𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩 𑁍 [FALL 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.

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

premise
setting
faq
rules
glossary

i.
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.

What are you supposed to be? A New Kid on the Block?

(cw:mood alteration, master/servant dynamics, potential elements of dubcon/noncon.)

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 𑁍 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:

𑁍 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.

𑁍 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.

𑁍 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.

𑁍 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

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.

𑁍 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 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

𑁍 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.

𑁍 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.

𑁍 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.

𑁍 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.)

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.

"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!

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?

Another Glorious Morning

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.

Deep asleep in thy wormy bed

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.

Comments

brienne of tarth ( a song of ice and fire )

[wenche]

general cw ▷ brienne's got intense rampant body image / internalized gender misery that trends rather misogynistic

i. arise: you have a man's strength in your arms

( without such compulsion drawing fellow revelers toward desire and adoration, this sacrifice would surely inspire confusion and pity. maybe mockery, as it is perhaps amusing to see such a large and burly fellow wearing the mask of a helpless lamb, little ears stuck out on either side of his head as if he could be anything but menacing as he towers over the other attendees. the straw on his head which he calls hair is worn long, and it lies limp against his sturdy neck and shoulders, which are hiked up defensively around his ears as if it might shield him from the attention.

his demeanor makes him seem more wretch than maiden, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he drifts on the outskirts of the partying as much as he possibly can. the dress that envelops him is an unkindness: fine rosy silks and lace hung wrong on his too-wide frame, his movements stiff and confined by discomfort.

or maybe you've seen him before in a daze, roaming about the tower in that stupor exiles retain as they adjust to their fate.

maybe that means you came to know that lady brienne is no man at all, but a young woman with a scarred face and spirit, who shrinks away from scrutiny and yet is willing to offer aid when aid is required. humorless and coarse but kind, she is loathe to give offense and rarely raises her voice.

poor luck she's finally come to her senses in time to be thrust into a role which she has been assured time and again could not be hers. she is maiden, yes, but she is no pure and desirable creature fit for such attention.

certainly not after what she's done.

in either event, whether she is known to an exile or not: her clumsy voice is but soft and feminine when she speaks to try and extract herself from the company of another. a clumsy and poorly-wielded lie: )

I must beg your pardon, I— I am expected elsewhere.

( the lie only works once or twice, and she is so easy to spot in a throng. even as more and more devotees flock to her, brienne only scowls more and clenches her jaw. she tries to gently extract herself. rigid and stalwart; she behaves as if she may simply weather the rise in the frenzy of revelry with the horrid scent of roses in her nose and the faint nausea in her gut. )

ii. dance: but your heart's as soft as any maid's ( cw ▷ mention of livestock slaughter, mention of a bit o' gory body horror )
note | as the night wears on, her reactions to being pestered will become more erratic and violent, the worst will be in the parlor and gallery, if you'd like a scuffle!

( she dances poorly in the hall, anxiety rolling off of her in waves. the more flattering and sweet the whisperings are, the more sullen and withdrawn she becomes. she can only bear stepping on someone's poor toes a few times before she begs off with a miserable thank you and an awkward and sloppy curtsey.

there's duck aplenty here at banquet, and she eats a shank of lamb with etiquette that must look incongruous with her stature, large hands folded delicately around her fork, spearing meat to cut carefully into bite-sized pieces.

she can only be fed from the hands of others so much before she accidentally bites down on a finger. then, she flees in a panic without a polite and godsawful lie.

her wide blue eyes fix on bodies which writhe together in configurations she never could have guessed at before she blinks and tries to fix her gaze to the floor. there is no egress from the parlor back the way she's come, so she must press ahead, and must look where she is going. brienne weathers lingering touches until they drift toward the parts of her body even she does not pluck for her own pleasure, shoving and flailing harder than she wishes to rush to the door just up ahead, push through it, and flee down the hall.

