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ππ©π© π¦π° π΄π’π©π© π¦π« π±π₯π’ π π¬π²π―π± π¬π£ π₯π’π©π© π [FALL TDM]
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.
Threads in this post can be considered game canon as long as both parties agree. This TDM event occurs in between chapters I and II.
Please make sure to identify yourselves in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.
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.
Threads in this post can be considered game canon as long as both parties agree. This TDM event occurs in between chapters I and II.
Please make sure to identify yourselves in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.
GAME PAGES
i.
arise:
Hell is empty, and all the deovels are here.
arise:
Hell is empty, and all the deovels are here.
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: the shudder of thunder that claps like the hoofbeat of warhorses, a cold chill running down your spine, the call of your name through an empty hall. Whatever it may be that brings you back to your senses, you find yourself in an old, moldering estate lost to a bygone time. Every chamber empty, leading to more locked and broken doors. Rain pours softly out windows jammed shut, pushing you on a path deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the fortress. Farther and farther, you descend to darkness, following the sound of revelry murmuring behind closed doors.
You are not alone.
The giggle of a woman leaps over your shoulder and you feel the tightening of a ribbon around your skull and the heaviness of a mask presses flush against the meat of your cheeks. A woman with a mask the shape of a moth spins around you, smelling of the sweetness of roses and rot, as she slips away into the flush crowd.
No longer do you stand in a decaying ruin; you find yourself amidst a dark masquerade. For this one night, the Lonely Fortress has been restored to the state of its former glory— or some echoed version of it. The devils have come to roost for a night in the Martyr's Crucible. It is now up to you and your fellow exiles to make host with them in their celebration of the spirits.
Do not fret if you were spirited away in your plain clothes; this illusion has graced you with the finest courtly attire of an older time. Gauzy silks, satins, and velvets in dark and brooding colors. Your mask fits snugly to your face, double-knotted to uphold the most raucous of partying (or determined tugging).
If you are lucky, you were assigned a π Voyeur's mask. This mask has no discernable decoration beyond disguising your features, allowing you to blend in with the crowd at no cost to yourself. You are allowed to spectate the events of this night, and none expect you to take part of it.
If you are potentially unlucky, the mask you receive plays a role, and with it bequeaths a strange effect upon its wearer and treatment throughout the masque as a whole: Removing your mask is possible, but it doesn't come without consequences. The illusion of this night resides in the mask. When it is removed, the uninvited courtiers appear like corpses of moldering flesh and open wounds. Uncovering the truth will not go well for you. Those who are caught going "faceless" will incur dissent against them by the undead courtiers. Either put the mask back on or they will designate you a better one.
Those who dissent but are incapable of running are given a new mask, made to spend the rest of their night at the mercy of monstrous courtiers.
It's a wise time to keep out of sight and keep moving, but escaping the fortress is easier said than done. The corridors have gotten all turned around, windows and doors jammed shut. Some paths, which should inevitably lead away from the festivities, somehow end up looping back into the festivities from another side. Take heed, for every risk you take elevates your chances of being marked a Wretch.
You are not alone.
The giggle of a woman leaps over your shoulder and you feel the tightening of a ribbon around your skull and the heaviness of a mask presses flush against the meat of your cheeks. A woman with a mask the shape of a moth spins around you, smelling of the sweetness of roses and rot, as she slips away into the flush crowd.
No longer do you stand in a decaying ruin; you find yourself amidst a dark masquerade. For this one night, the Lonely Fortress has been restored to the state of its former glory— or some echoed version of it. The devils have come to roost for a night in the Martyr's Crucible. It is now up to you and your fellow exiles to make host with them in their celebration of the spirits.
What are you supposed to be? A New Kid on the Block?
(cw:mood alteration, master/servant dynamics, potential elements of dubcon/noncon.)
If you are lucky, you were assigned a π Voyeur's mask. This mask has no discernable decoration beyond disguising your features, allowing you to blend in with the crowd at no cost to yourself. You are allowed to spectate the events of this night, and none expect you to take part of it.
