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

QUESTIONS?

[gorelord]

Questions specific to the TDM prompts and setting can go here. More generalized questions relating to the game mechanics can be submitted to the FAQ.

daemon targaryen | house of the fire and blood

[valzyrys]

► ARISE—

◊ ( option a )

A voyeur, no different from any other masculine figure of the evening, finely but anonymously clad, committing to the bit so fastidiously that even his hair is covered. No telltale flash of bone white, no deep violet visible through the darkened holes of the mask, no obvious signet rings sitting atop gloves. Almost perverse, how completely covered he is, as if that too is a part of the game. To be nothing, no one, even if occasionally there's quite a lot of personality in the way he leans against a pillar to observe.

But when he isn't observing, he's sampling. A strong hand at the throat below a hare mask, a creeping touch down the spine of a vulture. Keen to steer clear of more compelling figures, and good at oiling his way through gaps and at the fringes, this practiced sidewinder, but not incapable of being accidentally ensnared. Or even deliberately lured.

◊ ( option b )

[ But it would be too boring to merely watch all night. Better to ruin it, better to shove his hand in deep somewhere to find the teeth. There will be a cost — there's always a fucking cost, here, there, home, everywhere — but Daemon is loose with coin, gold and spiritual alike. He doesn't care. He looks forward to the bite, in a way, even if it's going to make him furious. That's fine. If he avoided everything that might eventually drive him to anger he'd have to go and sit very still in a cave, forever.

A dove. (Why would a dragon wear a dragon mask? Taking the opportunity to branch out, see.) Absurd, in white linen and soft, pale leather, a silky robe thrown over top that reminds him of every other working girl whose tits he's cried into. Hair exposed now, blending in with the ensemble, though he still hasn't introduced himself. Being fawned over veers between wildly entertaining and pathetic enough that he thinks wistfully of the cave, even as he turns in a cuff on his shirt to hide a fresh bloody stain.

Devotion is the fantasy. And he knows it's a fantasy, but being drunk is temporary, and sex is fleeting, so it's alright. Like doing spices he shouldn't. Come here, his new adoring, temporary, beautiful love— ]

► REVEL—

◊ ( option c )

[ He ghosts his way through the fortress, curious, still embodying the spirit of a voyeur even after violently swapping out. Collecting sights and sounds and tucking them away for later inspection, or later use as currency, however they might suit. Not much for dancing, but the wine's alright, and a goblet becomes a brief companion on his tour, occasionally slipping artfully away from enthralled peers (but occasionally indulging for a moment). He leaves it behind in the banquet hall, uninterested in eating anything, and watches the spectacle of the gallery for a time. Fairly certain he made a good bit of this illegal, once upon a time. (And then he got fired! Imagine.)

It would be no surprise, if he weren't still comfortably anonymized, to find him where he lands. Daemon has ever been most at home in a brothel and lo, the parlor is doing quite a job. Wryly, he reflects he'd been content to grow out of this sort of thing, comforts of stability successfully seducing him, but familiarity is hard to argue with. This sort of place, too, has a kind of comfort to it. Extremes and all. He finds himself a perch from which to judge suitors, and even more compelling, watch. ]

◊ ( option d )

Ah here it is, the cost he had been so careless of. Bit of an oops.

Quite an involved oops. This is an ordeal by any measure, and it's as interesting as it is aggravating; he imagines he might be terrified, if he were the sort to be terrified. Instead there's an intense fascination to being the center of so much bloodlust, and Daemon — disheveled and bloody, but the mask is still on — fights because it's expected, and because he likes fighting, but not because he earnestly wants to escape. Not even when it becomes clear where he's headed.

Fair enough. Blood sacrifice is how his people were born.

He's not alone— ancient Valyrians weren't either. In love with monsters. Romantic and horrifying. Some paramour from the orgy of sensation this night has been, or just whoever is unlucky enough, gets dragged up onto the palanquin with him. A lifetime of dragonriding and soldiering (in between all the fucking around) makes it effortless, even teetering on the line of being a proper old man. You are coming along, even if he has to throw you over his shoulder.

"Do you think we'll die?"

He sounds thoughtful. That's a lot of teeth for a pit. He has never before seen a pit with fucking teeth. With a gallant bow (or twirl, if he's still having to drag his companion kicking and screaming), Daemon turns, and walks off the edge, his partner in tow. Plummeting down, down, through and to the dark, horrible, digested aftermath.

► RESPITE—

Bare faced and utterly unabashed, Daemon swings by the dining hall on his way out in the morning. Some bread, something else to squish into it, and he leaves, eating it on his walk. He moves like someone well familiar with the layout of the place, doesn't look around confused and curious, does not seem shell-shocked or traumatized. As ordinary as anything he takes his leave of the place, on his way outside for whatever constitutes fresh air in this realm.

South, then, to the lake and its ferry, the chain it's lashed to. He doesn't board it. (Not yet?) Sits nearby instead on stone, as he eats his breakfast. Some distance away a gruesome figure threatens him. A grotesque mirror. That it refuses to commit to the attack is as much a nightmare as the attack might be. It changes, the more he looks at it. (The more anyone looks at it.) Like a candle being slowly moved around a stationary skull. It is Daemon, but the candle moves, and it is Viserys.

He'll give himself until he's finished eating, then he'll go.

( ooc; look i'm not sure which version i'm married to lol (hotd v f&b). decision coming eventually. either format, pick your fav. feel free to shoot me a pm with questions, or just hit me with whatever if none of these options suit you. )

grace. ready or not.

[nonsmoking]

NEW KID ON THE BLOCK.

( well this is an absolute nightmare.

Grace is not enjoying the stupid mask pressed against her face. does it have a unicorn horn??? maybe! that's small change compared to the other issue she's experiencing, though. it's sort of fuzzy how she got into it, but she is not emotionally capable of being in another white dress right now. so she is trying to tear her way out of it, skin crawling. huffing and growling and crying, she probably comes across more rabid than human. but it's not working, because she's laced into it like it's a straight jacket. it certainly feels like one. )

Fuck! ( she shouts it, no hint of shame. nope, she'll bellow that shit mid masquerade with her whole fucking chest. her vibes are really not great, egregore wise; making everyone feel the same tight lack of oxygen, skin crawling misery and vibrant terror. but she's new, it's not like she knows!

she's been struggling with it for god knows how long, leaving the dress half torn and sagging in places, but ripping it off her body like she's in a steamy romance novel is a lot harder than corset rippers would have you believe. and she's desperate, fumbling to whoever is nearby, begging through snotty tears. ) Please, please please. ( get her out of this far too wedding adjacent dress. she would actually, genuinely, rather be naked. )

DANCE UNTIL YOU DIE.