this all she can bear, for the humiliation is upon her own self. these are people who are not in their right minds, and she cannot in good conscience harm them to spare herself the discomfort.

she can hear the lambs that screamed beneath the knife, in her hand, can hear her master-at-arms' gruff admonishment that if she could not marshall her tears he would not train her any longer. she learned to finish crying before returning to the yard, learned to accept the hot blood that would spill over her knuckles, learned to do it quickly and mercifully. and when the meat would grace her father's table she would dutifully eat what she could before her stomach inevitably turned.

hadn't she taught little podrick to snare and field dress rabbits? was this any different?

it is the gallery that breaks her, as she stands witness to bloody indignities that remind her of tellings from home, across the ravaged lands of her former mistress. she means to acquire a weapon, something better than a serving fork or a butter knife.

instead brienne flees, finally, too craven to force her mask off lest she suffer the fate of the wretches and too affected by memories of freshly-hewn flesh, and the way it was left to rot between her and jaime, hung about his neck. )

iii. eyes wide shut: in battle half a heartbeat is a lifetime

( all her running is for naught. lady brienne of tarth, daughter of lord selwyn who bears the name of the very island they call home, has never ridden in a palanquin. she was borne unto the water and the valley, and she has known humiliation all her life.

she approaches the one carrying another sacrifice as carefully as her large frame might let her. she mounts it, hoping the hunters will regard their twofold get as a boon, and sinks to her rump beside them. hear her voice is low and urgent: )

I will cause a disruption. Run back up the corridor, and get to safety. I will follow if I am able.

( this last is an obvious lie: her distraction will ensure she is brought to the culmination of her role. brienne does not wish to harm those under the spells of the mask, but she cannot abide allowing another innocent to suffer. )

iv. respite: i pray i will not flinch

( clad in blue-tint armor once again, with the hilt of a golden lion's head with ruby eyes hung at her hip, lady brienne of tarth looms the corridors as if in search of something, or someone. she lingers here and there, deep scowl affixed to her face as her eyes sweep over the rooms in search of answers she knows she will not get. her movements are robotic, and stiff, except when she reaches for the hilt of her sword as if to ensure it remains by her side. or perhaps as a child does a security blanket.

she has to duck to enter a couple of the rooms, but the dining hall is grand enough to allow her entry without need for shrinking herself. but shrink herself she does anyway, avoiding eye contact if she can manage it, and unable to be rude if she cannot even though it is clear she'd love nothing better than to hide her scarred and ugly face away.

when she sits and her gaze glances past another's, she gives a tight-lipped smile to hide her crooked and too-big teeth which pulls the ruined flesh of her cheek tight and uncomfortable. a second met-gaze compels her to speak, manners and courtesy too deeply set into her stubborn mien and revealing that she is quite young, despite all evidence to the contrary: )

Seven blessings.

( for it is not, she assumes, a good morn. )

v. wildcard

( hi hello i am very rusty after a long hiatus from non-psl rp, so if nothing here suits, please lob whatever you like my way. feel free to PM me @ this journal if you want to chat before jumping in ^^ )

iv.

[whitecloak]

[ something within him short-circuits upon seeing her unmistakeable frame lumbering at the far end of the other side of the grand, long table. where normally he'd take a moment to ground himself and be extra sure this wasn't some sort of trick being played on him by this accursed manse or his own penchant for being haunted by the ghosts that dwelled within the confines of his own corrupted mind, jaime does not hesitate to rise from his chair and— well, completely forget that he's at a dinning table being served breakfast, and leap over the table in order to shorten the time it takes to get to her, jogging towards her while dodging whoever might be walking in his path until he's able to reach out and grab hold of an elbow. ]

Wench.

[ he'd berate himself for how pathetic that sounded coming out of him if he wasn't so infuriatingly overwhelmed. ]

[wenche]

( brienne rears back from the touch, the memories from the previous night still too fresh in her mind, but heart yet still too soft to lash out against unwanted touch.

still leant away, still aghast, she freezes in place, wide eyes blinking in disbelief. she had thought of him so often last night, hoped he would appear and— )

Jaime?

