ℑ𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔡𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𑁍 [TDM]

[gorelord]

Welcome to the Test Drive!

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.

GAME PAGES

premise
setting
faq
rules
glossary

i.
arrival:
Well darlings, don't you panic

(warnings:drugs)

It begins with a nightmare, the details of which have already slipped through your fingers. Only the curling echo of its dread lingers in your chest. Something has snapped you out of a catatonic state: the shudder of rain and thunder battering against the window, a cold chill running down your spine, or perhaps the smell of dinner stirring your appetite. Whatever it may be that brings you back to your senses, you find yourself in an old moldering estate lost to a bygone time.

You are not alone. A warm hand touches your arm as someone checks in to see if you're alright before they pull away.

You're in the middle of someone's cozy gathering: a humble gathering spread throughout the entire wing of some manor. The warm glow of lamplights and candles light the way around a cluster of interconnected rooms. Flickering shadows conceal the peeled edges of the wallpaper. The pungent scent of dinner and smoke layers over the dampness of the wood. There is the feeling of forgotten opulence made anew by its current occupants: finely carved and ornate furniture sits askew in some places, threadbare rugs layered over one another, melted candle wax piled on the corners of mantles and sconces.

There are no serving staff, only eclectic guests of mixed status who look no more belonging to their surroundings than you. Like any house party, there are those open to mingling with strangers and will fill you in on your situation. Others turn in on their huddles and cannot otherwise be bothered to include you in their company. You learn you've been at the Lonely Fortress anywhere between a morning and a fortnight. It's not uncommon for new arrivals to take a while to come around. All that matters is you're present, you're alive, and you should try to enjoy the night.

oh fantasy, feed me!

If you're feeling out of sorts, getting some food in you will help. The dining hall is there for those who follow the aroma. Long draped tables are dressed with various tiered plates and platters of a feast fit for a woodland lord. Attendees graze the dressed tables for bits of roast, bites of vegetables, and the occasional sweet or bread roll. Carafes and pitchers scattered up and down the tables hold fortified wines, spruce ales, ciders, and fruit punches. The food is losing its warmth, but even just a nibble will help ground you from the foggy haze you've stumbled out of.

Smalltalk is easy to come by here. If you've just come to, someone might be nudging you to pass the olives. Get to know your neighbor. Eat, drink, mingle.

a jump to the left

If dinner doesn't suit you, the stronger liquor can be found in one of several interconnected parlors where groups of people have collected to socialize and entertain one another. There's gambling in the Smoking Parlor where people bet away favors or trinkets over card games. A haze of herbal smoke swirls overhead, lending to the room's abnormal warmth.

The Velvet Parlor will suit those looking for a more intimate mood. The center floor before the hearth is piled with rugs, blankets, and pillows for patrons to laze over. In a dark corner, a masked man plucks away a druzy melancholic tune on a pear-shaped instrument, lending to a subdued ambiance. Small groups convalesce among couches and pillows as they imbibe in mood dizzying substances meant to soothe frazzled souls. Partaking in these drinks might leave you feeling a bit loose lipped. Join them in drinking games such as two truths and a lie, charades, and truth or forfeit.

a step into the night

If the party isn't to your liking, there are dark corridors aplenty to get turned around in. The Fortress is a maze to navigate at night. No lights beyond the party line the corridors, forcing those to wander by lamp or candle. The further away from the revelry, the colder and damper it gets. The sounds of the storm raging outside howls through the hall, rattling doors, and other unexplainable bumps in the night. The deeper in the dark you wander, the more paranoid you begin to feel. Is there something lurking after you in the dark? Beyond the battering of the rain, the air is eerily still. Occasionally, you may hear the whispers of feverous ritualistic chanting echoing in the dark. No matter how hard you try to follow it, you are unable to find the source.

If your first instinct was to try to leave, you'll find locked gates and a spitting rain. It's not worth traveling in these conditions, so you might as well stay inside for a little while until you can see where you're going.

ii.
fight or flight:
Madness takes its toll

(warnings: monster transformation/body horror (bug adjacent), violence/gore, aphrodisiacs, sex, potential for dubcon. )

Later into the night, something begins to feel off. Call it a gut feeling, a primal instinct. A loud, monstrous shriek pierces the air that leaves your ears ringing.The lights flicker and snuff out, plunging the fortress into a darkness. All revelry tumbles to a dead stop as one by one the light begins to return. The warm tone of the night shifts cool as a few brazen souls step out into the hall to heed unearthly cries only to never return. Commotion rattles the walls as the monster hunts through the dining hall, leaving a pile of crumpled bodies with the marrow sucked from their bones.

