westwhere | the house of manouk

the house of manouk | test drive meme

Hello, hello! Our latest event — doubling as a test drive meme and stretching until 12 August — is a one-off incursion in an uncharted time pocket dimension — the House of Manouk.

Anyone can hit up the test drive meme, but you will need an invite from an existing player to apply on 5 August. Have fun!

THE HOUSE OF MANOUK

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THE TERRACE

Old or new, you wake up on a white-stone terrace dominated by a twisting hedge maze that houses great columns, tattered statues, ponds, rivers, gazebos and pergolas — and high looming walls of thickly bound ivy, bloomed roses or thorny vines. Walking the Terrace somehow always brings you deeper into the maze, while a flushed, sunless sky stares down, unblinking.

You experience no thirst, hunger or language barriers here. Old translation & communication pendants can nevertheless be found scattered across the Terrace and Grounds.

New arrivals encounter the sorceress Karsa, who explains you were likely summoned by one of the undead lords who seeks control of Akhuras — and reached, along with the party she leads, a pocket dimension outside of time. Karsa’s associate, the Merchant, instructed to exit the time dimension by finding Ellethian waypoints — typically stone tokens engraved with the carvings of an eye with a sun for a pupil. Karsa may activate them for you to leave this place.

Your mission is to search the House and find the waypoints of Ellethia or of the rival Dawn’s Reach Trade Company without attracting the ire of the local exiled overlord(s).

■ Some of the statues you discover on the Terrace seem crudely carved, gaining the features of your loved ones, the longer you stare at them. Some seek to throttle. Escape them by having someone else stare at them, becoming their new target, or by leading them in a crowd of other statues.

■ Beware getting pricked by thorns: covetous vines can quickly ensnare and pull you into the maze’s green walls, or bind your hand to that of your companion.

■ The maze’s weather often mimics your mood: nice and balmy for contentment, cold for fear, torrential rain for sadness and a heatwave to answer anger. Smile.

■ Every now and then, you hear screams from other parts of the maze. Run, and you might find pairs of steel manacles or rusted chain on bloodied grounds, from where fresh rose bushes quickly rise up. Investigate.

■ Go deeper in the maze, and you find a heap of small stone tablets. Most list names, ages, occupations and include loving remarks, such as the finest husband or she smiled ever bright. Alarmingly, when your companion’s back is turned, you find tablets engraved with your handwriting, saying, don’t turn your back to them, blood reeks strong on them and that’s not their name. There are no waypoint tokens here.

■ Spend enough time in the maze, and you discover an old, red-eyed, white-haired and hunchbacked man with two chainless shackles on his wrists. He ignores you, muttering to himself about how the House must keep moving, moving. The House doesn’t like you. The House is awake. The House should sleep. The old man hits or trips you with his cane, or you might wake to find him hovering very closely over you. Engage him.

■ Now and then, he seems suddenly alert, if not outright fearful, shrieking that he comes and rushing to tinker with pulleys and stone mechanisms hidden within the maze vine walls. The maze’s architecture abruptly changes, with the ground quaking, walls shifting, while old plants wilt and fresh ones rise up within heartbeats. As the House changes, you might spot a long, spiralling staircase at short distance. Go down into…

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THE GROUNDS

The ground level of the House is splintered in dozens of decaying rooms, many locked. There are no windows here, dust thick in every corner, while faint scratches and canine footprints mar the floors — the marks of dozens of great skeletal hounds that haunt the corridors.

The dogs lead, chase or drag you towards a shuttered hall room, where a middle-aged, red-eyed and white-haired man furiously searches through haphazard mounds of tousled tomes. He too wears shackles. His manner is perfunctorily polite, as he calls back his dogs.

”…not from around here, are you? Must have broken time. Hooligan. Well, you’ve travelled centuries to be disappointed. There are no mysteries here, no epiphanies. All the great wells of myth and magic? Some other pigs have drunk them dry. Blame your luck, for bringing you to the shambling hut of — …the fine House of Manouk. Taravast’s greatest necromancer, til his mind turned to slaughter.

I was his disciple. Lisanther. Must’ve come from high on, did you? These cursed shackles… he senses everyone in his House through them. If he feels us on his scent, he works his little screws and wheels and moves the House stairs. Impressed? Don’t be. He’s a wreck, who feasts on time echoes of the anguished. That’s him. Paints a picture, doesn’t he? Stay out of his sights, or you’ll wear his chains soon too. Same as me, same as the dog he keeps in the dungeons. Dragged back every time he wanders.

If you want to make yourself useful, help me. I traded fairly with a caravan of the Dawn’s Reach Trade Company. They say they left behind scrolls in these grounds, with the words to free me. They overcharge, but they don’t lie. Help me find them. Break my chains, and I’ll break us out. I can. I swear it. ”

Deeper into the claustrophobic Grounds, you find specters of men and women, chained just like Lisanther — their skin translucent, their gazes lethargic. They feel neither dead nor alive to the magically sensitive. They are either very present in the moment or barely recall their whereabouts. If asked about tokens, they say the Dawn’s Reach Trade Company left scrolls in the Grounds main quarters:

▶ Bathing quarters

At times pristine and delightful, at others blood-marked and torn. The waters abruptly run very hot, cold or silty. The spectre of a wo/man might appear in the tub, staring unblinkingly or murmuring that people do all sorts of wickedness in this bathroom: they have even witnessed stabbings, treasures being hidden beneath tile boards, and even a birthing!