( gods his name, so undressed in her mouth, feels raw and too open. for all that has transpired between them she should feel shame and remorse and agony. but she has never been clever enough to speak well, nor hide the truth from her face. the relief is plain, as is the affection she bears him in the exhale of his naked name from her mouth and the violent pink in her cheeks. anyone watching must see it: this is a young girl with a terrible devotion she cannot hide even as her desperation to be invisible is clear as day.

her chair scrapes loud and awkward through the hall as she shoves it back to stand.

struck dumb, she can only stutter and nearly reaches out for him, hand hung between them in the air. )

Ser— you are— I had not— but how?

[whitecloak]

Brienne.

[ obvious to everyone but the clueless lion that stands before her, brow furrowed in open, unabashed concern as his green eyes sweep over her hulking form. ]

When did you— [ he starts, but quickly cuts himself off with narrowing of his eyes, moving from concern to fury as smoothly as one might turn the pages of a book. ] How dare they. You don't belong here. You shouldn't be here.

[ she's too good. she's undeserving of the horrors that haunt these corridors, of the torment they've had to endure.

he loathes their unseen keepers, whomever or whatever they may be, even more. ]

I'm sorry, my lady. You are unworthy of all this.

[wenche]

( oh, his concern is unbearable. what she is unworthy of is jaime's forgiveness, his worry after her plucking at raw nerves that she isn't sure will ever settle down again. automatically her head shakes in response.

to her, it isn't so impossible. she is worthy of very little. )

No, please—

( her eyes wheel about them, worried about the display jaime is making over her. she tries not to look directly at him, gaze brushing over the edges of him, and whatever she was going to say falls away from her mind and her mouth.

she stares, frozen stock-still, at the end of his stumped arm. something tickles at the back of her mind, but all she can think is that someone took his false hand from him. her own hands twitch to fetch it so that she might inspect its condition, but instead she grasps the hilt of oathkeeper tightly. there are too many eyes and she has been too exposed of late. )

Ser Jaime. Your hand...?

[whitecloak]

My hand?

[ dumbly, but also because he is not as self-conscious hyperaware of his missing hand as he is with others while in the presence of the woman who was with him throughout that traumatizing ordeal, jaime brings his left hand up into view. the one that is whole and not his own personal phantom, haunting him with the past and the what-ifs of his uncertain future.

he looks at the back of it, then flips it to examine the palm. he flexes his fingers, looking for some sign of affliction or ruin, a remnant of the horrors from the night before.

he finds none and holds it up in question. ]

It's fine. See? Still intact.

[wenche]

( she is immediately bewildered. agog, even. her brow pinches up in confusion and worry, her head twists this way and that, knowing full well the display jaime has made has brought attention she does not wish to bear. nor does she wish to foist it back upon him.

brienne swallows, closing her own hand with its mysterious cut into a fist at her side. the frustration she feels at his potential willful obtu— oh. of course. he is too clever for her by yards, isn't he? of course he wouldn't want to speak of it, if this place took his dignity, ripped it again away from him. )

Of course, yes.

( her eyes skate past him to the others milling about. fewer are paying them mind than she'd expect, though some linger on jaime the way eyes always linger on jaime. like he is a refuge from having to look at her. she tries to whisper, leaning down even further than she's already hunched in a comical sort of conspiracy: )

Might we speak? Elsewhere?