( is she at this shindig in a slip now? you bet your ass she is. but since it's slippery silk, bone colored over pure virginal white, and barely long enough to cover her buttcheeks — it does not read virginal bride. so she's feeling a little better. well, better is a weird word for how she's feeling. she is pretty sure she's having a psychotic break, and that's definitely not good. but since it's a new flavor of psychosis, and there are no murderous inlaws involved in it, she's kinda vibing rn.

banquet hall. she's mostly here just to watch. perching on the arm of a chair with her feet on the seat like nobody taught her how to sit like a reasonable human being. she tilts an airy, weirded out laugh when someone tries to feed her grapes. and when she realizes someone is laid out on the table instead of a platter, the laugh gets less airy and more weirded out. )

You look like Kim Catrall in the Sex in the City movie, ( she stage whispers to the serving dish, because what else do you say in this situation. )

velvet parlor. now she's not a prude. it's fine that all these medieval people are group fucking. she stays by the door, though. just watching. taking it in. mentally archiving the batshit insanity. part of her is all-too-aware that the last cock she had inside her was her shitty fucking husband that tried to kill her with his entire shitty fucking family. there's a liiiiiiitle tiny voice in her head that insists she tag in, get in there, and run this pussy ragged just to spite him.

the rest of her is pretty certain her pussy is closed for business. if not eternally, at least until she forgets what it was like to take bloody face shots after Alex exploded all over her. so safe to say, might be awhile.

she's not expecting to be perceived while she's perceiving. so when she notices someone nearby, she jumpscares. full body startles. doll eyes so wide and bugged it looks painful. there's a long beat that makes the vibe seem like she's in fight or flight and she's gonna pick fight and you might wanna be prepared for that. but she slowly settles, laughs loudly and awkwardly. ) Wow. Sorry. Am I in the way? You trying to get in there, slugger? ( she says, and then laughs again, because really. what the fuck is going on right now. )

long gallery. Grace isn't really that interested in the sporty displays. moreso the sharps they just left out, for anybody to take. ostensibly for target practice, or the freaky stab each other for fun bout that's going on over there. but she's just feeling like she would really feel better if she had something stabby on her right about now. just in case.

she's trying to tuck a handle in the waistband of her underwear when she realizes someone is definitely staring. ) Oh. ( she grabs another knife and points it, with intent. eyes wide and smile a little scary. ) How about you go stare at somebody else, fuckface.

EYES WIDE SHUT.

( yeah, she should have seen this coming. white sacrificial dress, all the weird vibes, her history of being hunted for sport??? like actually, she's kind of mad at herself, how stupidly she was going along with it all. again. dumb!!! so dumb. and not even with the excuse of wanting to make nice with her new family this time, either! it's shameful. embarrassing! there's gonna be a whole lot of new trauma to unpack about this later.

she's not going to be an easy mark, though. she is fighting, tooth and nail, kicking and kneeing and punching and scratching, screaming all the while. when someone is foolish enough to seize her, she bites. was it throat, or arm, or an ear? who knows, but there's blood everywhere, and the look on her face says she would definitely do it again. )

Back the fuck up! ( she shrieks, to whoever feels too close, knife point raised. if she cut herself retrieving her secret knife, she really does not give a shit. she got it and she's pointing it and she WILL use it if she has to. )

undercroft. she fought, and fought hard, but it wasn't enough. she landed down here anyway. like a box of rocks, too. she scrabbles slowly to her knees, sobbing, blood streaming down from her nose. did she break it in her landing? fucking ow. her knee pulses like a heartbeat, she's down her knife, but she's still alive. somehow.

she scrubs her hand under her nose, which really just scrubs the blood all over her. she wants to run, even gets half up to bolt, but another battered body spread over the stones makes her hesitate. it's a weird twist to not be the only sacrificial lamb — and the thought of Daniel choking up blood under her hands makes a stab of guilt tear through her. so she crawls over on bruised knees, checking for a pulse, breath, anything really. ) Hey. Hey, stay with me.

WILDCARD.

want something else? let's plot it out via pm or ~stalfos on plurk!

jacaerys velaryon — house of the dragon — existing player

[vermax]

dance! dance until you die!

( The doe masks feels a mockery, seated on his cheeks with horns of bone spouted from it's edges. Jace's curls fall about it and while he does have Baratheon blood in his veins but the mask cannot be a call to that, it feels like a particular mockery to the failures that had befallen last month. Bravery had lead to nothing but failure, to a deep cut on his lip that he still wears as a sign of an attempt to free a creature, a girl, a monster.

There is temptation at first to wave it off but then, well, there is danger in disobeying this place outright and Jacaerys knows most value can be found in survival.

So he moves through the crowds in soft and silver fabrics, aware of pearls woven into his hair that give him an appearance of softness he'd rather not have given his small stature. And as he drifts through the rooms, there are moments he forgets that this place brings nothing but danger.

He takes a flagon from a passing tray and that is his first mistake within The Great Hall. For soon the music sweeps him up and if anything, Jacaerys enjoys sharing a dance. So to any passing stranger he offers a hand, tilts is head in offer-- ) Come. Shall we dance?

( Later, still sweat-soaked from twirling about the room with a partner or two and more ale in his veins he finds himself in a dark room -- the Velvet Parlor, back hitting a set of plush pillows and laughter on his lips. And if he lands next to another, at first he watches curious at what display reveals it self to him before realising the heat within his veins. He cannot remove the doe-eyed mask he wears but the layers can go, and so he beseaches as his fingers fumble with ties and buttons. He speaks more beggar than prince, ) Help me out of this?

eyes wide shut

PART 1.
cw: stabby, stab, stab!

( How the night had turned from dance and pleasure to being hunted, Jacaerys does not remember. Yet there is some hand trying to pull him from around the corner he's turned, heaving as he's run from the mask-wearing pursuer. The kitchen knife in his hand serves as a poor weapon, not sharp like a dagger, but as he swings around in an attempt to protect himself perhaps someone is able to come to his aid.

