released them after a few scrapes, so... ] Should have listened to you, should have listened to him. Do you have mistletoe where you come from? Back home it's a tradition around Christmas time. Around midwinter, that is.

Courtard. ❄️

[decorative]

[The Chevalier stays motionless, his hair fanning out around his head like a bad drawing of a starfish. The thick fur of his coat softened the fall, but nonetheless he blinks up at night sky, unsure if the twinkling of the stars is real or a sign of him losing consciousness. He isn't bleeding, but he thinks he is. When the big, hulking man comes into view, the Chevalier peers over to him and smiles, dazed.]

Are you my savior or my killer?

[creatura]

( how is it his unending body can be stitched together from scraps of human man, when they seem so utterly fragile? the man speaks, and yet is lost in a daze. even smiles, despite the likely spin of the sky above his head. the creature wears his guilt like a lashing, the bite of words that ring more true than false. the wince is mostly hidden under the cowl the creature wears over its face, but that does not keep his eyes from mirroring it.

the man has not dissolved into terror, not yet. the creature hopelessly tries to put a perfect curl to right, before realizing he could never hope to return them to perfection, not even if he slaved over them the rest of the night. ) I did not mean to hurt you. ( so ... maybe somewhere in the middle. )

[decorative]

[The Chevalier reaches for the hand in his hair and pulls it to his chest, holding it over his heart. He hums.]

Will you make it up to me? [He hums, flirting before he really pays any attention to the shadow looming over him. It's only afterwards when he glances down and notices the scarf. He smiles.] You are shy...

[creatura]

( there is an aborted attempt to recoil, as the creature is certain the cold touch and deep scarring of his palm will give his monstrosity away. it is only the fear it will rattle the fragile form underneath him that stills his hand. the man is warm, strangely friendly. speaks with a warmth the creature is not accustomed to. it makes him think of his first and only friend. the creature cannot help a fickle hope that he could find another. that other humans could hold him in such esteem.

and truly the creature is somewhat astonished he didn't already blow it by clowning on chev with that monster sized snowball. )

It is cold. ( baby's first lie???? well, kinda, but also not, because it is cold. that just isn't the reason he is drowning in a wolf pelt cloak. somehow this stranger has not dissolved into abject terror, and the creature would like to keep it that way as long as it takes to send him back on his merry way. which starts with getting him back to his feet. ) Can you stand?

[decorative]

[The Chevalier suspects he can stand but he doesn't know for certain. Either way, he isn't about to attempt on his own. He stretches out his arms and wiggles his fingers, giving a silent request to be lifted to his feet.

He does not notice anything peculiar about the mysteriously bundled man other than his impressive size. The Frenchman's mind quickly launches into fantasies of a strong man with stronger arms defending him in battle with his bare hands.]

If it is cold, you should help me up, hmm?

[creatura]

( bare hands is right, to be fair. that's how the creature adorned himself with all these wolf pelts!

the request strikes him as strange. the man seems young enough. his mind is sharp and not indicating much in the way of disrepair from his uncertain landing. the wiggling fingers seem... silly. not fraught. but the creature does not truly know the limits of men. he is mostly experienced with the intense needs of one that was frail, failing. and he has the unfortunate core memory of waking up entirely frozen and having to find his feet on his lonesome. it is not entirely unreasonable to want help, he supposes.

and it is not an extravagant ask, either. if he has the strength to knock the poor frenchman over, he has the strength to set him right.

so the creature rises and takes the offered, perfectly manicured hands. lifts but takes care to be gentle. his hands are pale and mottled nearly blue with the cold, especially noticeable against the healthy flush of living flesh. the creature tries to retract his hands before his company can notice the difference. ) Will you be well? ( bless the little losers heart, the creature IS concerned. why did the divine make the human form so feeble? 😣 )

[decorative]

You tell me. [The Chevalier's response is quick, playful and a little drunk, too drunk to pay attention to any peculiar hands from the Creature especially when they are useful. The Chevalier is not the type of person to bite the hand that feeds him. Not without strategy at least.

He twists his body as if doing a twirl, but keeps his gaze locked on the tall man in front of him.]

What do you see? [The flirtatious suggestion in his tone is that the response had better be pretty complimentary.]

[creatura]

( in the panic and shame, the creature had thought little as to what state the man may have been in before he was thrown asunder. now, he does. the monster has never been drunk. perhaps he cannot be, even, as he has sampled brandy and wine and never felt an appreciable difference. and yet he has seen enough men shamble around streets to understand the effects of a stiff drink. is this man in his cups? it explains much. )

You are yet covered in snow. ( putting him to right helped some of it fall back to the ground, and yet it lingers on his shoulders. in his hair. this is probably not the answer Chev was going for. the Creature is not trying to play hard to get, he has simply never experienced a flirty fishing for compliments before. )

[decorative]

[The words are far from the compliments he was hoping for but luckily he considers the insult to be caused by obliviousness rather than any true intent. That won't stop the Chevalier from playing hurt though. He pouts and holds his hand to his chest.]

You think I am ugly... [He utters sadly, seeking correction. If the creature doesn't understand the fishing, the Chevalier just had to fish harder.]

a colder path.

