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

yennefer of vengerberg . the witcher (current player/new character)

[liliowe]

𑁍 rise—

{a} a colder path

A fury of curses echoes down the dead end of an empty corridor. Rattling and thudding in a great ruckus before the telltale of concentrated silence and the soft whir of heated energy makes a great door tremble against its hinges.

Before the fortress's great doors, a lithe woman dressed all in black seethes in the dark, long black curls sway about her hips sway as she puts a full on fit over an inanimate object.

"COME ON—" a Yennefer growls in a final leg of frustration, giving the door a kick for good measure with the heel of her boot. Magic buzzes beneath her fingertips, but something is strange. The chaos doesn't bend easily here. Her fingers flex and release, shaking off the foulness. It's not a magic known, but magic she can learn.

Normally, she's better at picking up on the presence of company. Maybe she had, perhaps she didn't care. She stops, mid wave of her hand to turn her head and address them head on with a huff: "Can I help you?"

Better yet, are they going to lend her a hand?


{b} velvet parlor
Coming back to the festivities is a defeat that goes unacknowledged. Less discontented, more focused as she moves from room to room. It's unclear why she stops in this room for so long. All the undulating bodies, a sweet and stimulating smoke. There's familiarity in all of it; no gathering of mages was complete without a sanctioned orgy.

The sorceress practically disappears here, an observer on the fringes and in the shadows dressed in black. A tiny cup in her hand downs the strong spirit, enough to keep her alert and no more to lose her edge. She watches bodies move, people coming and going. Violet eyes prowl to suggest she may be looking for a partner, or looking for a face in particular. Even knowing that such a person wouldn't subject himself to such a thing.

She smiles warmly at the thought as she accidentally makes eye contact with another lone soul among the couplets (and throuplets and so on). He isn't here; he couldn't be. Shouldn't be. This person could be a distraction as much as they could be an opportunity for something else she needs. All she leads with is a look or a subtle beckoning of her hand and waits for the bait to be taken.

𑁍 respite—

{a} winter's kiss
Under a bundle of furs and blankets, a sliver of warmth retains. Yennefer's bare foot, the only thing uncovered, shrinks under the covers as the world wakes itself around her. It's not immediate that her surroundings are gravely different. A strange party in a strange castle and a stranger morning after isn't the most absurd of circumstances for a sorceress. Half awake, the only thing that's wrong is that the fire's gone out.

One thin hand emerges from the furs with a mumbled gesture, but the energy buzzes fuzzily under her fingertips. A lame spark crackles in the hearth, but catches no flame.

A pause, a groan. A shift as she pulls her body with the blankets around her like a coat, to huddle like a crone across the cold floor to light the fire herself.

What she doesn't see is the body in the process, tripping and fumbling over them in the dim morning light with a THUD...another tired groan. "Who the right mind sleeps on the floor during winter?"


{b} breakfast is served
She's had better, she's had worse. The face she makes at those serving the meal is generous. These people are being hospitable despite having nothing, so she bides her tongue. Her spoon lifts and turns the lumpy slop out of it for a few repeating meditative moments. Her movements subtle as the foreign words murmured under her tongue as she stirs it again.

The next bite goes down better than the last. Edible now, if only through a small magical charm. She cannot speak for what it'll do to her stomach later, but that is a later Yennefer problem. And later, Yennefer has a lot on her plate as to where to start dissecting this new sphere she's entered. The more she chews on it, the more her appetite wanes.

Someone at the table gags, stirring her out of her thoughts. The bowl at the seat next to hers looks abysmally gray; who could blame them?

Without asking, the mage plucks her more appetizing bowl, now buttery and swirling with aromatic spices, to place before her neighbor's bowl of abysmal grief.

"Take it. It tastes better."

Her words cold and dull, not looking to make a big deal out of a small, effortless gesture of kindness.

𑁍 notes—

Can ping me via DM or on plurk coffinmate if needed. I'm indifferent to prose vs brackets as my writing tends to stay the same. Will follow your tagging preferences.

a colder path.