Or perhaps the knife lands, piercing and cutting into the flesh of someone familiar lost in the fever of pursuit and driven to make good of promise of sacrifice. ) Fuck-- Fuck, snap the fuck out of it. You're mad.

PART 2.

( The fall does not kill him, though Jacaerys wishes that it had. He groans, pushing himself up and wishing that the vined floor where there is wetness on his cheek. He sits up, wiping at it at the back of his hand. It smells of blood and he is not surprised, though he cannot tell if it is his own.

He sits up and slowly stands, wavering on two legs that leave him feeling as if he is truly a newborn fawn on unsteady feet. Bloodied, shivering he spins around and tries to get a sense of his bearings but what he sees before him in the poorly lit tunnels does not bring a sense of ease. There is a path ahead, another to the side. He feels the hair rise at the back of his neck and something within him scream to move, and so he does. And when he wanders long enough it is the sound of footsteps that make him stop, frozen in fear for he does not have a weapon with him.

What he can do if it is not a creature that approaches him from the shadows but another Sacrifice in the pit, is tackle them to the ground. It is action first and worry of the consequences of sending them tumbling later. )


another glorious morning

cw: nudity

( The floor is too soft when he wakes. Or no. It is not a floor but a bed the sheets a pleasant coolness to his bruised skin, still covered in the evidence of being hunted and jumping toward uncertainty and death.

He hadn't died, Jace is sure. But he is wading from the depth of sleep onto the shores of wakefullness, pressed into a warm bed and arms wrapped around a pillow that is warm and steady against the side of him. If he were truly awake, truly aware, he'd realise that he is not alone in a bed that is not the one he usually claims for his own. Nor is he dressed or alone. )

wildcard.

( ooc: feel free to DM me or message me on moryana if you'd like to plot something different! i am very slow right now but always happy to backtag and if things move into a game setting, make them canon! )

aerith gainsborough (final fantasy vii: rebirth)

[floresco]

– it's a ghost town, rabid underworld (arrival/new kid)

[ Cognizance returns and with it, alarm. One hand presses against her sternum, and draws back just as quickly, leaving Aerith frowning at her unbloodied fingers as she draws a deep breath, filling her lungs just to prove to herself that she can. This is not the Lifestream, not the City of the Ancients, not another universe parallel to her own, where layers of possibility bleed into one another, and while Aerith can easily comprehend where she isn't, that doesn't mean she's any closer to understanding where she is.

Rain patters against sealed windows, and for a fleeting moment she wants to believe it's that, and nothing more that she can hear; but the whispered sound of festivities, and the soft voice occasionally calling her name, are persistent. Muted noises that appear to becoming from the vacant rooms she peers into, behind doors she can't even open, and (perhaps worst of all) from no place at all, compel her to move forward until a bubbling laugh from behind her makes her jump and come to an abrupt halt in surprise.

The dove mask is slipped over her face and tied tight before she has a chance to think twice about what's happening. With it on, the world seems to shift, and it takes her with it, replacing the pink dress she swore she just died in, with something diaphanous and silky, a buttery yellow gilded with blue that sticks out like a sore thumb among the darkly clad revelers now flanking her on all sides in the middle of their even more darkly clad party.

Masked faces line the room, but Aerith can feel eyes on her despite not being able to see them directly. Dread begins to creep in, replacing the confusion that greeted her when she first came to, and with one hand balled into a tight fist, hidden beneath a billowing sleeve, she gingerly tries to make her way towards the edge of the room. None of this makes sense, but the one thing she does know, is that letting someone or something dangerous pick up on her fear is the worst course move she can possibly make right now.

Perhaps she isn't the only aspiring wallflower, however. While most of the people here seem to be having a great time, she's not the only one who seems on edge. ]

Don't know about you, but I didn't get an invitation. [ She starts, her voice quietly shaking with fear as she moves to stand beside the closest party-goer who doesn't stink like sweet rot, her weak attempt at a smile hidden behind the mask, the expression even more feeble than her attempt to lighten the moment in an attempt to regain her footing. ] I would have asked if I needed to bring anything.

– dionysian night, vitriolic twilight (dance until you die)

[ The Great Hall is a rush of activity, and while she works very hard to stay out of it, it becomes apparent very quickly that she attracts attention from the other guests, all of who regard her with an unsettling sort of reverence she just wants to keep trying to duck away from. For those who cross paths with her here, it might be while she's in the middle of trying to evade the unsettlingly mysterious looks she's been the subject of, or it could be while Aerith is staring up at one of the performers singing and dancing on the tables, dangerously on the verge of giving into the energy crackling through the air.

For better or for worse, Aerith manages to make her escape, although the next place she finds herself, is arguably worse. The Long Gallery reeks of blood so powerfully that she can't help but bring a hand up to cover her masked mouth, as though somehow she might be able to protect herself from having to breathe it all in. Everywhere she looks, things go from bad to worse, and while been in over her head since opening her eyes. The urge to flee doesn't take much provoking to rise, but the plight of the Wretches in here keeps her rooted in place. She doesn't know what's happening or where she is, but she still knows who she is, and Aerith isn't the kind of person who will back down from trying to do a good deed. Those who run into Aerith here may end up getting convinced to help lend a hand in what's probably a doomed venture as far as making things easier on the Wretches, or maybe she's the one who runs into you, a Wretch who could use a little help getting away from whatever unfortunate thing the masked horde has in mind. She might not know if it will work, but Aerith is prepared to use the apparent reverence she's been inspiring to make everybody back off whatever unlucky soul she's found.

The violence in the air of the Long Hall is overwhelming, but– whatever she walks into, when she steps into the Velvet Parlor is an escalation of a totally different kind. The mask has proven to be a blessing for a lot of reasons that evening, and its usefulness is proven once again, as it means nobody is able to see just how wide Aerith's eyes become as she takes in all that undulation. Whether she's taken in by the sight or not, she'll keep it light should someone end up standing around along with her, blushing under the mask while she prattles off some silly remark or another, likely a frazzled – you would think the floors would be a lot sticker! ]

– we don't rest in peace, we just disappear (eyes wide shut)

[ Maybe if Aerith was any less certain that she'd met her untimely end, she'd be putting on a much braver face. But, now that the tables have turned, and it becomes time for her role of Sacrifice to come to fruition, dying again feels like pouring salt in an already open and angry wound. She runs, and they catch her, thrusting her onto her palanquin to be ferried to the chapel as terror makes the very core of her being sink like a stone. To her credit, she doesn't scream, even as she turns her head from side to side, looking hopefully for someone who might look like they're on the verge of coming to her rescue .

