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

[creatura]

( righting himself is graceless. slow, rigid, like a corpse crawling from the grave. he feels frustration, he feels pain, he feels trapped despite the lack of shackles to rattle at his ankles. the hole in his foot is simply insult on injury. he assesses the tear in ugly calloused skin with some degree of disgust. it is nothing but a nuisance caused by his own witless assault.

the monster does turns a head to the distraction when it makes itself known, barking a question into the cold air to echo off the stones. he takes it in and silently, calculating what he should make of it. a queer red glint shines off his eye as he evaluates the stranger. the lack of fear is certainly noted. the frame is long, uncommonly tall. certainly appears human, despite it.

regaining his feet is somewhat difficult, with a tear stretching so far across his foot. his wound is not healing as immediately as the creature is accustomed, but the tear is worse than a simple skip of a razor. despite the pain in standing, it seems unwise to stay on the floor with a potential threat looming. ) Why? ( he knows the word. understands it well enough to know the answer could be yes. what he does not understand is the purpose of asking. most are content to assume what he is without proposing such precise definitions. )

[queimar]

[ There's the slightest tilt when he thinks — knows — he sees something in the Creature's eye, like he spotted an intruder in the crowd, like he issued them a challenge with the quirk of his lips. Except none of the people in that crowd belong here, and both he and the Creature belong even less. This should be a nightmare only humans had to be cursed with. He's not so sure he'd vouch for this thing's superiority as much as his own, but that's what questions are for. ]

Because misery loves company, I suppose.

[ Deep. Miserably so. ]

My name is Da-Lua. [ A look down at the wound. Hm. ] Yours?

[creatura]

( the wound is bleeding now, a stain of black red against the stone. it isn't hot enough for steam to lift into the cold air; the monster doesn't make much heat and what little he had quit him before he even made it to the outskirts of the castle. but it won't bleed long. it will heal before their conversation ends. it is healing even now, evidenced by slowly putting more weight onto it.

Victor had thrown his legacy to the fire for presuming it infirm. too simple and stupid to replicate the complexity of man. the creature has grown enough now that he understands what has not been said. misery loves company. can his doubt be seen through the shroud on his face? doubt, and a foolish lick of hope. it seems a lifetime since he had foolishly begged his maker for another of his making. the creature would welcome the company of another monster, no matter their make.

he pulls the mask from his face, giving away jagged lines of melded scraps of flesh. it is a strange sort of olive branch. monster4monster. ) Da-Lua. ( the name is foreign. fascinating. said with a careful deference, despite a stain of doubt. just saying, despite being taller than he is and having a weird vibe, De-Lua you are very handsome, and sadly the creature does find this a little suspect.

alas, the monster cannot return the simple curtesy of formality. ) I have no name. ( a memory, long since trampled in discontent and distance — his own voice stumbling over a name with a tongue too thick and foreign. victor. his creator, glowing with the warmth of a new day and the delight of his success. yes, yes. of course you are. the creature suppresses the thought. he is a man of his own creation now, and he will not wear his father's name for lack of his own. )

[queimar]

[ The healing, once Da-lua has the patience to read body language, may be impressive, even if it won't point to the kind of being he's speaking to. What matters — for now — is that he's not human, and if he was made to look like one, as all the beluae with the Aequal performed on them were, Da-Lua is pleased to say that they didn't succeed. ]

Good. You get to choose one as you please. Can't say I was given the same courtesy.

Do you know what my name means? [ A beat. Regardless of the answer, or its absence, he proceeds. ] 'Of the moon'. Because I am a drakao hecatolite, because I was hatched under the full moon. Even my name gives something ownership over me.

[ A bitter boy, and yet he hasn't chosen a different name. ]

Does anyone own you?