[whitecloak]

[ it's almost comical how they manage to misunderstand one another in this instance when they are so effortlessly able to gleam so much about the other in little more than a quick glance. here, however, he feels a bit off-kilter; weighted down by his newfound allegiance to a branch of the targaryen dynasty that perished over a century before he was born while still feeling the familiar, taught pull of the invisible tether that keeps him bound to her and the vow they made to see catelyn stark's daughters to safety. ]

This way, [ jaime says in answer, taking hold of her hand and guiding her towards a door at the back of the room. he leads her down a hallway to a mostly empty storage closet that had been rummaged through by someone at some point, clearing out a bulk of the furniture that ought to be stored alongside what's managed to remain. ]

[wenche]

( her face invents firetrucks in westeros as it reddens to a shade previously impossible to conjure naturally. but follow she does, and whatever piece of her is mortified on his behalf for touching her and connecting them so directly so easily is quietened by the one that wants answers. if there is a girl still alive inside to flutter and blush over such casual touch she is buried deep underneath all else that brienne must wield to press on.

her mind reels as they go. relief at finding someone familiar and trustworthy. agony at the way he refuses to hate her for what she's done. despair that he is not in westeros where he is needed and where his own duty lies, even though it pulls him in two directions and threatens to tear him apart.

she means to say something, but when she finds herself alone with him she realizes this is worse. brienne presses her mouth in a line, mulish jaw jutting out as she stares down at him but cannot make words leave her mouth. if she apologizes again it will only start another row, and she is so very tired. she realizes she is afraid to know what happened to his hand and yet her mind is sharp and she has a theory. it must sound so foolish when she blurts: )

I lost my shield.

( it was jaime's, once, that heavy thing he carried from harrenhal to the capital. and despite the ill omens that clung to it brienne could not bring herself to find a new one. she had cherished that shield, enough to have it repainted. it had protected her and strengthened her arm. she felt exposed without it.

but he seems to be doing just fine without his false hand. )

[whitecloak]

I don't care about the shield.

[ in truth, he doesn't care about the sword (much), either, yet his eyes still dart to her waist and he breathes an almost involuntary sigh of relief upon seeing oathkeeper still affixed to her hip. it fills him with pride and affection fondness to see that she's still carrying it. that they didn't take it from her. ultimately, her safety and wellbeing matters more than the blade, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't please him to have her still be in possession of it.

he gave it to her.

that sword was hers, and no one else's.

always would be.

she'd tried to return it to him after the whole messy ordeal with stoneheart, but he'd refused. ]

We're— [ jaime starts, but hesitates, unsure of how explain. and he with brienne, he wants to give her an explanation. the truth. as close as he can get to it without fully understanding their presence here himself. ] We're not in Westeros. This manse is... somewhere else. In a world not our own. A world that has no regard for what we were doing in our realms or who is supposed to be our contemporaries.

[ he runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching on tangled, unruly golden curls. ]

Brienne, do you remember learning about the Dance of the Dragons?

[wenche]

( she flinches at the dismissal, shoulders hunching toward her ears as she blinks rapidly in surprise. it stings, but it was a stupid thing to say. why would he care about a silly shield? there are more important things to worry about.

or perhaps he has come to his senses. she should muster her worries, then. she must marshal her fear.

hesitantly, uncertain and careful: )

I don't understand.

( what has this got to do with succession wars of old? )

[whitecloak]

[ it's a bit heartwrenching unsettling how suddenly out of sync they are when last he saw her, she was the person he felt most at home in his own skin around. the one who saw him for all that he was (for all that he could be) instead of the vile person the world had decided he should be. ]

King Aegon the Second is here. [ there's no gentler way to break the time-breaking reality of it all to her than to just say it. ] As is his brother, Prince Aemond, and their mother, Alicent Hightower. Along with Jacaerys Velaryon, the Half-Year Queen's eldest son.

[wenche]

( it's so absurd that it must be some fresh mockery.

no. this is ser jaime. he might hate her for her betrayal (no, no, they'd been over this) or never want to see her again (those nightmares are only ever waking and a product of her own sticky guilt) or even think she is the lowest creature he's ever set eyes on (his hands, so warm, as he'd inspected her shoulder when she'd slid from her horse) but he would not mock her.

something else, then. maybe not mockery but a jape? )

Ser?