To her credit, it isn't until she's staring down at the horrifyingly toothy hole, with the gold devil pushing at the small of her back that she cracks, tears running down her cheeks, soaking the inside of her mask, as, with a loud, woeful sob Aerith plunges down into the dark.

The world stays dark for a long stretch of time, and when she rouses, scrabbling back to her feet while trying to ignore the wave of revulsion that moves through her at the realization that whatever broke her fall was supple and squishy, like the inside of a mouth, or a stomach, she rips the mask off and flings into the darkness. Shaking from head to toe, Aerith buries her face in her hands, and stands there, alone in the Undercroft, caught somewhere between sobbing, and trying her damnedest to breathe normally. ]

– wildcard

[ forever open to wildcards, especially interested in threads set in any of the rooms, or during the aftermath (dead or not, i'm easy). feel free to dm me if you'd like to plot a bit first or have any questions. ]

Cesare Borgia | The Borgias

[nepotist]

✥ Dance! Dance until you die!

     (cw: accidental manipulation. possible deliberate manipulation)

This new world is strange, but not beyond Cesare's ken. He is accustomed to ornately decorated, echoing halls and banquets of dried fruits and stuffed birds. This isn't even his first masquerade ball. And so, he walks about the event with stiff shoulders, feeling like an ambassador in a foreign state. Any discomfort or self-consciousness is forced aside. He needs to understand who is who here, who is powerful and who is of use. And he needs to do it quickly, before someone else does.

He barely thinks of the mask on his face: his own sigil, a bull, as he approaches a woman and bows.

"Dance with me."

He thinks he is being polite as he commands her. It is a quirk of his speech that the question of "will you dance with me" is implied but not formally stated. Of course she can simply refuse if she wishes...Right?

✥ Eyes wide shut

     (cw: this is probably going to result in some major violence/murder honestly)

He has no idea how it got this bad. He doesn't quite know how the night progressed so poorly that he finds himself chasing some dove or deer or whatever they are through dark candlelit corridors. It is not a playful, lighthearted chase. Cesare is on the hunt. His eyes strain in the shadows, his gaze locked on the fluttering white fabric in front of him. His prey runs. Cesare runs too, over quickly thrown obstacles and through hastily slammed doors. There is only one end to this.

"You are delaying the inevitable..." His tone is warning, but part of him doesn't want this to stop. He wants to keep chasing, keep watching the terror of his prey. They are out of reach, but they won't be for long.

✥ Another glorious morning

     (cw: denial. gaslighting. mention of violence)

Last night didn't happen. The shadows under Cesare's eyes are from a night spent reading. He fell asleep and his imagination got the better of him, made him dream up a foolish fiction. And even if such dreams were true, Cesare was masked that night. Nobody should recognize him. At least that is what he tells himself as he eats his watery oats, carefully watching the others in the room in case they are watching him too. In the light of day, he silently wonders to which of these people he was kind and to which was he cruel. This is a very bad start for a diplomat.

Birdie Lewis | OC | Vampire: The Masquerade | new

[acaseofyou]

  arise;

option a: the voyuer
[ She's disoriented, but she's lucky. For a certain value of luck, she supposes. On a scale of Denver to Nothing Bad Ever Happens Again and All War is Over, it's firmly in the middle. The fact that she's pulled into a masquerade is kind of laughable, like a great big universal pun. It feels a bit like out of one frying pan and into a toaster. No less dangerous, but similar in how it can hurt. She's not naive enough to think otherwise.

Birdie takes it in stride, with the dress she's got on and things to see. Not like she hasn't woken up to weirder situations, though usually those came with less pomp than this. Unfortunately, for a few different reasons, observing one thing at the moment means she's lost to noticing anything else, Fugue playing in her head and music in the room around her. Incredibly easy to sneak up on her in other masks with other roles to play out through the night. ]

option b: the temptation (snake) - cw: coercion, manipulation
[ Not that surprising, the snake thing. Maybe it's because she spent so much time with the Followers of Set in Vegas, singing with snakes both literal and figurative, that this is what she gets instead of the equally amusingly appropriate dove, her dress a deep green to match. That feels appropriate, too. Hard to tell the difference, at a glance and with untrained eyes, between a harmless green snake and a boomslang. Birdie hardly even notices the change it brings, subtle as it is compared to her convention of normal. That urge to go out and touch and feel. To make others feel.

It's what most of her nights are made of, anyway. How is this so different? Beyond not being on a stage to sing emotion into a crowd, nudging and coaxing them this way and that. And she'd always had a habit, a knack, for finding the quiet ones in a party, the introverts and the shy, to pull them back into enjoying themselves.

Maybe that's you, off to the side, keeping to yourself. Birdie sidles (slithers) up beside, easy as anything. The touch of her hand, if she reaches out, feels like her bite. A small pinch of pain and then perfect elation. ]

What's got you hiding over here?

  revel (velvet parlor) - cw: biting, blood drinking;

[ No matter which mask she's wearing, she still needs to feed. It's an impulse completely separate from anything else going on, though maybe harder to ignore in light of it all.

It's the Velvet Parlor that seems the best place for it. Everyone there already engaged, the room warm and inviting. Dark. One could observe her wandering through, kissing some, her mouth on another person's neck. She doesn't linger long with any of them, and none are left heaps when she moves on. They all move on in their own turn, back to affections and comfort with others, not even a wound left on their body wherever her fangs had been.

The process isn't much different if you get bit yourself. Her approach is slow and inviting, even without the snake mask. ] Come sit with me a second. [ It takes longer than that, but she likes to start small and easy. Nothing to worry about here except having a good time. ]

  respite (deep asleep in thy wormy bed);

[ Whatever happened in the night, Birdie wakes up again the next evening at sunset somewhere below the fortress, unsure of how she got there or how the night ended.

Anyone else still down there at this time will hear her wandering, followed occasionally by a shout: ]

Where's the goddamn stairs here?

[ To be fair, she's probably passed by them a few times now. It's fine, she'll get it eventually. ]

  ooc;

There's info & permissions & a bite opt in/out post!

quentin smith . dead by daylight x nightmare on elm

[pharmacy]

He got here mysteriously, cluelessly, like he might get to a trial. The place is impossible huge and impossibly festive--more points to the idea that this is a trial. The snickering fae thing that wired this tawny hare mask over his face really reminds him of Tryx and the trials, but he doesn't recognize a single person here. Points against his prevailing theory. Of course, maybe Claudette or Kate is under one of these other masks--but who's the killer? Who's stalking them through these halls?