A monster has crashed the party (or perhaps it was summoned). Lonely, human-like cries slither through the halls, beckoning victims into the maw of a ghastly beast by mimicking the sounds their most cherished loved ones. Shaped like a large, overgrown humanoid centipede, it scuttles through the inky dark on dozens of spindly hands, hunting by sound alone. Those who hear its cries may need to fight an unearthly compulsion to return the call and beckon it near.

"Servitor," an old man's grave whisper slips into everyone's minds. "Contain your fear, find sanctuary, do not make a sound. Go now."

rise and scatter

Without a word, everyone retreats as quickly and quietly as possible. Doors are shut, shuddered, and locked. Those who are unable get to safety quietly are followed and spirited away off into the darkness to be crushed and consumed by the unseen creature. People barricade the doors, others open the windows to let the sound of the rain to muffle their noise. Secret passages behind the tapestries are unveiled as small groups pair off to sneak off to find refuge elsewhere.

No one speaks, but their voices slip into each other's minds. The soft murmurings of more seasoned residents urge those capable of hunting the monster to get to the armory and for the rest to split into smaller groups. The monster needs to be driven out and the rest need to prevent the infection of hysteria. Here, comfort is only found in numbers, safety is not guaranteed.

Choose wisely which path you take and who becomes your lockdown partner. Not everyone will make it through the night. Do what you need to survive. Don't speak. Don't panic.

rose tint my world

If you chose sanctuary: be prepared to wait a while in the room you've hunkered down in or risk exposing yourself to the horrors lurking the corridors. Occasionally, you can hear whatever it is hunting; the skittering of legs and the sorrowful cry that tempts the weak-hearted. If you hear a loved one crying out for you, it's not recommended to heed it.

Not everyone fearfully hunkers down to wait the night, though. You may find yourself in mixed company who take on stranger measures to distract themselves. Instead of huddle quietly, waiting for death to stalk them, their comforting beins to devolve into quiet and desperate carnal pleasures. Soft hands paw over worried faces before tucking a candy into their mouths. The sentiment here is clear: don't ask too many questions, just eat the candy and go with the flow. Its properties can be swiftly felt: a relaxant and a mild aphrodisiac. The people in here are trying to fight the spread of panic with the distraction of intimacy. The veil of rainfall drowns out soft unkept moans and labored breaths. If you're unwilling to participate in a light horrorgy, none here will compel you, but it's probably better to find a different corner to quell your hysteria.

a feeling of unnameable dread

If you join the monster hunt: you can pick up a weapon from the armory. The Fortress provides an eclectic collection of premodern arms suited for the most modest of novices to the most sporting of hunters. No firearms, you'll be in close quarters and a bullet won't be very effective against this servitor. You get a torch and either a blunt or bladed weapon. Whatever you take, hopefully you know how to use it.

The servitor is sensitive to light and sound. Some hunters are tasked with luring it away by playing a high-stakes game of marco polo. Others who feel more equipped to defeat it, might find fire to be particularly useful. Be weary of other horrors bumping around in the dark. The night can play tricks on the senses, and just believing something might be lurking in the dark might briefly manifest your horrors into reality.

iii.
respite:
Down the river of night's dreaming

An announcement of the servitor's defeat comes in the mere hours before dawn. Those who have holed themselves away begin to emerge. Anyone who perished at the hands of the monster will have left nothing behind but smears of blood where they met their demise. You're told their bodies have been taken by the bramble, but little more is divulged. Not everyone here is at your beck and call for answering questions.

The overall mood is somber and exhausted, leaving the once raging storm outside to dwindle down to tranquil trickle of rain. For now, it's to begin winding down the night for a much needed rest and recovery. It's time to clean up for the night, tend to any wounds, and find a place to rest.

Medical supplies are far from any modern counterparts, but the resident herbalist can spare salves, tinctures, and clean bandages along with any tonics to quell any lingering weariness. The first night after awakening can be difficult, riddled with nightmares. If you do not take up the offer of a sleeping tonic, you may find yourself sleepwalking.

oh no, they were bunkmates

Despite the size, private bedchambers are in short supply. Newcomers may find themselves paired up to share quarters or fighting to keep their space to themselves as more filter in looking for a place to sleep. If you're not willing to share a room or a bed, there are plenty of other spots to curl up into and rest for a few hours; however, seasoned exiles warn that those who insist on remaining alone tend to have a rougher night's sleep.

