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

[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.]