[starzec]

Acrid and sickly sweet, the taste of the curses binding this world are layered deep and brittle. It crackles beneath the skin and yet dissipates even as he turns toward it. It leads him along, echoes of old pains men like him are meant not to feel at all. His nose to the ground as he goes, a patient persistent prowler in the night: He lets whatever this is that leads him take him on a winding path, suffering illusions of ashen hair and ebony twirling together in the chaos, cackling and giggling and egging him on to find them as a lute plays softly in the distance.

He gives over a part of himself to it. That is sometimes the way of it on the Path, in the pursuit of coin and purpose and... things that matter more.

The echoes of her prideful power feel remarkably convincing when they spider out— the curse which probes his mind and heart has won, for he almost believes that she is real. But it cannot be her. She would never be taken, would not allow herself to be so held. The fortress is not engulfed in her magnificent rage, and so it cannot be Yennefer of Vengerberg who stands here so lovely and yet acrid. Sickly sweet.

That she must feel his coming as he picks up speed enough to now skid to a halt, brick wall of a body nearly toppling over, doesn't stop him from staring at her for a moment as he catches his breath, eyes wide and pupils narrow.

"This is a dangerous face you have chosen to show me."

A dangerous game to play, for his swords to remain in their sheaths. And yet there is hope written in his wolf eyes, a language few speak let alone know as well as Yen. It is not her, he tells himself, and yet he searches for lilac even so.

[liliowe]

His face is one that appears in her dreams more often than she wants to admit. An old wound that's healed wrong, too stubborn and knotted flesh that always aches before a storm. The sort of wounds she knows the witcher to carry and how each would be tediously tended to after a long night's hunt. These dark halls have teased her plenty, but he is by far the most vivid of illusions. Designed to hurt her the most.

"So says the phantom himself," Yennefer barbs, a touch apprehensive in her disbelief. A touch more resolute than his. The alternative is that Geralt's here, and fate has found its twisted ways to entwine them again. She loses either way.

Fists clenched at her sides, staring at him a moment longer before she decides she needs to get closer. Whatever magic is at play here isn't one she's capable of detecting. Her heart knows the truth, and all it spits out in return is relief and fury. Her head shakes in disbelief until she snaps out of her spell entirely.

"Why are you here?" It's tiredly flippant. Like she has found her old husband gone astray. "How are you here?"

b, mindreading welcome

[pharmacy]

When she catches his eyes, Quentin is fresh off someone else. Spent in their mouth so that when they kiss him with a honeyed grin, he can taste himself on their tongue. He's languid as a lake in the summer, hair mussed up off his face and mouth hanging open with deep breaths. And she is...so pretty. Like Salma Hayek in From Dusk Till Dawn, surreal kind of pretty that makes him feel like he's leaving his body for a dream.

Maybe that's just the orgasm still buzzing in his nervous. Regardless, he's content to just look until she turns away, but Salma--nods him over. He thinks. He imagines. Or maybe it was real, because when he wobbles up to his feet, she doesn't move away. Nor when he inches closer, nor when he sinks to his knees in front of her. His clothes are somewhere around here, probably keeping his sobriety nice and warm. Maybe she's in the same state, maybe she's fully dressed still. Either way, with the mood in the room, he doesn't feel an ounce of shame as he brushes open hands on the outsides of her thighs, tips his mouth between them as he looks at her.

Bait taken.

crawls back to this to ruin his night💞

[liliowe]

This one looks soft faced, young. She went through a phase where she ate boys like him during Belleteyn. Sweet and warm, less beaten down by the world. Easily chases after pretty things that twinkle in the dark.

Quentin skulks into her orbit as expected. Her hips sway back and forth playfully between the gliding of his hands. She's migrating them backward, away from the pile of people undulating behind him. Shy, yet sultry. Letting him close, but not enough to let him sink into any kiss. With every brush of lips, her foot takes them farther back.

Somewhere quieter, out from under any accidental eye, she strikes. Pressing Quentin first against the wall before the sharp tips of her fingernails encircle his junk like she's snatching a snake out of a basket. The other hand against his chest steadies him so that she may warn quietly:

"Scream and I will pluck it like an apple from a tree."