Comments

jem walker | in the flesh

[medals]

oh fantasy feed me

[She comes to with her mouth tasting acrid; syrupy sourness that has her scrunching her nose. She's thirsty when she stirs, blinking against the hazy backdrop of the faint fire, the darkened curtains and sofas. It takes her longer than she'd like to realise she is not home; that she remembers, vaguely, being escorted inside, and then an unsettling nothingness following.

When she looks down, she realises she's still in her pajamas. Red flannel trousers and a sweat-soaked tank. She hadn't washed her make up off, and when she catches her reflection, warped and strange, in the silver of a spoon, she can see the streaks of eyeliner and mascara under and across her eyes.

The embarrassment is horrible. The panic that follows is worse. Someone asks her to pass an astray and Jem starts, blinking wild against the foggy, lethargic weight of her limbs. Someone else tuts, and slides her a plate, slipping cooled bread towards her. She doesn't want to eat, but she does. She's glad for it, in the end; when she's done, she has enough energy to stand, to push away, and as she turns to run, knocks directly into someone behind her and crashes back against her chair. ] Sorry, sorry - I need to go -

a step into the night

[ Before she escapes the crowd, she takes a knife from the table. She slips it into the waistband of her trousers and then slips away herself.

At first, she's looking for an exit. A way to run, to hide. This is brief, and quickly put aside: she's in her pajamas, she's barefoot, and she has no idea where she is.

She backtracks, decides instead she'll look for a bathroom. Find a sink, scrub her face and rinse her mouth out. Maybe find a room with a change of clothes - or, the more she delves into the dark, a stray coat. She shivers against the dampness, eyes playing tricks on her. Behind her, she swears she hears her name, a soft Jem that startles her. She swears someone is following her, that someone is watching; can feel eyes on every inch of her exposed arms, the hairs rising.

As she turns a corner, she tugs the knife from her waist and holds it firm in her grip. ]

rose tint my world

[Her heart is racing behind the tapestry. Her back is flush against the wall, candy in her white-fisted palm. The scuttering is terrible. She can hear it above her, beside her; she can hear the lilt of Kieren's voice asking where she is. She hates it, but there's tears in her eyes.

When was she this afraid last? Weeks ago, maybe. She'd been standing in the middle of the hallway, banging on the classroom door. Let me in, please, please -

She hiccups, shrinking as much as she can. Become small; become so small you disappear; become so small you that you stop existing. Except she can't. Desperately, she surges forwards, thin fingers against your chest, against your jaw. The candy pressed against your lips, while she whispers: ] Make it stop, please -

[Just swallow and make it stop. Her kiss is just as desperate; it's wet, interrupted by a panicked hiccups until those ease away into blissful distraction. Slip a candy into her mouth in turn and her mouth suckles your fingertips greedily, blue eyes big and wide, glassy and wanting. ]

they were bunkmates

[She wants a bed, of course. Anyone would want a bed. When there's none left, she settles instead for a plusher end of a rug, surrounded by comfortable cushions, and a blanket that is warm and wonderful.

It spreads it across her, and could fit at least five more of her under it. She doesn't want to share, but she will; even lifts up an end and nods to it, murmuring: ] Get under then, I'm dead tired.

[If you do choose to bunk down with her, well - there's a catch. When the conversations have mostly died down and a silence has started to settle in, Jem begins to twitch and stir in her sleep. Begins to murmur, to beg, to thrash silently until she sits up choking, hand against her throat to quell a scream.

The nightmares last the full night, on and on and on. ]

( ota! if you'd like to wildcard pls feel free too, or if you'd like a closed starter just hit me up! )

they were bunkmates

[atlattacus]

[ Without Luna, Atlas feels like he's the one missing. Hollow, lesser than, as if he abandoned his brother instead of being the one who's lost in this rotten place with everyone else, thoughts not nearly as loud but just as imposing as they are when the twins are together and amplify each other's powers. After the servitor, the injured and tired come together to hope the night will spare them from more horrors, but the young woman lying a couple of feet away from where he chose to rest has no such luck. Haunted by nightmares that stir her closest neighbor, Jem has them losing their patience when she rises suddenly, though any protest or gestures she might've had coming her way are suddenly quelled — the person shuts their mouth, turns around and goes back to sleep.