( some sort of code? brienne looks about them, and then back to jaime once more. her eyes linger on his, draw up his forehead. if not a code, perhaps injury. )

Your words make little sense to me. Mayhaps you are... ( not addled, seven, she couldn't fathom it. ) The Dance was long ago. You speak the names of long-dead figures.

[whitecloak]

It was, [ he confirms, rising up to his full height as he steps closer to better match her own — as much as he can, anyway. she's always been taller than him. he likes that about her. it suits her. ]

Brienne, look at me. [ jaime's lone hand comes up as he meets her gaze, fingers brushing against the jagged lines marring her ruined cheek. ] What reason would I have for making such a claim if it weren't the truth? I am not ill, injured, or cursed, my lady. They are here and I have found myself in service of the Targaryens once again.

[wenche]

( obstinate and off-kilter, brienne doesn't recoil at his touch until he tells her to look at him. she hates when he does that— he must know what it feels like to look at him. he must know, because he has had the proof of it looking back at him since he was born. and yet, he cannot know what it is like for a creature like her to look at him. painful and wonderful, and impossible to do it without flinching of late.

so even as he speaks, she resolutely does not look at him. he's speaking nonsense, and besides: what matter does it make? they're separated from everything that made them who they are. he says he is not ill, and yet here he lays this confusion at her feet even as she's struggling to gain purchase beneath them.

as ever, she feels too stupid and slow to make sense of any of this. so she does finally look at him, face splotched with uncomfortable red as she pulls it away from his hand. a fear she has been unable to reach through the guilt and the shame and the agony of her betrayal sets her heart at a hare's pace in her breast. enough that she can only obstinately repeat herself: )

I don't understand.

( who is this man wearing jaime's face and not his hand, saying half of one thing and little of much else? she'd been so relieved to find a familiar face, and one she... trusts. now, it's as if they are yet again in the capital and he is a stranger to her.

if this is truly jaime, what has been done to him? )

iv.

[kivio]

( Never before has the ordinary scraping of forks felt so sinister - the thoughtless raking of metal is as unwelcome as fingertips skipping down her back. Except there is no touch, and that is almost a worse tragedy, because she could do with a flicker of warmth. A trusted arm to gather herself close to; a living, breathing body to sidle up against. Anyone who is not a stranger.

Foolish and weak to yearn that way, of course, and doubly so in this place where she is so thoroughly alone and likely in grave danger. Is that true, though? Would she have been allowed to wake after last night's slavering carnival? Why is she still here? Not to eat, that much is clear - she cannot remember the last time she felt the prick of a proper appetite. It certainly isn't happening now.

So her eyes roam, searching for what, she does not know. Maybe the reassurance that no one is looking at her, after so much predatory exultation the night before? But there are eyes looking at her, paired with a smile that is not exactly warm, but near enough. For half a breath, Daenerys thinks she is looking at a knight, a true knight, someone who will know what to do - but the mirage is fleeting, leaving behind the solid, hulking outline that inspired it.

Not a knight, nor a lord, but a lady? Her gaze sweeps over this stranger, made stranger still by a man's build with a woman's courtesy, but here is the least awful of all she has yet witnessed. Her heart swells at the familiarity of the greeting, but it is a sore feeling, like blood welling in a bruise. Warmth, but blooming from pain. Yet it is warmth all the same, and she dips her chin graciously, returning the skeleton of a smile. )

I would be happy to have just one, my lady.

[wenche]

( brienne flinches.

she has never done well in the presence of women who are beautiful, nor those who move through the world with grace. when both combine, and display such charm in addition to it all, she can be downright non-functional.

there is no denying the splotch of a blush that spreads over her cheeks in response to the humiliation her own thoughts brings upon her. does this charming woman speak in mockery twice: once against her faith, and once in reference to her person?

brienne replies awkwardly, stiff and stilted, wounded by a simple comment even as she tries to marshal herself away from her assumptions. it's a shame such a lovely reply from daenerys goes right over brienne's head, and she responds with a too-serious answer: )

To receive one is to receive all seven, my lady.

