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]

( well, here's the thing: he isn't wrong! she is nodding and it's probably the most she's emoted so far other than her embarrassing outburst at seeing him be not a walking corpse. )

You speak of two worries. That to which you can apply your will, and that which you cannot. To the former, you turn your focus. If you wish not to worry about the lamp next time, as I do not think how my sword swings, you put the memory into your body.

( her hand extends toward steve, slowly (she noticed his reaction to her at the dining table, it is not one she is unfamiliar with) to offer her palm for inspection. her hands are covered in calluses, many long years of drilling and training evident upon her very skin. )

The rest, you must decide for yourself what you accept. I failed us all in that tower, but I had you and I had Cellar. You paid the price for my choice. This I must accept, or else fail you again.

( if you can be miserable and resolved, that's brienne. her hand drops back into her lap and she regards the falling snow. )

But I could not accept that there might be someone who needed aid that my fear would turn me from. It would not have been...

( honorable? kind. knightly. SIGH. )

That is what I cannot accept, and others often pay my price for me.

[babysitters]

( Steve definitely was jumpscared by her face a little bit. a lot a bit. he feels bad for it now. yadda yadda, he's an asshole, everybody knows this. looking like she got mauled doesn't mean she's gonna murder him, even if that's what he's used to. Quentin says things are different here. so Steve has to try and be different, too. the point is, Steve has been around Brienne enough now that he is not scared of her. he can be very binary; there is good and there is bad. he has decided Brienne is Good. so he doesn't shrink from her reach, even if he doesn't totally understand what she's trying to say by offering it at first.

her hand is massive. just like the rest of her. Steve is not a particularly petite guy, and she swamps him easy. he looks at her hand in the limited moonlight, is even fresh enough to hold it for a second. turn it over like he just isn't seeing it at the right angle to understand. his hand is cold, now, thanks to his rapidly cooling temperature. the wet clothes clinging to his skin are 100% to blame. his hands aren't soft — he's about exactly the same as he was when he first ended up in the Entity's realm, even after all this time. same callouses from baseball season. a few silvery scars from some Upside Down event or another. he's got nothing on the weathered palms of a woman that has trained with a sword for years, though. he frowns in thought, even as he releases her.

Steve frowns more as Brienne keeps talking. it is kinda rude to tell him not to be hard on himself, only to turn around and... do the same thing?? Steve is a little annoyed, turning to level her with a Look. )

You ever think that thing down there was your lamp? ( to Steve this makes complete sense. Brienne is used to foes on a very particular battlefield. suffice to say, the servitor crawling around in the dark, crying like a child, scared and alone — well that was a variable she couldn't predict. not as a fog rookie. she's used to her version of normal, and whatever that was? well, it's long gone, and there's not a chance she's appropriately acclimated to the Crucible yet. the rules are different here. )

It got in your head. It happens. That's the whole point. This place is made to fuck with us. But now you're getting in your head. ( and that's worse than the monster doing it, because the deeper she goes the harder it'll be to keep her head above water. ) Newsflash, it's good to try and help somebody.

[wenche]

( she listens carefully, and her posture straightens the more he speaks, as she realizes: )

Perhaps we share a sentiment and only speak it differently.

( to be fair they should probably find a translator... )

I disagree that your lamp was an issue of instinct, is all. I should not have pressed. I wished you to know that I'm glad you're well, and I would be honored to be at your side in such a struggle again.

( she doesn't let her hand fall into her lap, and offers it to steve to clasp. )

[babysitters]

( do they share a sentiment? because it doesn't feel like they do. because Brienne keeps talking about failing, when they didn't fail. they did the important thing, the part that had to happen to keep the castle from exploding. in fact, in his head, a two man out game is pretty good. to put it in dbd terms, his servitor def didn't gain mmr on that one. ENTITY DISPLEASED. like would he prefer to have not died about it? yes. but to Steve, it's more than reasonable. his fog hours have conditioned him to expect somebody won't make it. and by his estimation, he was the expendable one. he's not a cool knight. he's not a hot girl with superpowers. he's just a guy. and he's never been going anywhere fast, even before being stuck in a murder dimension.