If you are potentially unlucky, the mask you receive plays a role, and with it bequeaths a strange effect upon its wearer and treatment throughout the masque as a whole:
π The Sacrifice: You represent the maiden, fair and pure. A gift worthy of giving to the gods. Tonight, you are chosen, and this celebration is for you. Your mask takes on the shape of the lamb, deer, dove, or unicorn. Unlike the rest of the unholy court, your pale colored garments leave you feeling targeted throughout every room you enter.
Those in the presence of the Sacrificed will feel an inexplicable attraction and devotion towards the mask wearer. Enamored by their perceived perfection, their presence creates a genuine, yet terrifying, devotion in others.
π The Justiciar: You represent the lord and master, strength and dominion. This is a celebration for the spirits, and you are here to see devotion is paid. Your mask takes on the shape of a lion, bear, bull, or dragon.
Those in the presence of the Justiciar will feel compelled to serve and obey their every command. Those under another's control are still limited by their physical and intellectual limitations.
π The Devourer: You represent the vices, unbidden from chasing your desires. Tonight, you are here to consume the revelry and become a true eater of sin. For the glory of the spirits, you will live a life unleashed for the entertainment of our guest. Your mask takes on the shape of a hound, boar, rat, or hare.
Those with the Devourer's mask will find their pleasure in the service of others . They hunt the party, feeding vicariously on the pleasure and pain brought by their hand. Sweeter than any tonic, the more they taste, the more they want.
π The Temptation: A representation of the devil themselves, here to pull others into the dance with the macabre. Your mask takes on the shape of a goat, bat, serpent, or vulture.
Those with the Temptation's mask can corrupt others by their touch to feel waves of bliss, catatonia, arousal, or agony. The effects of which only last as long as the temptation is touching them, building and building the longer they remain.
Drop the Act
Those who dissent but are incapable of running are given a new mask, made to spend the rest of their night at the mercy of monstrous courtiers.
π The Wretch You now represent the fool, left to the mercy of all other courtiers to entertain through profound humiliation. A metal mask moulded as the face of a gargoyle. A bridle bit fits into your mouth to prevent from speaking. This mask comes with a bell and collar, drawing the attention of others who relish in the wretch's humiliation.Those who escape are of the lucky few to break away from the echo's thrall. The hellish courtiers will continually hunt for faceless to punish until the festivities subside.
Those with the Wretch's mask will feel compelled to obey any command the other masks give them or incur the heat of the metal mask sear into their flesh when they refuse.
It's a wise time to keep out of sight and keep moving, but escaping the fortress is easier said than done. The corridors have gotten all turned around, windows and doors jammed shut. Some paths, which should inevitably lead away from the festivities, somehow end up looping back into the festivities from another side. Take heed, for every risk you take elevates your chances of being marked a Wretch.
ii.
revel:
Maggoty Malfeasence.
revel:
Maggoty Malfeasence.
The festivities seem inviting, tempting easily to get swept up into its fray. Those with a strong gut may sense the underlying foulness of deceit and malice that runs under current of it all. Perhaps you let yourself get carried away by the magic of the night, perhaps you play along for your own safety. After all, how often do you find yourself at a ball fit for a court of the damned?
In the dark before the dawn, the festivities slowly begin to turn sour. Activities grow more violent and vicious. The illusions start to fade on their own as the courtiers become gradually more and more bedraggled. The sweetness of rot grows stronger, attracting the buzzing of flies. Their façade slips away to reveal the legion of undead carousing among the living.
One masked lord rises above all in a toast to announce the culmination of the night's celebrations.
Those under the spell of other masks may be urged to lend your aid in fetching, tormenting, and processing of these sacrifices. With any luck, you can free your compatriots, or perhaps bloodlust urges you to participate in their dark rituals. Dissenters will face the risk of being sacrificed themselves or placed in the mask of the wretch to do as they're told. In the chaos, escape is possible, but not all will be fortunate enough to make their bid for freedom.
Courtiers drone in their infernal chanting. Fresh blood is used to carve runes and sigils into the stone. An opening in the floor unfurls into a giant pit lined with jagged edges like a lamprey's mouth. One by one, each remaining sacrifice is urged to jump into the maw and down the throat of the hell itself.
For most, this is the end.