This is Atlas' doing, and it tires him immensely. (It wasn't enough that he lost most of his powers in the absence of Luna; he also seems to be punished every time he uses up what he has left.) Crawling away from where he chose to sleep, he comes closer to Jem, crouches and holds out a hand without touching her shoulder. ]

Hey, hey. You're okay. They're not here.

[medals]

[The surrounding noise is distant, somewhat. Muffled snores and rustling, while her heart thuds and her breathing comes quick, uneven. It doesn't slow quickly, but it seems the kind of panic that she's used to. Like she knows the rhythm of the hiccups, when to suck in a breath between the stuttering. Rehearsed; practiced terror, repeated.

Atlas' voice is muffled too, but its closer than the rest. She glances at him eventually, with sweat on her forehead and upper lip, her eyes glassy-wide, and her lips cracked with dryness.

She doesn't feel okay, of course. She feels terrified. Worse: she feels embarrassed. ] Did I - christ, did I scream?

[atlattacus]

Don't worry about it.

[ Voice calm, charitable. Atlas jumped into action as if he knew what he was doing, but one moment is enough to give him pause all over again. It's the look she has when she escapes a nightmare and is confronted with reality, he thinks.

He's not used to being the one in this position, one of the youngest and newest recruits in Raíz's collection of messed up people all fending from themselves, except… Luna. The one he knew he'd always take care of, just as he knew they'd always be together. And yet.

His gaze is dull for a second, back the next. Does she need a smile? He'd just pry into her head and smooth it all out to help her calm down and get the sleep she needs, but his little trick on the other guy was taxing enough. ]

I don't think anyone can blame you, honestly. Do you want some water?

[medals]

Yes, uh - yes, thank you?

[water is soothing; preferably it's also cold. preferably she falls asleep and wakes up home in her own, this another dream to dwell on during therapy.

the embarrassment of being loud, of being terrified in front so many people almost makes her sick. she doesn't have the energy to play it off, to snap and bite - doesn't have the energy to do anything except look at Atlas with those big blue eyes, and surrender to the mercy and kindness of a stranger.

her therapist would be so proud. ]

[atlattacus]

Yeah, no problem.

[ He moves off for a bit, a half-placating hand gesture to reassure her he'll be back. There's a cup of water for her a few minutes later; he sits down after it's in her hands, legs crossed. Atlas keeps some distance between them for her sake, letting his own limbs relax while he waits. ]

I'm Atlas. Mind if I talk here instead?

[ He whispers, then points at his own temple. Using his own telepathy sucks up his energy, but whatever ability everyone's been given for thought-speak doesn't require any. And it'll keep those who're trying to sleep from hissing at them to be quiet. ]

[medals]

Oh - [she's mid sip, unsure, a little thrown off still by the mental chatter, the sudden invasions into her thoughts. she wonders if she'll ever get used to it; she might as well try. ]

Sure - yeah, of course. [It'll be quieter, maybe. Maybe it'll feel more like she's not saying anything at all if she doesn't say a word. ]

[atlattacus]

[ Atlas nods, reassuring her, then taps his temple again to signal he's about to begin. ]

It's weird, right? Took me a while to get used to it. This is a little different from what I do back home, but it works pretty well. I don't have to try too hard to make my words clear.

a step into the night.

[hedoniste]

( similar ideas had led gwenaëlle out into the dark — skin crawling with discomfort at the patchworked crowd milling around, too many people blurring the edges of what she could feel in control of. her heels clatter against stone and she can’t tell if the ground is the problem or she is, holding onto a wall that feels slippery and cold under her hands— )

Jésus, Marie, Joseph, ( in outright shock at turning a corner to find herself face to face with a woman dressed for an ill-advised crime of passion in a kitchen.

her grip on the corner of the wall turns essential as she wavers backwards and nearly a decade of nearly exclusively wearing high heels threatens to be not even approaching enough for this moment not to upend her. she should, she thinks, take her fucking shoes off. she is not terribly enthused about running about this place barefoot, either,

certainly, it doesn’t seem to be going great for this knife-first acquaintance. )

[medals]

[it takes her far longer than it should to lower the knife. her eyes are wide; giant blue in the dark, slightly manic against the ghost-white of her face. the change from danger to no danger is long, and sucks the air out of her.

in the end, when she does jerk back, knife lowering, it's not even by much. nothing about her loosens or relaxes; she's tense down to her toes. ] Sorry -

[which seems the polite thing to say to someone you almost stabbed. ] I thought you were - sorry, sorry -