[creatura]

( is it a boon, to be able to choose his own distinction? the monster had never thought of it that way. he has always felt its lack — a heavy emptiness. a meaning he was never afforded, an othering unfair and cruel in nature. men named their sons. a name was a personhood. and yet he was not a son. and thusly, not a person. Victor wanted his creation only until he had it in hand. he had not forgiven the monster for being exactly what he had made him until his very last breath.

perhaps not even then.

he thinks over it. it is a perspective both similar and diametrically opposed. his mind is his own and he can take his nothingness as he likes, and yet there is value in seeing it through different eyes. he cannot find himself glad for the rejection, the refusal to see him as a being, a thing with agency and merit — but perhaps he can appreciate why someone in a similar place might think differently. who could say how the monster would feel in Da-Lua's shoes?

the monster is quite well read. he understands the words, or close to it. a stone dragon. he does not imagine they are enough to paint a full picture, but it is something to form something in his mind's eye. a stone dragon is a somewhat unbelievable assertion, but being an animated pile of corpses transplanted in a dying Bloodborne world does open the mind to the unusual. does that mean this stranger has wings? the creature would like to see them. )

I had a maker. ( Victor would likely have asserted ownership, but in the toxic incestuous yaois that proceeded his death, Creature did uno reverse card that one. he def did own dear old dad by the end there, living in his mind 24-7 rent free until it killed him. it had seemed like a good plan at the time. ) Now I have nothing.

[queimar]

Oh, good.

[ It sounds almost cheerful, and yet there's a bite to the light in his eyes. Da-Lua respects very little, pities even less, and niceties sound barbed when they leave his tongue. ]

That means you have nothing to miss. It means they can't take anything from you. How lucky you are.

[ Maybe he means it, maybe he doesn't. Da-Lua is allergic to sincerity, so he dresses it up as irony. He's jealous, after all. There's so much he misses that it's eating him up inside, every comfort he used to have now a parasitic memory that fuels his anger every day. ]

How about an appetite. Do you have that?

[creatura]

( this might be a grass is greener on the other side situation. to have had and to feel it all slip from his fingers has proven excruciatingly lonely. to rebuild and forge a new path will result in more of the same. knowing the inevitability of loss does little to undercut the desire to have. he is foolish in his greed. he is desperate to have something to hold onto, while not knowing how to properly claim it. )

I miss much. ( you are wrong there, Mr. Handsome Dragon Man. he misses the quiet days of peace with De Lacey at the homestead. he misses the way Elizabeth's smile dimpled her pretty face. he misses his father, all of him, the ugly and vicious and the rare fragments of warmth. to have nothing means to be haunted by the absences left behind. all the same, the Creature doesn't seem overly bothered by the flippant tone, or the affirmation he should be glad for all that is gone. the dragon thinks as he will, just as the monster does. he can tolerate a difference of opinion, as long as he is afforded the same. )

I do not hunger. ( that may not be strictly true — he hungered to paint every possible misery on Victor's face like a starved man must crave anything to fill his empty gut. he does not require food, would be a better way to put it. and since Da-Lua is being so fucking nosy, maybe he can posit a question of his own. ) Are you trapped in that form?

[queimar]

[ He tilts his head, an animal spotting something new, something strange, while his expression builds on skepticism, almost more than curiosity. A creature that does not hunger when it was created in that size? How lucky indeed.

Or perhaps not. Da-Lua would like to believe that one day his hunger will be satisfied with a whole human body in his maw. ]

Not always. Only most of the time. [ 'Only'. Irony again. ] The Aequal was forced on me. So I'd be easier to keep as a pet.

[ Saying so disgusts him, and yet here he is, choosing that form. ] You don't even know what that is, do you?

[creatura]

( skepticism might be fair. the creature can feel cold; why not an occasional clawing through its gut. feeling hunger and requiring sustenance are two entirely different beasts. outside of a short spell of welcome at the side of a friend, food has been hard to come by and unnecessary besides. the monster is not practiced in eating, even if entirely capable. perhaps naming that feeling is simply too unfamiliar.

the monster is silent for a spell, considering an answer. ) Pet, or Aequal? ( because domesticated animals did exist in Victorian Europe. it is a familiar enough practice, if only perceived from afar. the creature would not call it keeping a pet if asked, but as a mouse whisperer he certainly understands the concept of caring for an animal. he would not consider a being capable of higher thought and communication an animal, however. slave seems more an apt comparison, even to a self understood beast.

Aequal, well... Da-Lua has got him there. no clue on that one, buddy. )

[queimar]

Aequal.

[ He stopped expecting the Creature to know that moments after it became clear he was no belua. No one here has heard of such a thing; those who are familiar with dragons either won't believe one could look human, or expect his true form to be something different. Apparently no one participating in these conversations gets to feel satisfied. Unimpressed, uncharitable, he pushes past whatever impression he's getting of this quiet giant to grant him an additional answer. ]

A ritual. It gives us human form and pairs us with humans. Donos, we call them. We're expected to, anyway.