For the few, surviving your fall into the stomach will land you in the Undercroft; corrupted by vines of blood and sinew that run along the stone walls. The tunnels under the fortress is a labyrinth of its own, may you wander the dark until the exit can be found. You are not alone down here, for the lost servitors of the keep meander in the dark for their next meal, but hunted by the deovels no more until you can find your way out.
Dance! Dance until you die!
(cw:nsfw, bdsm, potential for cannibalism.)
The celebrations have spread its festivities across the heart of the Lonely Fortress. Each hall feeds a different vice, drenched in a different color. All are welcome to and from hall to hall, dared to delve deeper and deeper into their depravities until the night's final hour. Each hall is full and brimming with laughter and life, men and women who don masks of every shape possible.π Great Hall: For dancing and fanfare. The candle's flame bathes all in a merry golden light. Players and singers have been forced onto the tables and the chandeliers to drum up a sleazy tune and a beat to dance to. Stacked flagons and casks wheel out seemingly endless amounts of wine that penetrate even the deepest of inhibitions. The energy in this room is infectious; some who begin to dance may find themselves unable to stop.
π Banquet Hall: The light in the banquet hall appears almost violet, sucking the color out of most of the food. Everything that can be found on the table tastes decadent: the rich cakes, succulent meats, sweet fruits. Your fellow exiles may be spotted being used as platters and furniture here, trussed up for display and entertainment as the hungry pick cakes and caviar off their bare skin. So long as the food they serve doesn't run out, no forks or knives will be turned against them.
π Velvet Parlor: For those looking for a place to feed carnal appetites, they will find a large parlor room draped entirely in lush pillows and heavy velvet curtains. Tonight, the room glows under a deep crimson light as courtiers slake their lusts in a garden of intertwined bodies. The heat of arousal is palpable through the diffusion of the egregore, a symphony of moans echoing from one end of the parlor to the other.
π Long Gallery: If it's a dangerous sport you crave, look no further than the long gallery — a wall of windows on one side let in a dusty blue light of the moon. Up and down the corridor, courtiers race each other riding on the backs of Wretches, swatting their hinds with makeshift crops. Others are made as pedestals to hold apple targets for knives and axes to be thrown at them. A crowd gathers around a game of knives, waiting to see who draws first blood. The iron of blood seethes into the air here, chasing after the play of pain.
Eyes Wide Shut
(cw:human/ritual sacrifice.)
One masked lord rises above all in a toast to announce the culmination of the night's celebrations.
"Now cometh our rise," drones the gold devil's mask. "Our tribute to the Sleeping One, our venerable host, shall be paid in blood."The deovels roar, their frenzy rising with the heat of the room. If you possess the Sacrificed mask, the blood tribute is...well you. After a long night of salivating, it's now the deovels' turn to come for you. You are hunted to be thrust atop a makeshift palanquin, jeering as you are carried to the fortress's lonely chapel as a living sacrifice.
Those under the spell of other masks may be urged to lend your aid in fetching, tormenting, and processing of these sacrifices. With any luck, you can free your compatriots, or perhaps bloodlust urges you to participate in their dark rituals. Dissenters will face the risk of being sacrificed themselves or placed in the mask of the wretch to do as they're told. In the chaos, escape is possible, but not all will be fortunate enough to make their bid for freedom.
Courtiers drone in their infernal chanting. Fresh blood is used to carve runes and sigils into the stone. An opening in the floor unfurls into a giant pit lined with jagged edges like a lamprey's mouth. One by one, each remaining sacrifice is urged to jump into the maw and down the throat of the hell itself.
For most, this is the end.
For the few, surviving your fall into the stomach will land you in the Undercroft; corrupted by vines of blood and sinew that run along the stone walls. The tunnels under the fortress is a labyrinth of its own, may you wander the dark until the exit can be found. You are not alone down here, for the lost servitors of the keep meander in the dark for their next meal, but hunted by the deovels no more until you can find your way out.
iii.
respite:
It's just a bunch of hocus pocus!
respite:
It's just a bunch of hocus pocus!
With the breaking of the dawn, the terror of the night is swept away as light fills in the shadows. The hellish court and its massacre are gone within the blink of an eye, leaving the Lonely Fortress back in its regressive state of damp and dark solitude. No trace of dark ritual or aggressor remains. The echo has come and gone, leaving the fortress in a dead and uneasy silence compared to the raucous frenzy that had possessed it a blink before.