( and she cannot let it stand, even this far away from the world in which it matters. )

Please: I am Brienne of Tarth.

[kivio]

( A blush, a flinch, an abrupt reply - Daenerys withdraws half an inch, lost as to what she has done wrong. An insult, in her haste? She has felt wholly without blessings as of late, that's true, but it could of course be worse. She could have been refused the privilege of sitting here at all, reflecting upon blessings given and taken.

Anxious not to lose the single slim thread of connection she has found - at least while seemingly in control of her faculties - she treads an uncertain silence. Would it have been better not to speak at all? Is this place best endured alone? She doesn't want to believe that's true.

She is not, thankfully, robbed of the company she has found, and she lifts her eyes when she is given a name. Brienne of Tarth. Tarth, a name that glints like a coin underwater, half-seen. A name she glimpsed upon a map, perhaps, but only that, and she braids her fingers together in her lap, regretting that she can claim no familiarity. That does nothing to diminish the respect a faraway place is no doubt owed. )

It is a pleasure, truly. ( A kindly face in a place like this? Seven blessings have indeed been bestowed. ) I'm Daenerys.

Idiot, she immediately chides herself, because why should she give her name away? But it is so refreshing to breathe without the mask, and besides, she has just received a name in turn. She refrains from intoning the full infamy and glory of her House, however. Curiosity turns her away from herself, anyway. )

Is this - ( she hesitates, aware that mishandling a question, no matter how seemingly trite, can turn everything brittle ) - are you very far from home, then?

( Are you a guard in this place? she would have liked to ask, though she cannot imagine this cursed castle being anyone's home. The more urgent question is likely plain in her eyes, regardless: Can you show me how to leave? )

[wenche]

( if this world is one which turns upon an axis, for brienne it ceases the moment daenerys speaks her name, and the rest of the pieces fall not into a tidy place but upon brienne's head like bricks. her jolt of suspicion— no: recognition, must be so obvious. and brienne's attempt to hide it even more so as she freezes in place and straightens up like a bunny that's scented a predator on the air.

rudely, with her fork halfway to her mouth and her gob hung open, she nods as if it will cover up such a frankly cartoonish reaction. all she knows of the stormborn targaryen is rumor and conjecture. her father's own opinions as an elder stormlander: and those are even more out of date than the rumors that filter down from kings landing through the nobility and into the commonfolks' mouths, who are eager for gossip to distract them from the mess the continent has fallen into. the politics within westeros alone are beyond brienne's ken— she has never spared daenerys a thought, admittedly.

still. brienne is just a girl from a sad little rock in the narrow sea. the woman before her is known as the mother of dragons. how can the forces of this world consider her unworthy? )

Daenerys Targaryen?

( oh, very nice. extremely chill.

brienne replaces her fork carefully onto the table when she realizes how she's behaved, and she hunches over again. her hand passes through the straw she calls hair by instinct alone, pulling it a little forward to cover her face more. her mouth is slow, awkward, and ungainly, and so off-kilter she cannot hope to be deft. but her mind moves quickly as ever, striking her through with worry she cannot comprehend. )

Your name— I confess I have heard it. That is— I mean— yes. We are far from home.

( nailed it. totally recovered ten out of ten sticking the landing! )

[kivio]

( Another stung reaction, it seems, as if Daenerys has been wielding spears instead of words. For all she has found herself standing before powerful men - lords and princes and those simply possessing the power of a knife - she has never felt more unpracticed in the art of negotiation. Because that's where she finds herself now, isn't it? Negotiating the dark and unpredictable tract of water that is greeting a stranger, establishing friend or foe. The woman seated across from her brandishes no obvious weapon or cruelty, but that does not mean the space between them is absent of suspicion.