Quentin voices his concern to one party-goer, who grins below her half-mask and purrs menacingly. I'm the killer, she teases, and the bites she scrapes off his earlobe and neck put him in a markedly more festive state of mind. His mind is clearer than it ever is during trials, and want sparkles at the very front of his forehead. Laughing dumb and hungry, he chases it. 

DINING

The food would have been an irresistible temptation even if he hadn't worked up an appetite with the girl in the hound dog mask. Just as it was with her, the biggest barrier to eating the way he wants is his concern for these unusually nice clothes. The fruit is easy, and to be honest, he's missed fruit like a motherfucker, so he's good to focus on picking clusters of grapes clean, leaning forward to keep a brightly-colored stone fruit from dripping down his chin and onto the rich fabric of his shirt, and staining his fingers on pomegranates. 

When he's offered something else--a delicate dessert or a shimmering strip of red meat--he visibly wilts with desire, but he holds up both hands plaintively. They're sticky-wet from juice. His mouth opens with a gasp, though. "Oh shit--would you feed it to me?" 

It's strange to feel high off eating, but it is what it is. He's blissed out over the meal, enough that even his initial discomfort with the human serving platters scattered here and there fades away. He can't shake seeing them as sentient, though; when a spoonful of syrup drips onto the platter person, he cringes apologetically. "Oh gross, my bad. Hang on." Yes, he could put either the ladle or the plate in one of his hands down, but his first blissed instinct wins out. Quentin bows to suck the spill off, skim of teeth and pass of tongue.

DARING

The problem with eating is that there's only so much space for a person to put it. He leaves before anything (or anyone) runs out, but the high remains, the caloric intake starting to sit too heavy on his body, and the want still running unhappy little hamster wheels in his heart. In the Long Gallery, there's a rush of sport, the cursing of losers and cackling of winners, and a loose grin spreads over his face as he drifts in. It's humid with blood and adrenaline sweat; that's a familiar damn smell.
"Come on," He might cajole, fists closed and held in front of him parallel. "I used to be great at bloody knuckles, I bet I'm even better now. Come on." 

Or he might be hiking his trousers up to more easily straddle his play partner, slinking his woven belt around their neck. "This guy's gonna keep count." He breathes shallowly, his own throat mottled from the last quid-pro-quo round. His eyes are completely shadowed in his mask, but anticipation is plain in the shaking corners of his mouth as the belt tightens snug to throat. "I'm not gonna let you pass out. You trust me?" 

Or he might be walking off the pain of a botched game of knives, sucking on a losing slice over the side of his ring finger that definitely needs more than a little spit and pressure. At least it's not dripping on his clothes!

DYING

Of course, at the end of the night, there is a killer. Many killers, and many sacrifices, it seems. All his gameness, all his surety that someone he knows must be under the masks somewhere, all his food and blood and hunger high flushes out of him when a new "friend" points out the great new game of plucking up people to be not just humiliated or dommed or what the fuck every, but caged for sacrifice--

Here, as anywhere, Quentin's wiles only get him so far in helping anyone escape the palanquin or the throng surrounding it. It's about fifteen flat minutes before he's wrestled in with the prey-masked partygoers, head swimming and nice clothes ruined with blood pouring from his broken nose. When he's up next to the pit, he wiggles out early--not to run, but to slip his hand into the shaking fingers of the person before him. They won't be alone. It'll be okay.

When he wakes up with his nose whole, his fingers and knuckles unabraded, his throat unblemished, and his memory a little unclear, it feels a fuck of a lot like a trial. 

Of course, the Entity was never kind enough to serve breakfast. Quentin wanders into the dining room with the same wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression that he's wandered the rest of the halls he's seen this morning, eyes ticking unabashedly to investigate any unmasked face that he can see. He should eat. Who knows when he'll get the chance to eat again? But between the numbness of waking up from death and the disappointment of recognizing no one so far, it's hard for him to get much farther than pulling out a heavy chair and dropping into it sulkily.

[ OOC: hopeful player here! wildcard me! pm me! correct me if you're a regular player! wide open to whatever, he's going to die at the end of the night, so fuck him up : ) ]  

sookie stackhouse | true blood.

[waitress]

I. ARISE ✨ DROP THE ACT

[ Sookie starts the night off donning a serpent's mask of temptation accompanied by a flowing, ethereal gown reminiscent of the ones she'd donned during her previous visits to the faerie realm. However, it's because of her latest visit to the otherworld her people called home and the treachery that had been afoot, a terrible lie hidden just beneath the surface of a glamorous veil, that it doesn't last long. Her hands come up, prying at the seal of the mask.

It doesn't budge.

Not until a burst of pastel-colored light engulfs her hands and the mask is sent flying across the room.

The courtiers turn towards her, their features warped, twisting between something almost normal and something that reminds her far too much of the ghoulish features of Queen Mab and her court. It makes her head hurt to look at them as her mind strains to sort out what's truth and what's illusion, but thankfully, she has no intentions of staying and wastes no time in getting the fuck out of there as fast as she can.

She runs and runs and runs— Down corridors and through hallways, rounding corners and descending down flights of stairs. Running and running until she turns and collides with someone. The wind is knocked out of her and she's knocked clear onto her ass, but when she climbs back to her feet it's with a glowing orb of light pulsating in her palm.

panting and pissed, she demands: ] Where the fuck am I?

II. REVEL ✨ VELVET PARLOR

[ disturbingly, whatever's happening within these walls begins to reminds her more and more of maryann's dionysia to the point that she half expects to find a large offering made of bones and rotten flesh when she steps into the room. it's not, however, and the pungent smell that accosts her nose is one of sex, not decay. she covers her nose anyway and makes a face, judging the masked figures that are intertwined with one another, their twisted and warped images still distorted beyond recognition. her head throbs and the voices in her head sing and cry out simultaneously, and it's difficult to focus on going unnoticed, on slipping through this room behind the heavy curtains and the wall to get to the other side and maybe, just maybe, find a way out of this godforsaken hellhole. ]

III. RESPITE ✨ BREAKFAST

[ sookie did not sleep and she did not wake as if nothing happened. remembering, seeing, and hearing all the things everyone else has the luxury of being able to shut out is the curse of being fae. one of the many curses. the relief that came with knowing what she was and there was a reason she could read minds had been short lived.

very short lived.

she walks into the dining hall exhausted, rubbing her eyes. everyone looks normal, their warped features gone. the dark, sadistic thoughts replaced with the comfortable hum of everyday minds. an easy to ignore sort of background noise that she's grown accustomed to. after last night, it's almost comforting. ]

Y'all are awfully nonchalant for folks who were drunk as hell on crazy juice last night.