The spirits have come and filled their bellies. Where did you end up?
If you survived the night: Wherever you are, whatever you had been doing by the end of the night, it matters not. Just like that, you jolt awake from a long and restless sleep. The morning light pierces through old, musty curtains in another hazy day in the Crucible. No traces of your courtly garments or mask remain; the events of the night echo in your body, groaning like a hangover. You may find you are tucked away perfectly into bed, fully dressed and in dirtied boots...or you may have woken to missing clothes altogether. Any injuries accrued at the hand of other exiles remain, lending to some part of the night being grounded in truth.
If you are lucky, you have awoken in a room assigned to you, but that may not always be the case. Sleepwalking is a common affliction to exiles old and new, so lets hope any unanticipated bedpartners are forgiving of the company— they too are in need of recuperation. Relish in this moment. You survived.
If you had died at any part of the night: You will not have woken in any bed (unless you were slain in one), but instead rise in the part of the castle where you fell; not a trace of injuries left, only the discomforting memory of death the strangeness of your awakening.
You may be questioning if the night's events were real at all. The sourness of death, blood and bile, lingers as a bitter taste in your mouth. Additionally, you are missing memory. A cut on your palm, but no memory of its accrual, suggests something was bargained for your return. Any trace of such a devil's deal escapes your memory.
Breakfast is served for those who still hold an appetite, but the dining table remains uncomfortably quiet beyond the scraping of forks. The food tastes dull compared to the decadence of the masque, even duller for those who made their brush with death.
Rest now, relish in your continued survival, for who knows what awaits at the next turning of a moon.
The spirits have come and filled their bellies. Where did you end up?
Another Glorious Morning
If you are lucky, you have awoken in a room assigned to you, but that may not always be the case. Sleepwalking is a common affliction to exiles old and new, so lets hope any unanticipated bedpartners are forgiving of the company— they too are in need of recuperation. Relish in this moment. You survived.
Deep asleep in thy wormy bed
You may be questioning if the night's events were real at all. The sourness of death, blood and bile, lingers as a bitter taste in your mouth. Additionally, you are missing memory. A cut on your palm, but no memory of its accrual, suggests something was bargained for your return. Any trace of such a devil's deal escapes your memory.
Breakfast is served for those who still hold an appetite, but the dining table remains uncomfortably quiet beyond the scraping of forks. The food tastes dull compared to the decadence of the masque, even duller for those who made their brush with death.
Rest now, relish in your continued survival, for who knows what awaits at the next turning of a moon.
grace. ready or not.
want something else? let's plot it out via pm or ~stalfos on plurk!
new kid
Yep. Yeah, I got you, don't worry. I'm gonna get you out, just-- [ The hare mask hides the puzzled bend in his brow, thank god. His hands settle loosely at her elbows at first, then one braces splayed over her belly. Her warmth radiates through the boning. ] --breathe. I'm gonna get you out, but you need to cool off so I can help.
Close your mouth? Can you just breathe through your nose?
no subject
it is though. oh it is. he tells her to breathe and she tries and it comes out in a jagged, cleaving gasp, like she's been drowning in actual water, and not just too many layers of white fabric for her liking. he's right, and it doesn't benefit her to be losing her shit. there's no proof her inlaws are alive, but being spirited away doesn't exactly assure a girl of her safety. being forced into a dress that makes her skin crawl definitely doesn't make her feel safe, either. Quentin's voice is reassuring but turns out she's a pretty shit judge of character, so who knows what that even means.
she wants to whine like a baby. no she can't breathe through her nose, she can't breathe at all for that matter, and she really thinks she might just fucking die if he doesn't rip this off of her right now. if anything her rattling wheezing gets sharper as she tries to rationalize his instructions in her head. but then she clamps her hands over her mouth like the final girl she is, and even if it makes her cowering behind a bed as Emilie shot that girl in the head, she refuses to let herself faint and be absolute dead meat. she quivers like a chihuahua, but there is no option besides short huffs of air through her nose. )
EYES WIDE SHUT
No one ever speaks of his virtues, not even the vampire himself. Louis thought him fickle and callous enough to eat anything that stumbles across his path; a devourer of pretty things and wretches all the same. In a ball with a legion of undead lords ready to make a blood sacrifice, of course, he would be one of the many to step forth into the fray. The thirst gnawing away in his belly is enough to drive any temperate vampire mad.