And what better way to trouble the waters of suspicion than to give away her name, one intended to be exiled and perhaps now dead? How foolish to toss between them so valuable a coin. A part of her has begun to realize, however, that her name is likely no currency at all in this place.

Her longing for warmth, at any rate, has compromised her ability to conduct herself with poise and purpose, it is becoming clear, and she is woefully aware of how empty she is of deception. She does not wish to scheme. She wants only to return a gentle smile over the breakfast table, and speak of anything that has nothing to do with last night's horrors.

Even if that means carelessly laying bare her identity, though the moon-gleam of her hair and bright eyes tend to do that for her. There is no opportunity to deny it now, and so she chooses instead to be grateful for the reaction she is met with. Not accusation and not abrupt violence, but something that looks more like genuine, dumbfounded surprise.

It's endearing, that ungainly shock, and she can hide only half a smile as she glances across the table. So robust a figure, and somehow the lady Brienne can make herself look small. )

Do you know who brought us here? ( It's lonely instinct, wanting to band them together as us - there is no reason to believe they arrived together, or that they will share even a corridor after this exchange. Even so. ) And why?

[wenche]

( brienne nods, slow. her demeanor changes a little, then: what had she expected this ghast to do, breathe fire upon her for simply existing? perhaps. for all her compassion she can spare a man like jaime lannister, she still thinks ill of his imp brother. she still has the capacity for judgment, swift and often unfair.

and though her confidence has been broken of late, behind this pitiable face is a sharper mind than brienne would accept as hers. daenerys suddenly looks the part of a girl, a lost girl looking for aid. she wonders if sansa stark sounded much the same.

it is this association which temporarily cures her of her uncertainty and worry, and of her fixation on her own discomfort. she takes a deep breath. )

I do, my lady, yes. It is beyond my understanding, but we are at the mercy of some great and foul power. Chosen, they say, and rejected.

( for all she has benefited from the counsel of septons of many colors and shapes, brienne is not confident her prayers are heard at all. she has wondered in her own mind if the it is the doing of the stranger, taking her for her betrayals. )

You will know this yourself, in time. Though I don't wish it upon you. The memories of it are only temporarily lost.

( it seems the oaf can be deft: brienne is carefully not addressing the no way back part yet. all these words, all in a row, and she yet has more. one large hand, soft and careful, gestures to her own food and then to daenerys' place. )

You would do well to keep up your strength.

[kivio]

( Her brother, she reflects glumly, would be taking a much firmer tack with all of this. He would have flourished his name by this point, his full name, and his full, presumed title. He would have honed it to an unmistakable threat, and he would have demanded an escort to the exit. He would have sworn vengeance upon every fell force that brought him to this place and humiliated him so. He would not have the patience for a careful conversation over breakfast.

And, she suspects, he would not have survived the previous night's trials. She must be doing something right, even if only by blind luck.

It sounds like that may be the best she can hope for - they are all at the mercy of some great and foul power? A false king is the first vision that springs to mind. An ordinary man, but cruel and esteemed. The master of this place? She turns her head, taking in the somber surroundings once more, and feels a chill dance down at her spine at the words that follow. Chosen and rejected. Where does she stand right at this moment? Isn't this spot, awaiting such judgment, the step that comes before death?

She finds Brienne's eyes again, knowing that she would do well to question the truth of all she is hearing. What if this lady of Tarth is a conspirator in the whole mad plot? To what end, and at what cost? She does not seem the sort to be conniving, though - she has so far displayed a discomfort that would be difficult to fake. A practiced mummer? Daenerys does not fall heedlessly into a well of woe, however, no matter how near it might feel, her thoughts tumbling along its edge. Despite her own mounting dread, she knows she is better served by facing it than by turning away. )

Thank you for your generosity. ( And for her honesty, perhaps, but the truth, if there is one, will come to light sooner or later. She is more grateful for the kindness of company, at present.