it's fine that it was him. he's glad it was him. he'd go back and do it again, a hundred times over. Brienne saying stuff about people paying her price and that she's failed him sure doesn't feel like they're on the same page about this. because Steve does not feel that way at all and he just can't seem to get her to get that. he scruffs cold fingers through the damp hair at the back of his neck and stews for a moment in silent frustration. do they feel egregore vibes in da dream? if so, Brienne might have a hint of it in the air to chew on.

he doesn't really know what to say. who knows if it is his limited fluency in ye old battlemaid to blame or his broken fog brain seeing the stakes completely different, the result is the same. Steve feels like he should push the issue, but how? and push it where? and then Brienne says she's glad he's well, and — well, of course he is, what, was he gonna die and stay dead??? but he's not so fog broken that he doesn't get that might not be old hat for everyone, so he relents. )

You didn't have to tell me that. ( this is not an aww you shouldn't have vibe. like, literally. Steve only knows Brienne a little and he knows she's the type to prefer people uninjured. does that sound standoffish?? man, he needs to learn how to talk to high fantasies almost as much as he needs to learn how to man a sword. thankfully, some things are easier than trying to find words. Brienne offers her hand again, and Steve is not too proud to take it. sandwiches it between both of his palms. if he can't make her understand with words, then maybe he can make her understand with hand holding. it's a bit of a stretch, but he's gotta try something. and... and it's kinda nice. that anchor. so maybe it's two birds and one stone. )

cw | ptsd trigger, description of past sexual assault

[wenche]

( the calluses are so rough, and her big meaty hand cannot fit neatly into his. this is not what she was expecting, this tender acknowledgement. rarely is she treated with such care. she'd expected the usual: a brusque and masculine shake, barely a touch.

so it is panic, thick and sticky, that meets steve's frustration in the air. brienne is often a stoic presence to sit beside, and mayhaps this is uncharacteristic, the way it roils out from her now.

her hand tears away from his, recoiling. mistrust borne of the echoes of men treating her kindly in the past (lies, they would always be lies: her septa made sure she knew it would never ever be genuine) move her hand, fear that maybe reads as disgust. her head swims with the sense-memory of it, owen inchfield's hands upon her arms, the stink of his breath against her mouth... )

No.

( she stands, abrupt, frozen and humiliated and heading down a spiral. this is steve, she tries to tell herself, but the voice is so small against the rest: against the offers to shine her armor; the requests to go riding; the wager for her maidenhead; the humiliation of lord tarly's arched and judging brow. it is only enough for her to blurt a gurgled: )

Apologies. I... I must go.

( before she uses her very long legs to get anywhere but here. )

🎀

[babysitters]

( so much for that then. Steve blinks — truly, he just didn't see that coming. he feels the bright sting of panic that isn't his own, but that doesn't mean he gets where it's coming from. is this... was that... not what he was supposed to do?

it feels bad. the confusion. the rejection. the awareness he fucked things up somehow, without much of an idea as to how. the limited offering of comfort pulled out from under him just as he realized it was kinda nice. and of course, the part where he's going to be left behind with his own with his thoughts, because Brienne has definitely decided she's got other places to be, ASAP. Steve doesn't mean to look kicked puppy about it, he really doesn't, it's just he didn't know he had to be ready to be Cool and Fine about it until it's already too late. it's hard to school the expression into place, even once it's registered.

there's obviously something going on. is he supposed to press, or is he supposed to let it go? somehow, neither option feels like a good one. but maybe there's a worse one. pressing and needling when she's already mid flight. or maybe that's just him being an asshole — feeling wrung too dry to put solving whatever is happening right now on top of everything else. )

Okay, ( Steve agrees, because asking if she'd stay if he just stays on his side of the kiddie pool feels too pathetic. if she wants to go, she should get to, even if his thoughts are way too loud when they're his only company. he watches her retreating back and wonders, but he doesn't try to chase her down. )