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

[wenche]

( she is quiet too long, awkward and uncertain. afraid to anger him again. she watches his eyes for another flash, defensive and ready to bolt if she must. )

You may not.

( fear makes her more awkward, and she rarely speaks well at the best of time. she rushes to add: )

Your wound will fester. The cloth I brought is clean, from my own supply.

[creatura]

( oh, don't like that answer at all. his temper flares, burning bright around them despite the cold of the courtyard. she may very well be the messenger, equally trapped by the same contrivance. there is no proof that she is the cause of his confinement. the monster tries to temper his rage, though it's definitely only mildly successful. )

Why? ( the word is spit through gritted teeth. forget his foot. it will heal no matter what the care it is tendered. and if it isn't, well, wouldn't that be thematically hilarious to die to a necrotic heel, of all things? it would be very Achilles of him. )

[wenche]

( why did she bring boots and cloth and not her godsdamned sword? because brienne of tarth is still a soft foolish girl, that's why.

she forces herself to stay in place, though it must be clear she is frightened enough to have to marshal herself from fleeing. stilted: )

It is dangerous. For all.

[creatura]

( the monster could scarcely miss her terror if he tried. this is not a new reaction to his countenance. Brienne at least gets some points for not fainting clean away. his abominable heart mislikes it, yet his stubborn head is presently unwilling to relent to try for her favor. )

Who are you to decide that for a stranger?

( Brienne, if you haven't noticed, he is a giant monster man. it is his feeling he would do pretty ok out there. so are you in charge, or just parroting the lay of the land. )

[wenche]

( her chin tips up defiantly now, her own anger finding its spark in the core of her terrified body. )

I decide it for my companions.

( it isn't only the creature she wishes to keep from harm. it is her companions who light her own stubbornness to life. )

Your rage endangers more than yourself.

[creatura]

( his head tilts, taking stock of that answer. that does not strike the monster a steadfast decree of someone that governs the castle. simply the insistence of one that lives inside of it. one that still has the luxury of something to lose. friends left to cherish. he envies her that.

his attention returns to the damaged gate, then shifting higher, staring past it into the cold empty air. )

Why? ( it's like talking to a toddler, isn't it. well what's so bad out there, Brienne, huh? why does she prefer the cage to freedom? what is the price of forging past the confines of the castle? he's deadset on going out there, so, he'd like to know. )

[wenche]

( that's all right, she carts a bloodthirsty eleven year old around with her, this is really actually entirely normal.

and: it's her turn to be surprised. she had expected the anger of a man's bruised pride. for as much as she fears this thing that seems a monster, the monsters who she has known do not ask why. even the ones who wear the face of a man. )

I...

( ah. hm. yes, you see it's actually very easy to explain. she sags. oh, this is going great. )

There are demons. I have met one; it could not be felled by might.

[creatura]

( unfortunately, Brienne, the idea monsters might roam the wastes only makes them more appealing. humans love him naught — at least a monster would not fear another monster. a beast may despise him just the same as man. but the hope it might not is enough to spur him to try. )

How does it open? ( the gate. yeah he heard her, about the daemons and all, he just does not care. he is busting out of this popsicle stand and his fear has settled enough now to be more reasonable about it. the gate is not opening through brute force, so he will try the actual mechanism this time. she could even close it behind him, right??? win win??? )

[wenche]

( she really isn't the best person to go around convincing others of anything, to be fair. something something futile etc... )

It won't. Look at its shape, and the bramble that fills it. I thought by a battering ram when I first looked over it, but more likely the cause was a demon.

( she is finding her irritation, which at least makes the fear a little quieter. there's frustration too, and she sags with it a little. )

You will have to go the way we enter. The lift at the other side.

( she would not think to climb it herself, so she doesn't suggest it! )

[creatura]

( she bids him to look and he does. sees things that he hadn't in his rage, in his fear. the curling vines remind him of the ones that snared him in place in the keep. he does not know what it means, exactly, but it seems clear the Briar Lord has a vast reach across this domain.

and as a demon himself, he is just gonna do her a big favor and ignore her tone about the demons. )

I will cease. ( remember that? like, way at the start of their conversation? when she was after him to stop going at the gate like a battering ram? the monster does not have a particular gift with eloquence, and thus he plods back to a forgotten trail of conversation without care.

he will stop. he makes no promises to stay inside the grounds, because he does not intend to linger. whether he follows the lift or clambers over like a spider monkey makes little difference to him at this point. but Brienne has at least convinced him not to compromise the entire fortress while he's at it. which is good, because otherwise he might have left a creature shaped hole in the wall like a Looney Toons character. )

i KNEW i lost a tag (｡•́︿•̀｡) sorry creachy

[wenche]

( another surprise, and it's probably extremely obvious in the way brienne blinks at him in response and finds no words otherwise come to her. she shakes herself after being silent too long, and bobs her head in a little nod. )

Thank you.

( probably time to get the heck out of here, now. considering she'd been on her way to shut herself into her chosen room and freak out, it's probably best not to overstay her """welcome.""" she gives him another bob, this time more like a stiff bow than anything. )

I will bid you good night.

🎀

[creatura]

( the monster has some idea of goodbye. both empty expressions of etiquette and meaningful measures of fondness between friends. he has some practice in giving them, thanks to the earnest teachings of De Lacey. the woman offers him a farewell, of sorts. the monster knows it is expected to respond in turn.

he doesn't. the words feel empty, like an obligation, like a thing she has been trained to say. she does not owe him any obligations. and he certainly feels no pressure to respond to them. he simply watches her go, wordless, dark eyes glinting red as they follow her retreating back.

it is only after she is gone that he turns the boots over in his hands. unable to contain the marvel of being given something so considerate despite doing nothing, less than nothing, to merit the thought. )