[wenche]

( the hands that grasp at whatever seems solid on this pile of akimbo limbs are large and warm, steadying with a command that borders on unyielding.

brienne is bent over above him, disheveled and unkempt corn yellow hair falling into her eyes, bright with concern and not a little anxiety. )

Cease, you must cease...!

( who is this man who thinks himself bull enough to barrel through wrought iron and yet wears no shoes on his feet? )

[creatura]

( pain is not new to him. it shouldn't surprise. sear the way it does. it is more than the pain, perhaps — the terror. of finding himself in a new cage. more ornate and lavish than the last, but a gilded cage is still a cage. he can not choose his own path when he is shackled to this one. it makes the pain brighter, more oppressive, impossible to disregard. sends him to a place in his brain that is more animal than man.

he had no awareness of his company. not until Brienne is close, bearing overtop of him, voice booming in a way that insists he submit.

it is childish. foolish. to cower under the weight of a voice. the creature folds anyway, covering his head like he expects strikes to follow. he will be ashamed of regressing to the floundering thing that was chained to his father's floor, when he regains enough sense to realize it. as it is, he simply cowers. astonishingly small for the thundering force that had been assailing the gates. )

[wenche]

( the instinct to cringe away is one brienne knows well. though it is hardly what she expects— (she had, after all, grabbed at him ready to take a hit or to have to bully him into submission) brienne releases him as quickly as she'd touched him. it pulls at something in her chest to see it. )

I will not hurt you, I only—

( she backs up a few steps, brushing the hair from her face, which is splotchy red with her exertion and the cold. it feels terrible, the fear coming off of him in waves. she knows it well. she hates feeling it, and hates inspiring it in others more. )

You frightened me, that is all. I thought you meant harm.

( he cowers still, and she looks him over as best she can while he is so huddled. it makes sense to be covered so completely against the cold, and yet his feet... )

[creatura]

( he hides beneath the shield of his arms, and yet no blow comes. how does that somehow make the terror of their inevitable landing worse? he waits, and he waits. someone speaks. the voice is different now. even though it comes to him in murmurs, instead of words he can readily comprehend. the desire to understand them forces him to reach back towards reason. retreat from this shell of terror and instinct he has dissolved into. he feels shame for it, now, as he felt shame for the dead men he left behind at the mill. his father despised his bestial nature; Victor had been certain that was all there was of his abomination until the very end of his life. the creature wonders now if his father had seen him right after all.

slowly, the creature emerges from the shelter of his own making, even if he stays prone on the ground. the sounds he makes are not words, more akin to the cries of an animal. scared and pained. he can see Brienne now, watches her in silent anguish. she is not like to see much of his expression in the dark, aside from a red glint under the shadow of his hood. it is a small mercy, as that way she cannot see his wet, stricken eyes.

his thoughts are sharper now. he understands her, as she tries to explain. that does not mean he knows what to say in return. how he could answer her fears when might she be perfectly right to be afraid?

somewhat foolishly, the creature hopes if he simply ignores her, her terrified face will flee back into the darkness and leave him be. his foot weeps blood all the more, as if out of spite for being ignored. he does not move like a human, as he shifts and slinks along the ground to pry his leg closer, turn the bed of his foot up, trying to see the full picture of the disaster he's made of himself. it is a nasty gash, dragging from big toe to the top of his heel. even just the sight of his foot may turn Brienne's stomach — it looks blue, deadened, even in the limited light. at least the dark swath of blood hides the seams in his skin, stitches long since faded. )

[wenche]

( his wish is granted. with a horrified gasp, brienne lumbers off, big clumsy body loping away back inside where it's safe and there are no monsters with glinting eyes to fear.

but after a few minutes, she returns.

she keeps her distance, wary and unsure, circling around him with something in her hand. her voice is terrified, soft with fear at first. but then she repeats herself, a little too loud and harsh as she forces her breath past the terror: )

Can you... hear me? Do you speak?

a colder path

[queimar]

[ One footstep, then another, carry the once-dead dragon in a human disguise, closing the distance between him and the creature he started following minutes ago. It took him a few minutes to start, too, because his curiosity was at odds with the boredom he thinks every person here deserves, and yet… whatever he'd been watching couldn't be human; if not from his appearance, then the conclusion was to be drawn from his behavior. He'd seen beluae like him, things hiding themselves as though that would spare them from every other monster's fate, to have the Aequal performed to take a human appearance, to be Sealed to their future Dono once a bond was sufficiently established. Da-Lua has been avoiding the end of that line, and his coming to the Crucible has been both a favor and a fucking curse.

Many noises precede Da-Lua's arrival, all from the creature. He walks with both hands in pockets and low eyelids, still deciding if he wants to give this pile of limbs and furs the benefit of the doubt or no benefit at all. If there's anything the creature doesn't have to worry about, it's seeing any pity on his face. He examines any part of him that he can see, head angled one side, then the other, like measuring a leap of faith — figurative, of course. He's had enough of literal chasms. ]

Are you a belua?

[ Sorry you're injured and all, but have you considered that my curiosity matters more? ]