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

[whitecloak]

You won't get the same promise from me, [ jaime grouses in an accent that is very much that of a prissy highborn westerlander, but likely sounds vaguely european to non-westerosi ears.

he scoots over as much as he can to give the other man some room, which isn't much, seeing as the bed's already lacking in space with or without an added bedmate. always too tall for standard sized beds, jaime's feet hang off the end and the crown of his head bumps up right against the headboard. uncomfortable, yes, but still preferable to sleeping on the floor. ]

[decorative]

[The words are petulant, but the body language grants permission and so the Chevalier moves in closer, lifting the covers of the bed so that he can settle himself underneath them. He eyes the blonde hair and hums. Does he feel kinship or jealousy? He's unsure.]

You recently found yourself here, yes? How does it compare to home?

[whitecloak]

[ blonde hair in tight curls and a golden hue the lack of light does not do justice. for better or worse, jaime is one of the most beautiful men of his generation — though he would be hard-pressed to agree with the sentiment himself, being his own worst critic. his opinion of himself is oftentimes worse than even the most hostile of his enemies. ]

It could be worse, [ is his vague answer, turning his head on the pillow in attempt to peer through the darkness to see his companion. after months held captive in a dungeon, one would think his eyesight had adjusted, but being returned the light when he was placed into brienne's care gaolership had seemingly robbed him of the one useful(-ish) skill he'd gained while a prisoner of war.

rude. ]

And you? What of the world you were unceremoniously ripped away from?

[decorative]

[Lying next to each other, speaking like this, feels intimate. The Chevalier is accustomed to these horizontal conversations, though it feels strange having one with his clothes still on. He tries to catch Jaime's gaze in the dark as the man turns to him. Even in the shadows, Jaime appears handsome. Almost as handsome as him.]

France. This place is horrific. [The judgement in his tone is thick.]

[whitecloak]

[ don't worry, jaime has no interest in being your handsome rival, dear chevalier. he is a mess of a man often covered in dirt and gore, smelling of horse and the steel of swords, living the life of a knight rather than the seated lord of a great house that his father had hoped he'd be. he's more at home out on the battlefield than he is mingling with other courtiers.

his beauty, much like his house and the pedigree of his lineage, is wasted on a man like him. ]

France? Can't say I've heard of it. I'm from the Westerlands, myself. Casterly Rock. Any chance either is familiar to you? How about Westeros? Essos?

[ he's verbose once you get him talking. (too verbose, some would say.) verbose and happy to prattle on about things that aren't how fucked up this dilapidated estate is. ]

[decorative]

[The Chevalier smiles gently, kindly even, as realization dawns on him: this man is handsome but mad. After all, who in their right mind has never heard of France?]

We have the West and the East, my love? [His voice becomes slow and condescending, gaining a lilt of encouragement and correction. Come on, Jaime. You're so close to saying something sensible.]

[whitecloak]

My love?

[ jaime surges up to loom over the other man like a wall of shirtless muscle, leaning on his right arm to hide his handlessness in the folds of the blankets so he can push his hair out of his face with the only hand still in his possession. his expression likely cannot be seen in the dark, but it's clear he's insulted. ]

You, who seems to be unaware of the nature of this place, implying that I am the lackwit in this bed? [ he squints at the other man in the dark, can only see blonde curls almost like his own, and lets out a scoff of a laugh, flopping back down on his back to stare up at the ceiling. ] Ludicrous.

[decorative]

[The Chevalier sinks into the mattress as he is loomed over, but a smug, defiant smirk creeps on to his features. It's a defensive reflex more than any true sense of bravery. Don't let them see you bleed.]

You know, I think we look like brothers, you and I. The two most handsome men in this awful place. And in awful places, we need allies.

[whitecloak]

[ jaime scoffs at the absurdity of the bedmate's commentary. both at the notion that they look like brothers and that he's handsome. jaime is aware of his beauty in theory, but he doesn't see himself in the light others do. he is a horrible man, inside and out. handsome? how absurd. ]

Allies, yes; those are indeed a necessity, but I already have a brother. He's quite shorter than you has a much more fanciful way with words. He would have more to say than just poppycock about comeliness.

[ he misses tyrion. it's but one feeling in great deluge of emotions he feels towards his younger brother. both his siblings, really, but he would be lying if he said he didn't miss his brother's company or his wit. tyrion would have heard of this sort of nonsense, surely. he would have read about it. somewhere. would have something to say about it all. something far more useful than anything jaime's been able to come up with by his lonesome. ]

[decorative]

[The Chevalier lets out a long sigh and stretches out on the bed like a cat, arms raising above his head, his back arching. A yawn is in his voice as he speaks. Jaime is petulant and tiresome, but the Chevalier is accustomed to moody boys. He can deal with this. It just takes a bit of time and patience.]

His words may be witty but my tongue is more persuasive. [It's a comment he doesn't dwell on. He doesn't need to gloat about his prowess just yet. He moves on quickly.] Where is your brother, hmm? Do you see him here in this room? Is he lurking somewhere in the shadows?

[whitecloak]

[ that double-entendre, intentional or not, earns the other man a look from jaime that likely goes unseen in the dark. a tilt of his head and exasperated stare that dissolves into a roll of his eyes. ]

My brother is nowhere to be found, and it will remain that way unless our unseen overlords want to add to the list of reasons I already have for wanting to gut them and hang them with their own entrails.

[decorative]

Then my point still stands that you need friends here, and who better than the man others will already mistake you for?

[He sighs and looks back at Jaime in return, his voice growing soft, kind, encouraging.]

Please play nice. I do not bite. For the most part.