IV. WILDCARD ✨

🧚‍♀️ hit me up via private message or over at vivir if you want anything specific ❤

claudette morel | dead by daylight

[selfcaring]

new kid on the block.

[ The sudden snap of a deer mask being plastered to her face startles her, tied much too tightly against the back of her skull and against her will. Please don't touch me, she wants to say, but the words stay caught in her throat before it closes up again when she realizes people are staring.

Claudette does not like to be the center of any sort of attention; it makes her want to crawl out of her skin, leave the carcass there to be devoured by vultures so she can never be perceived again. Except she, among a few others, stand out like sore thumbs in contrast to the other partygoers dressed in darker garb. The iridescent milkmaid fits her like a glove and the corset is making her feel more claustrophobic than being in a room full of people. She scans the room, sees only a sea of masks and she fully expects a throwing axe to be thrown at her head, but it never comes and the paranoia refuses to leave her anyway. ]

This isn't real. [ She makes no effort to be graceful at her exit attempt, frantic now that she can't see a single generator light flashing anywhere. Maybe she bumps into you, or steps on your feet, or brings you down with her when trips and falls. ] Sorry! I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be here. I need to go–

[ –home. She is beginning to think that it might be a little messed up that her idea of home is a campfire where she waits to die. Somehow, this doesn't feel all that different. ]

dance! dance until you die! tw: emetophobia

[ Later that night, Claudette finds herself dancing with a drink in each hand somewhere in the Great Hall. She's in uncharacteristically good spirits only after someone pulled her in and gave her said goblets. She hasn't had a proper drink in what feels like an eternity. Many eternities, even, and she didn't even have to watch Steve or Laurie die for it. She doesn't realize that she's stepping on your feet, or maybe that she's spilled some wine on your fancy garments because she's too busy actually having a great time (derogatory).

She does snap out of whatever euphoric state she was in when she stumbles into the Banquet Hall however, looking (appropriately) like a deer in the headlights when she sees people in their birthday suits being used as human platters, and others as furniture. Her stomach drops and she's grabbing the nearest pot or bowl or urn to throw up into. Unfortunately, she empties the contents of her stomach right next to you. ]

This is... Shouldn't we free them? Why are they just lying there?

[ Whether someone decides to free these poor people splayed out across various surfaces in all their glory or not, Claudette's final stop (and last straw) is at the Velvet Parlor. She's lured in by the incessant moaning – okay, so she's curious – and even if she knows what to expect, she's still gobsmacked by the sight.

Surely, she can slip past these sweaty bodies to grab a pillow or two, right???? ]

eyes wide shut.

a. [ There is no such thing as fight or flight for Claudette; there is simply just flight as far as options go. Fear was ingrained in her during her time in the Fog, knows that when her heart finally drops into the deepest part of her stomach that it's time to book it. She's not new to this, although this only reaffirms the fact that the universe seems to think she was bred only to be slaughtered over and over and over.

So, she runs.

It's all she knows after all, because she will run for as long as she can and as far as her legs will take her. She might even end up hiding in the pantry, or someone's wardrobe. ]

b. [ Or the Undercroft after she's been caught. Claudette is still alive, but she wishes so badly that she wasn't. Where is the Entity to take her? What's taking the Entity so long? At least there was someone to put her out of her misery.

She feels only the sharp pains of a dislocated shoulder from bracing herself for the fall and that of a broken ankle for that terrible landing. She winces, whimpering when she finally stands to lean against the cold stone wall to search for the exit whether it's a hatch or a gate. Or a generator. Something. Anything so she can wake up from this nightmare. Bring her back. ]

wildcard!

( or lmk if you want to do something specific i am ez and flexible. i'd love to do any of the respite prompts tbh!! feel free to PM me or at ironlass! )

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 ^^ )

daenerys targaryen | a song of ice and fire

[kivio]

❖ 𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖊

( Most would rail against the realization that they are no one at all, Daenerys considers. They would feel it a curse, stripped of name or rank or destiny. Owed nothing, and beholden to nothing. She flinches against a pang of guilt, then, that she feels this anonymity such a blessing.

No face, and thus no name; the mask feels almost as if it must be bare, bereft of any telling features. Do her eyes and hair give her away? They must not - she can move here like a ghost, disturbing nothing, no one. Watching those who do have faces, false as they may be. Stags, lions, bats, doves, and worse birds - they all crowd together. Trapped here, or did they come by choice? Would she even care to wear a face, if given the chance?

No, she knows, delighting privately in this new curse. She can be, for however long this flustered dream lasts, no one. She can drift where she pleases, untended. Her curious gaze can do the same, unburdened by propriety. How lovely it is to be weightless, to be swept along and to matter as little as a fluttering, autumn leaf.

Through crowds seething, corrupt with sound and motion. Music, perhaps, though unlike anything she has known. Banquet tables laid for feasting, though who has earned such decadence, she cannot imagine. Velvet rooms breathless with what can only be carnal passion. Faceless, she feels she is permitted to peer in, thrilling at so many florid secrets revealed. Maybe there are no secrets in this place. So she wanders, collecting all she can, listening and glimpsing, tasked with nothing. )


❖ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖞

( The smell of blood is rank, and it is everywhere. Not a fleeting note in the air, something that could've been mistaken - it is somehow both sudden and decaying, fresh and ancient. She should be repulsed, withdrawing from it anywhere she can, knowing exactly what it means. Blood has only ever meant one thing, and it is no more palatable in dreams than in life.

Why can she not stop thinking about it, then? She is drawn down the long hall, following that terrible, tart scent like an animal hoping to taste it upon the tongue. She wants to taste it, if she's being honest - her tongue presses against the back of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, hungry and waiting. She wants to see blood spilling and pooling, liquid garnets in the moonlight.

