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

[coldcock]

( it's a pretty picture, honestly. Ilya had thought about that too, at the time. he'd wanted Shane to crawl over and give in, had been throwing out desperate signals to get the Canadian to do more than look at him with doe eyes and a spark of want.

he'd known later it had been too much and not enough all at once. what it had taken was the showers in toronto, after the photoshoot. it had taken Shane growing hard and Ilya wrapping his own hand around his cock.

now it's so much easier, so much simpler. ) It would have been hot. In the open like that.

( neither of them want to get caught, sure, but the thought of it does something to heat his blood. at least until Shane slams his foot down on top of Ilya's and he hisses, jerks back a little because he's not expect it to hurt in the dream. what happens next is them trying to catch each other and Ilya freezes balancing on one foot, both hands on Shane's shoulders as they wobble and somehow don't fall. ) -- Shit.

Fuck. ( he hisses again, then shakes his head. ) Is okay. Is fine. It's my fault.

( he'd distracted Shane after all. then, after he takes a deep breath. he looks at Shane with the a new wariness in his eyes as he swallows down the pain. ) In dreams--- do you ever feel it hurting?

( maybe it's just Ilya that doesn't? maybe it's just Leonardo DiCaprio and his bullshit in Inception? )

[mountreal]

No, it's mine. [ He'd been the one that fucked up, had actually accidentally hurt him, it seems like, and how is that possible? Why is he such a loser even in his dreams? The sheer humiliation is what keeps Shane from thinking of any implications other than this version of Ilya considering him clumsy and stupid but once he can look the Russian in the face again, the expression there makes Shane's blood cool considerably.

He was expecting to find pity there, even regret, not something bordering on fear. He definitely isn't fucking hard anymore, that's for sure. ]

I... no? You mean pain? [ Shane very distinctly does not like that question coming from dream-Ilya, something he's sure a figment of his imagination would not ask. ] You... felt that? Like, for real? You're... you?

[ Shane has let go of him now but he reaches out to give him a tentative shove. As if they hadn't just been dancing, kissing... ]

Hurt me back, then. Or something. Hit me.

[coldcock]

Shane, ( not Hollander, but in that same tone of fond exasperation. Ilya still feels the sting of pain throbbing through his foot, settling through his skin.

the fear is still there in his eyes but it's pretty quick that Shane replaces it with something else, with that fondness Ilya always carries for him. he opens his mouth to answer the questions, because it seems pretty important, before he's shoved.

which-- ) What the fuck?

( he doesn't actually stumble back because it was kittenish, at best. he looks down at Shane's hands, then back up at him with brows furrowed. ) I'm not hurting you back or hitting you. That is a stupid idea.

( actually, it's a decent idea but he's not hitting or hurting Shane on purpose either way. )

[mountreal]

[ The refusal just makes Shane's expression tighten further, gets him more frustrated, because how are they going to figure out what this is if Ilya won't play along? Ilya almost always does want Shane wants him to do in his dreams. He usually doesn't even have to say it out loud.

It doesn't occur to him in his growing panic that this time he hadn't said please. ]

What, you afraid I'd win in a fight?

[ But he sounds shaky, even less confident than he usually does when he's trying to talk shit. The room they're in feels so much smaller than it had a minute ago, before Shane had stepped on Ilya's foot and ruined everything. Embarrassed himself, just like he had in the ballroom.

The ballroom. Spilling the tray, leaving his jacket behind. Shane's hands fly up to the front of his shirt. It's still damp from whatever was spilled on him. The logical connection is distinctly un-dreamlike.

When he looks back up at Ilya, there's real fear in his face. ]

If we go back and find my jacket... this isn't a dream. [ He says it like he's as sure of it as a math equation. Somehow he just fucking knows. His shirt should be dry and the hall should be empty. ] Ilya, what the fuck is going on...?