[whitecloak]

[ jaime's sense of humor is twisted and grim at best, and he can't help but chuckle when the other man reasserts that they will be mistaken for one another. a man whose name he has yet to learn — not that he's bothered to offer up his own. ]

Oh, I assure you. There will be no mistaking you for me or me for you. [ he holds up his right arm. surely, even in the exceptionally dim light that's barely protruding through the darkness, the absence of hand can be seen. ] Unless you have also misplaced one of your hands.

[decorative]

[The response is...more grim than he anticipated. Instinctively, he wants to ask who hurt this newfound friend, no matter how uneasy and nonreciprocal their alliance is. He wants to touch the stump, not only out of curiosity, but out of a craving to soothe. There is pain there, physical and emotional, he has no doubt. He wants to heal it. He lifts his own hand, but stops himself, instead letting out a sigh and leaning to rest his chin on Jaime's shoulder.]

All the more reason for you to need a friend then, cousin.

[whitecloak]

[ reaching out to touch the ruined end of his right arm would have been disastrous and jaime would have likely responded with impulsive violence. having the other man simply rest his chin on his shoulder is better received, even if jaime stiffens in response, unaccustomed to people initiating any sort of closeness with him.

being caught off guard is probably the only reason jaime doesn't shove him away. ]

Cousin, that's what you're going with you? Can't even give the man you proclaim you resemble your name?

[decorative]

[That isn't outright rejection. If anything, the response is positive. Like a man taming a wild beast, the Chevalier moves slowly, gently, and smiles.]

Chevalier de Lorraine. I am a knight of sorts. I am certain you have seen your fair share of battles... [Hence the hand. Or lack of it.]

[whitecloak]

Is that a name or a title?

[ he'll let that "knight of sorts" comment slide, for now, in favor of a momentary return to petulant form — if a bit more lightheartedly than before with refusing to give out his own name until he receives an answer to that question. ]

Battles, war, and then some.

[decorative]

It is both. Where I am from, everyone holds the same name. Our titles are what set us apart from one another.

[That, and his lover, the Prince, holds the same name. When you are the Prince's lover, your own name has a habit of fading away. The Chevalier adjusts, making himself comfortable on Jaime's shoulder.]

And yours?

[whitecloak]

[ weird. then again, half of house targaryen bore the name aegon, so...

he heaves a sigh, relenting. ]

Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock. An actual knight.

[decorative]

[thatwasrude.mp3

The Chevalier's eyebrows raise in surprise at the remark. So Jaime is sassy. The Chevalier smiles and hums, slipping his hands under his chin as he continues to rest on Jaime's shoulder, looking up at him.]

Hence the hand... [The slightest, tiniest of jabs. A play fight to see how Jaime reacts.]

[whitecloak]

Hence the knighthood, [ he chides, not rising to whatever bait is being dangled in front of him.

besides, the tale of how he lost his hand to zollo's arakh is not a pleasant tale and not entirely his to tell, so he'd rather just not address it. let this strange bedfellow who is making himself comfortable upon his shoulder make whatever assumptions he wants — jaime is used to people assuming.

he is not, however, used to people getting this close to him. especially not a bold, talkative stranger. people simply do not put themselves within jaime lannister's personal bubble for a myriad of reasons and if not for the necessity of it being better to share a bed than find some dubious corner of the keep to curl up in and rest while hoping for the best, he would have already shoved him away.

or so he tells himself. ]

I was knighted at ten and four after saving Lord Sumner Crakehall's life during the skirmish with the Kingswood Brotherhood. Not that any of that makes any sense to someone who is not Westerosi.

[decorative]

I see. What a bold young man you were. [Perhaps too brave to be sensible, but that's another matter.] I was knighted because I am fun and people enjoy my company. [Notably the most important people in France. That helps a lot.]

So you stab and I schmooze. Is that the plan?

[whitecloak]

Rather for my boldness than my House, [ he comments, almost irritably. truth be told, jaime would have been knighted one day, one way or the other by virtue of being the firstborn son to lord tywin lannister. he was simply too highborn to not be knighted, but he's been rebelling against the station of his birth since childhood and wanted to earn the title, not have it handed to him. ]

With what sword? Do you have a blade hidden somewhere upon your person? [ jaime's weapons were missing from his person upon his arrival. as if invisible, unseen hands plucked his sword, daggers, and the knives he had hidden on his person from him the moment he stepped through the door. ]

Unless you can find me a worthwhile weapon to wield, good plan. Besides, you are not the only seasoned courtier — if I'm assuming correctly based on that title of yours and your knighthood of fun — in this bed.

[ sassy and very loquacious. ]

[decorative]

My dear Jaime. I am not saying you are inadequate. I am merely saying I am better. I have no doubt you would think yourself to be the best swordsman in your entire land. [Were. Past tense. The tiniest of jabs that he can't resist.] In that same way, I know I have a way with people. You seem........moody. [He says it with an affectionate, if condescending smile, casting Jaime a quick, amused glance.]

[whitecloak]

Another thing Jaime also is, that most tend to not consider him to be since his maiming: dangerous.

In a sudden, swift motion, Jaime has the Chevalier on this back, pinned to the mattress beneath him. Said maimed arm rests against the base of his neck — not nearly enough to choke, but as a promise of what he could do. He takes offense to, well, everything that was said, but especially the bit about him "thinking" he was the best swordsman when he was. He fucking was before his sword hand was taken from him, the greatest of his generation! but even without it, he is a seasoned warrior and not someone to be antagonized. ]

Yet the only evidence thus far of your way with words is your ability to incite me.