Was it his intention to eat Grace? Possibly, possibly not. He thinks of the time he played Lelio on a lamp-lit stage in Paris. He hungered then too, for bread and venison stew and fresh churned butter. How he had to save Isabella from turmoil night after night with a big smile painted across his face.
Maybe he was going to sample her, maybe he was going to save her. She draws blood first β Lestat doesn't know if he yells out in surprise, a crimson spattering down his open shirt. The vampire's unwieldy gray-blue eyes lock back onto her, this precious kitten wrapped in torn ivory. Feral and rabid.
He can't help but laugh, wholly and fully. God, does he feel alive. The tear her dull teeth made stitches together before he finishes. He looks down at the knife and then back up to her. ]
What're you going to do with that, hm?[ Maybe this is the moment where he sheds the last of his humanity. Maybe this is all an act. He takes a step forward, calling her bluff. ]
this is blonde on blonde violence
but she didn't beat her mother-in-law to death with a devil box just to be tossed in another sacrificial chute, all right? it's not happening. it's a sunken cost fallacy. she fought too hard, lost so much. she's really not gonna call uncle now, when it's an absolute stranger that wants her dead this time around. there's no uno reverse card on knowing what it feels like to hurt someone. kill someone. it's too late to go back to the Grace of before, the one that made Alex put spiders in cups and take them outside because squishing them made her cry. no, what is left of her after her wedding night knows exactly what she's going to do with this knife, and there's no the better to eat you with, dear monologue before it happens, either.
hard to say if she clocked the whole healing within seconds thing. she probably didn't. doesn't really matter. the guy had hands on her, he definitely psychotically laughed about her perfectly reasonable request to back the fuck up. so, yeah. this guy is getting stabbed. right through the tit if she lands it right. her grip isn't great and her execution isn't perfect, but by god, she's got the spirit. )
no subject
Needless to say, he's charmed.
And then, she stabs him.
Or, he lets her. Blade sinking in nearly to the hilt. A sharp spiderweb of pain spreads across his chest. Lestat seethes, hand coiling around her tiny, breakable wrist, faster in the blink of an eye. The coolness of his palm presses against the back of her wrist with a grip that's hard as stone. He keeps her there a moment, unable to wrestle away or push the blade deeper.
He smiles and steps in, fangs popped and ready, sneering like a mad dog as he sinks her blade into the hilt. ]
Want to try again?
no subject
if it weren't for the whole dragon breath and death grip thing, that is. it is sinking in that there's something not right here. what, exactly — listen, it's hard to say. the super speed. the making her stab him MORE thing (seriously, what the fuck???). maybe it's just her survival instincts going ballistic, that she should be running instead of digging her heel in. Grace whimpers, because she is feral and vicious and infuriatingly capable but she is also still just a girl. that smile is really fucked up and she can sort of sense the ground under her feet slipping away from her. she's going to die and this freak is having a grand old fucking time about it.
she could give up. it's tempting. but instead, she leans closer and forces all her body weight on the hilt still in her hand. she's like half this dude's size and he's some kind of freak of nature to boot, she's under no delusions it'll kill him at this point. she's just making the hole bigger for shits and giggles. if she's going the way of the dodo it is only fair she get to mangle this guy a little bit more. )
Fuck you. ( and then she laughs. it's brash, bawdy, like he just told a terrible joke you know you're not supposed to laugh at but you just can't help yourself. it's just funny, that's all. all the billionaires and the devil himself couldn't get her and some blonde man with superpowers is gonna do her in? what a riot. )
eyes wide shut (undercroft)
Don't touch me-- [ she suddenly comes to and slaps at the blurry figure over her, thinking it's another one of her assailants. ]
no subject
and then the body is moving, and — )
Ow! What the fuck? ( Grace is astonished. stares, wide eyed. and then some internal playground rules sense activates, so she slaps Alicent back. it's like a Leslie Nielsen movie. )