[coldcock]

Would you? ( Ilya doesn't roll his eyes, just gives that same sort of dry sort of sarcasm that paints some of his quips. It snaps him out of the fear. Between them, Ilya spends more of his time fighting and fighting dirty on the ice.

Ilya's the one with blood on his hands, known for goading and cackling at the face of an angry defenseman who's thrown his gloves on the ground. Shane's a top athlete but it's different. He knows that Shane can throw a punch, but between them there's an advantage and it goes to him in size and experience. )

That is-- Okay, we find jacket. Is good idea, actually. Your jacket, we go back to see if ball is still happening? ( If it were a dream, he'd have come up with something else while he was with Shane. Not something so random as a ball filled with boring people trying to outshine the perfection before him.

He frowns, takes a moment with his hands hovering out in front of him so that Shane can see them before Ilya touches him. It's a hand running down his chest, his best attempt at soothing. But not before pinching his nipple, punishment for that challenge and to test if maybe it's still all in his head. )

[mountreal]

[ No. Shane knows he wouldn't, hasn't even really thought about it before because even on the tensest ice, in the nastiest games, they've never gone at it like that. Never. Shane doesn't even like to fight players he hates (or dislikes enough to claim to hate). Hayden or someone else with heavier fists always takes care of that when the need arises.

But the idea of needing to fight someone for real is getting more and more relevant by the second. Because if they're not asleep, if they've been fucking kidnapped... ]

Yeah. Of course it's a good idea.

[ It feels a little steadying just to shoot back at Ilya a little, something like their routine, even though Shane has no idea if it's a good idea or just the last grasp of a desperate man. Maybe it's both. Time to find out.

He sees Ilya coming and has time to ready himself to be touched so he melts into it instead of braces for it. Then he fucking squeaks and flinches away from the pinch, betrayed, shooting Ilya an open-mouthed look of shock. ]

You're unbelievable! [ But a second later Shane surges at him for another kiss, one last one before they leave the room. Like he's taking strength from him, from the kiss itself. Then he tears himself away, pained look on his face as though he's going to his own execution, and turns to open the door. The hallway is still empty outside, the sound of the ball in the far distance down the winding passage they came down. Shane remembers the way back.

And there, once they get to it, is his suit jacket. Crumpled embarrassingly on the floor, exactly where he left it instead of taking care of it like any other article of clothing he owns. Shane doesn't pick it up. He just stands next to it and stares. ]

🎀

[coldcock]

You like that I am like this and you would lose in that fight. ( Ilya sing-songs, a little amused because the squeak is probably also the cutest thing he’s heard in a while. The expression he’s wearing is really far too fond for a man who’s committed a crime of such proportions. He makes note of it, tries to push the dread away because if Shane is also in pain then the two do them are really fucked.

He’s kissed and he grins into it instead of letting the thought linger, lifts a hand into Shane’s hair and enjoys the closeness before the slightly shorter man pulls away. The warmth between them is a blessing, a comfort. He never wants to lose it but they must.

Outside of the room, it feels like the air changes. It feels heavier and Ilya hates the tension in Shane’s shoulders, wants to soothe it away. Now that they don’t think they’re dreaming, he stays beside him but a step behind until they’re both standing over the jacket. Shane stares, Ilya glares.

Then he bends down, picks up the jacket and dusts it off. Then he throws it over his shoulder, not saying anything. His brows are furrowed, jaw set. This isn’t good, but it’s real. Ilya can suppress his own panic. He can. He can not feel, he can do. He can be useful and prove he’s good in this particular crisis, that Shane can depend on him.

He places a hand on Shane’s lower back. When he speaks, his accent is the thickest it’s been in a long time. ) Okay.

We need to go outside. Leave. ( It’s not a question, it’s a plan. That’s what they’ll do and where he leads them, away from the spot with the jacket and the echo of the ball beyond the walls. They’ll find a way out. They’ll go back to the cottage and away from this nightmare. Ilya will make sure of it. ) Shane, come on.

( a beat, a pause: ) We will find way home.