She is not disappointed, and she wants to be horrified by what she stumbles upon. Violence, captured in some mad carnival of extravagance. A tourney, one might think, with bodies racing about and steel flashing and knives snatching the light. Blood, as she'd known there would be. She slinks along the windows, generously sharing their insidious light, and her gaze is cast from one inexplicable travesty to the next: the charging of men who cannot possibly be knights, astride mounts who are anything but noble. Axes spinning, a nearby shriek, and the prospect of blood making her feel horribly giddy.

A little writhing group has gathered around a game of knives, and she wants to raise her voice to speak what must obviously be spoken: Stop this. The words don't come - instead, she nudges forward, insistent, eyes aglow behind the gold-filigreed hare's mask. )


❖ 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌

( The hare's mask may be gone, but she wakes up a rabbit still - curled, quivering. Blinking eyes reveal what may still be a dream: drear light, the weight of heavy curtains, a quiet haze. An unfamiliar bed, with a dark blanket dragging against her skin as she pushes herself up onto an elbow. That chill again, a wintery breath across her shoulders and down her spine - immediately against her bones, it feels like, because not only is the mask gone, but so are the decadent trappings from last night. Skin against blanket, preyed upon by the prowling chill, as naked as the day she was born.

And not alone, she soon discovers, eyes meandering in lost wonder across the room. Over stone and drapery, through thinning shadow, sifting through the dusky light, returning to the bed in which she has awoken. This isn't her bed, but worse than waking up answerless and alone is discovering that the bed in fact belongs to someone else.

Who, she does not know; her eyes land upon a stranger's body, apparently having slept beside her, and she scrambles - gathering the indifferent blanket to her body, pressing a hand to her head as if to trap the nightmare there. Wake up again, open your eyes now, and you will find yourself where you need to be.

But there is only the helpless pounding of her heart, and a tired, tangled fury at having woken this way at all, the bed shifting beneath the body beside her as it begins to stir. )


❖ 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖉

( i'm easy, give me anything and i'll follow your lead c: pm's are always open! )

lestat de lioncourt . iwtv . existing player

[nettling]

ARISE 𑁍

(i.DROP THE ACT)

[ Lestat's party costume reminds him again of playing Lelio, bouncing from one stage to the other in pursuit of his sweet Isabella. Layers of black embellished with gold, ornate beading, and embroidery that would have taken a seamstress all hours of the night to cobble together. A long webbed cloak hangs off his shoulders, draped regally in the way worn by men of his human era. He is ever the image of a dark prince, donned with a bat mask with wings unfurling outward off the sides of his face. (He finds it rather ironic that the maiden gave him a bat, but no one is here to listen to his quips about being compared to something as hilarious as Dracula.)

The Frenchman doesn't skip a beat, walking into the party uninvited. A curtsy, a bow, a curl of his fingers entertain damned and living alike. Whatever entity he has stumbled into remains on the fringe of his mind. The faint sweet smell of decay twitches underneath his nose. No matter how his body desires to recoil, his performance doesn't falter.

Not all are as complacent as he; the living are panicking, hearts fluttering under the rapid shift. Why wouldn't they? Who are these people and what have they come for? In a realm full of monsters and tragedies, could he blame them for wanting to slip free of gilded nightmares?

One such dissenter would seem to have nearly gotten away if it weren't for another catching sight of their fallen mask. Lestat could do nothing; he could wait and see them re-emerge as a wretch...or he could meddle (and how he enjoys it so). A ghoul in a horned mask is brushed aside, let him handle this. Perhaps he truly is Lelio reborn again, stalking quickly in the dark to save the disenfranchised from meeting some new unearthly demise.

Perhaps he assists in curtailing a hunter, fresh on a faceless' trail. Perhaps he reaches them first, arm as hard as stone, sticking out of a darkened hallway to scoop a fleeing body like one of those Vaudeville acts done horribly wrong. He closes in, boxing this little escapee into a corner under the shadow of his cape. ]

Going somewhere? [His head tips with a lazy smile.]

REVEL 𑁍

(ii. GREAT HALL)

[ Fun, strange, exciting, terrifying. Every beat of the night is a seduction of the senses. Lestat had missed this sort of romanticism of the old century: courtly balls, dangerous games, all the sort of pomp and fanfare that melted away in the modern world. Illusions and the sickly sweet smell of rot be damned, this vampire remains woefully nostalgic.

The Brat Prince can be found, very easily, in the Great Hall— taking the hands of young and supple bodies drawn to the warm mirth of laughter. He doesn't need the white mask of purity to draw the attentions of others; this attention-seeking behavior is all his.

The silken bat's wing cape flutters over his shoulders as he slides a pristine gloved hand along the small of a new back. In a sea of undead, he's drawn to anything with a pulse or the nature of those similar to his own. Any flutter of unease is quelled by his touch, a complement to the bat's mask. By each dance's end, he'll leave his partner dazed and drunken with mild bliss. ]

Your trouble for a dance? [ He asks, warm and buttery, leaning in close. Men and women alike don't escape his attentions, nor does he covet any secrecy with doting upon fine young men ensnared by his thrall. He is, after all, non-discriminating. ]

(iii. VELVET PARLOR)

[ The Velvet Parlor is where the vampire's attentions turn next. More living, beating hearts for him to wade through. How their blood sings brightly in the undercurrent of passions. The dead do walk here, he among them, but there are plenty to go around to avoid tainting his mouth with their taste.

Gradually, his layers are stripped back, revealing pale skin and a web of grisly scars. Muscle hard as marble, all to be pondered over by curious hands and mouths. Oh, how he hungers. Two weeks in this forgotten realm is a blink to his kind and yet also a lifetime meal after meal unsatiated. How he yearns to feed until the beating stops.

Perhaps he is lucky, picking out a wretched mind that none would miss — a vampire with a conscience? His ex would debate if he ever had one. He is capable of virtues, even in a land absent of them. No love lost if it is no one worth remembering. He thinks about it even when he shouldn't.

With the bat's mask still affixed to his face, the press of his lips on skin elicits a druzy state that only bliss can provide. His tongue finds the beating pulse fluttering under soft, exposed skin as he flicks away a foreign hand attached to an undead paramour. Begone, ghoul, this one is his. ]

WILD 𑁍

(Wildcard me if none of the above fit or adjust them to your needs! I'm flexible between brackets or prose. You can contact me via PM or if you have me on plurk coffinmate

P.S let me know any opt-in re: getting fed on and/or the permission for lestat's mind reading. otherwise, i will leave it alone!)

claudia — interview with the vampire.