Her eyes drift down to her food, and while she has mustered no appetite, she obeys Brienne's advice and lifts her fork for a tepid bite. It would be a shame if her death came in the form of willfully wasting away, that much is true. She dallies between one bite and the next, and despite the gravity of what has been revealed, she cannot help but remark upon smaller, more tangible curiosities. Warmer things. )

Your armor is lovely. Are you a sworn knight?

[wenche]

( that does it: to comment on brienne's person, or behavior, that would only lead to a dead end. but her armor, which she loathes to be without? brienne's blue eyes lift then, and she holds daenerys' gaze much longer than she has yet this far. this, at least, treads familiar ground.

she has half a smile to spare for the question, warmer and more sure even as she shakes her head, too soft to dislodge the hair that doesn't cover her mangled cheek. this is the question of a child who hasn't learned the ways of westeros, to her. it makes her almost miss podrick and his new and dutiful calluses. but thoughts of pod are too painful for her mind to allow so easily, and it has been some time since she felt able to speak so freely. )

Thank you, my lady, but no. There are no women knights. It is not done.

( for a moment, brienne's thoughts stray back to the quiet isle, to elder brother. a man who looked more knight than septon. who fought and died for a man who never knew his name. )

This armor was a gift, more splendid than I might deserve. It was to aid me in my sworn duty.

[kivio]

( No, there wouldn't be lady knights in the well-principled land of Westeros, would there? Their histories were written by men, and the knights who ride in their tourneys are men, and all kings are men. It's a shame. In the east, the faraway east, there are women who rule as empresses, she'd heard. Quite near to gods, it would seem. And her own blood, those women of yore who rode dragons into battle and ruled alongside their brother-kings - they did not ride beneath the heralded title of knight, perhaps, but that did not tarnish their glory. Plenty of queens, yes, but the title of queen lacked a certain sheen which seemed to belong only to knights. Glints of sacred bravery.

It is a welcome question, it seems, despite the disappointment of its answer. There is something akin to a real smile on Brienne's face, and an ease in her answer which suggests martial topics may be her preference. Daenerys takes another small bite, thoughtful, more inclined to dine when she is distracted from what it is on her plate, and considers the armor upon the lady before her. More splendid than she deserved? To judge by Brienne's gentle courtesy alone, it was the least she deserved. False knights paraded about in much gaudier steel. )

A woman keeping a promise deserves no less honor than a sworn knight, ( she decides, realizing that this place - the nameless ruler of this place - must be keeping this armored lady from that sworn duty. A promise forcibly delayed; that is a terrible thing. Who is out there waiting for the proud vision of Brienne to appear? Was it a duty she chose?

Still, hopefully: )

Is your duty done?

[wenche]

( it is so hard not to perceive every kind word as mocking, but all her life brienne has had nothing at all to cling to except her word. daenerys calls it to the forefront of brienne's mind, this ephemeral and fragile concept brienne clings to harder than she does her armor and shield and sword. her word, her oath and bond: it is all she has been allowed to value. it is the one thing no one can take from her.

except, of course, herself. except, of course... the circumstances of life.

so she resolves, keeps daenerys' eye for another breath as if she perhaps has not considered the comment to be mockery for even a moment. in that breath daenerys becomes less a looming legend whose shape changes depending on who tells her tale, and more a person. )

I fear I am further from it than when I began.

( in every way that matters. she should know well that oaths and duty are fickle and fragile things. but, alas, her failures only band together behind her like dogs nipping at her heels as she strives not to fail yet again.

and yet, she is a dog as well. she will drag this bone along until she is dust, but she has already stalked these halls and poked her head where it doesn't belong. she suspects sansa is not here, and she is glad for it. all the same, she must ask. even as the words ring hollow in her throat, which she must clear to get them out. )

I'm looking for a maid, a highborn girl and beautiful, of three-and-ten with auburn hair and blue eyes. Though— I confess I loathe to find her, for this is no place for such a girl.