[mordue]

001. great hall.

Claudia walks for what feels like a long time. The mask pressed to her face glints gold in the candlelight, a tarnished tangle of snakes like branches twisting around her eyes. She thought about taking it off to look at it, but maybe it's better not to know, better just to walk. She has time to think in the low light.

Thinking makes her angry. Anger is a distraction, she thinks, though she's used it to aim herself like an arrow in the past. She balls her small hands into fists and tries to empty her mind of everything but the flagstones beneath her feet. Slowly, the sound of revelry comes to her – music and laughter and footsteps and the rustle of fabric against skin – and with it a smell of blood so strong that her mind empties of its own accord and she presses her way inside. The heave of bodies threatens to overwhelm. She bumps people as she moves, her elbow to their arm, a curl of her hair brushing their shoulder, the tip of her shoe catching their heel. Her fangs slide out with ease. If she's dead, and surely she must be dead, then why is she still hungry?

Her hand snatches out, curls around someone's wrist. Her teeth flash, her eyes glint behind the mask. She's small, but stronger than she looks.

002. long gallery.

The iron tang of blood from the Long Gallery pulls Claudia to it eventually. This is more her scene than a dance, than a banquet, than the salty tang of sweat clogging the air. She saunters easily into the room, to a long display of knives left out for just anyone to take. For a while she watches others throw, her gaze tracking them and their glinting weapons, before she picks up a knife itself, aims for a brief moment, and throws it squarely at a Wretch. It misses the apple target so thoroughly that an observer would be justified in suspecting that she'd meant to embed it in the flesh of the Wretch's arm on purpose.

003. eyes wide shut.

The evening turns. Claudia thought it would, at some point. Or is it turning, if everything seems to have been hurtling towards a bloodbath all night?

There's no love lost in her for any of these people, any at all. She is a cold, jaded thing. She does what she can to pull together the sacrifices in their pale clothes, heaving them bodily towards the maw. There's something halfway funny about it, the image of a girl with her arms taut around someone's torso, dragging them without sympathy as if she's pulling along a sack of potatoes. "Stop strugglin'," she says, with some impatience. "No need to fight. Let it happen and it won't be so hard."

She's no Santiago and these are no whispered words of comfort, but she's never been much good at that anyway.

004. wildcard.

[ hmu if you want to do something different! i'm up for whatever. canonpoint is tentatively post-s2. ]

the creature. frankenstein (2025).

[creatura]

the great hall.

( it is a boon, to find himself somewhere so foreign amongst a throng of faces similarly shrouded. the features of his mask are simple, even artful in their ugliness, much unlike the grotesque ones hidden underneath. he looms over most of the patrons, yet with his body covered and his face concealed, they do not shrink back, nor find cause to flee. so many bodies pressed so close sets him ill at ease, yet the creature cannot help a strange delight in being able to meld into the crowd. being one with it.

he remains at the fringes all the same. watching, wondering. looking for the patterns in the steps. though he knows little about dancing, he understands himself to be too grotesque and ungainly to try. that does not make it any less it is winsome to witness. delighted faces, the press of bodies, the swell of movements, the headiness of the music. his finger twitches, trying to keep the time, head tilted to take in every last aspect. even if he knows it to be foolish to yearn to take part. )

banquet hall.

( his unfailing body does not require more sustenance than the infernal heart beating in his chest. he has no need for food, nor drink. the creature would eat with his friend in kinship, and has felt little need for it since.

so why does he linger here, amongst morsels and spirits he does not care to imbibe? well, the people here lost in food and drink still keen for any company that can be spared. no one here has decried his presence, any more than the dance hall. and the act of eating, feeding, it is far simpler, actionable, to a creature made more for brutality than delicacy.

he selects something on the spread that looks too divine to refuse. something sweet, he can feel the granular grit of sugar against his fingertips. he has long watched the merriment around him, and now he braves joining it by offering the treat to the soul closest at hand. if he has been watching, he has had the decency of attempting subtlety. and feeding seems more welcome than talking, when the whole room is taken with the air of gluttonous excess. )

the long gallery.

( the festivities had been mostly harmless, if overbearing in their decadence. flights of folly, though certainly not despicable. that said, the creature finds little to admire in the long gallery. he scarcely needs reminders of the cruelty of man. the way they supped at violence like wine. he does not bother to watch the the bloodletting. simply finds it prudent to look through the weapons on display. he can crush bone and deglove skin with his bare hands, he has no need for crude steel. he simply finds himself curious. are all these arms meant for the bouts of the gallery? the party has thus leaned on hedonist excess, and yet the need for swords and axes seems limited, even for the sake of sport.

someone approaches, for a weapon, or a breath, it makes little difference. the creature has spoken little since he started haunting the fringes of the celebration, and he had spoken fewer still before his arrival. his voice is raw and rasped from disuse when he speaks. ) Do you fight for a prize, or simply blood?

( gonna be honest, he is gonna be judgey either way. but at least knocking teeth out for a prize would be better than simply for the sake of it. )

another glorious morning.

( the creature wakes, unsure when he had even closed his eyes. it is foreign indeed to find himself in a bed, never truly having an opportunity to sleep in one. he has only dreamed of what it would be like. mostly back when he was too simple to even know a bed by name, simply that it was where his father slept and thusly where he wanted to return.

he scrubs a hand over his face. mask absent, it is hard not to wonder if the fleeting memories were even real. he finds he misses the shelter of a face that is not his own. contemplates whether fashioning another could serve him still.

he only realizes he is not alone in the bed when the body next to his curves closer. the touch is sweet, gentle, yet fear makes it sour. his coat is gone, his shirt still torn from the last encounter with his prodigal father. Victor called the sum of his parts perfect, yet the ugly seams of different corpses can hardly be anything but ghastly. revolting, surely, to feel under hand. he should pry himself free, disappear while he still can, and yet —

whoever is tangled against him has still to wake. their breath drifts against his skin, their chin tucks against his shoulder the press of another body against his is more welcome than he could have imagined. it is selfish and invasive to linger. the moment will shatter and when it does, it will be ugly. no doubt.

until then... perhaps... a second longer. )

WILDCARD.

bro idk but this seemed like a fun place to voice test so here i am 😌 dm or hmu at stalfos if youd like to plot something else