▶ Kitchens

Sprawling and soot-laden, bursting with supplies of stale wheat, eccentric cakes, exotic fruit and spice jars, these kitchens were built for long service. A heavy cauldron bubbles and boils a green broth in a cold fireplace, where ash and stone drown wood. A circle of spectres troubleshoots how to improve the meal — just as the kitchens’ doors slam shut, and they cordially invite you to do the legwork for their recipe. They instruct you to chop, clean and prepare the most unusual ingredients: hair of a dog, salt, moulded thyme, arsenic, one of your finest love stories… they’ll tire of their creation and release you within the hour. Don’t dine, dash.

▶ Sleeping chambers

There’s rest for the wicked in these deserted sleeping quarters, which boast exceptionally well-stuffed cushions and pillows, blankets and ‘reading materials’ — torn pages from books of history and magic. Some speak of the desperate attempts of the rulers of Taravast to flee death. Others talk of using spells, the elements and even mass sacrifice to achieve immortality. Enjoy your rest, only perturbed by occasional distant screams —

…or perhaps by a large, feral white bear that bursts in to briefly chase you, before disappearing. Veteran travellers may recognise him as the creature of Anurr.

Some of the chain-breaking scrolls of the Dawn’s Reach Trade Company can be found in each of the main rooms, along with some of the Company’s talismans, marked as waypoints, which should be brought to Karsa. See what your character finds.

Finish up here, or meander down a final stairwell to —

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THE DUNGEONS

Cold, deteriorating, crumbling — difficult to say if this is a tightly bound knot of underground tunnels, or a torturous weave of lost dungeons. Parts of the floor crumble to reveal abyssal depths below — or suddenly appear beneath your feet, to help your progress. Emptied, creaking bookcases abound. Here and there, you see your reflection in shattered wall-length mirrors, moving differently than you, or just slightly older or younger than you are.

■ Revived skeletons patrol the corridors, scantily armed with base blades, stones and torches. They largely ignore you, only blocking your path if you near a magically-locked stone door in the back of the Dungeons, from where you hear… human pleas.

■ Door engravings instruct to speak out the three truths of each day. Nearby, you find a mound of crumbled stone tablets, along with three golden ones raised on pedestals that read:

▶ with morning, my body is a weapon, sun-seeking, righteousness-bound

▶ by midday, my flesh has bent and battered, a shield of justice for young life to come

▶ come evening, I am blood and bone, a humble house to hope eternal

■ Tip bookcases into the narrow corridors to prevent the skeletal guards from reaching you, as you search diligently through the stone debris beneath the golden pedestals. You might even find Ellethian waypoint tokens: palm-wide, marked with a sun pupil. Take them to Karsa immediately… or open the now unlocked dungeon door as a man calls out.

■ Enter, and you discover an dimly lit dungeon alcove, with animate skeletal heads hanging on each wall. They cackle, Mind your step. Heed them and look for holes in the floor tiles — needle-thin spikes emerge from there periodically.

■ Go deeper, and you discover a large bare stone room, scantly livened by torches bearing green fire. A small hole — barely enough to fit a grown man standing and lying down — has been dug into one of the walls and secured. This inhumane prison’s bars crackle and sizzle with magical electricity. A skeletal hound waits by, with a set of keys fastened to its collar.

■ A white-haired, red-eyed twenty-something young man sprawls haphazardly in the prison: battered, swathed in rags, shackled and wild. He holds out his blood-tipped hand between the bars, but fails to lure the dog close — and calls out to you, instead:

”You must be mad to come to me. The old man sent you? Finally? Good. How wonderful. I’ll spit on you, and I’ll spit on his grave. He left me here to die. And now he’s remembered me? What does he want? …no. It doesn’t matter. Rip the keys off that mutt and get me out of here. ”

You can engage or release him, if you coax the key from the recalcitrant dog. Or leave him be and see Karsa with your waypoint token.

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NOTES:

■ There are multiple waypoint tokens to leave the time dimension: the Dawn’s Reach Trade Company talismans, hidden in the Ground rooms, and the Ellethian tokens, found in the dungeons. Bring whichever one you discover to Karsa.

■ You can optionally solve the mystery of Lisanther, the prisoner, Manouk and the spectres.

■ The House’s layout changes periodically, but characters can find the stairs to travel across the three levels every few hours.

■ Mention in your top level if you play an old timer or a test driving tourist. TDMers can make both logs and network prompts here!

■ QUESTIONS & NPC INBOX!

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Sulking? [Caitlyn repeats under her breath curiously. She's never heard of a gun sulking before. Is it a figure of speech?

Something to investigate later. Right now they need to focus.

She pulls out her torch and aims its beam towards the ground. There's an awful lot of broken stone beneath three pedestals made of gold. Caitlyn begins to make a meticulous, thorough search among the debris.]

Not yet. Help me search.

[She nods to another spot under another golden pedestal, far enough away from the one she's looking under that their searches won't overlap.

The golden pedestals are extremely puzzling, but first thing's first. There probably won't be much time until they have to contend with the skeletons again, and dividing their attention will only result in nothing being accomplished.]

Edited 2023-07-29 12:48 (UTC)

( His expression doesn't change, the mild, overtly friendly smile he'd been wearing remains in place. But there is a second between Lan Wangji offering up Wen Kexing's own name and the next where a new animal appears to take its home inside of his bones. The light in his eyes goes hard and flat, and while his hands still work on the easy, repetitive movement of chopping, the grip on the knife tights just so, his voice notching just a shade cooler.

Behind him, the ghosts whisper. )

I did not know we were acquainted.

( Wen Kexing is well aware that memory can be tampered with, there are rules in the Valley after all. But Lan Wangji does not look all that old, to be someone he knew before would require great skill. And as far as he's aware, the old fart who honed it is not for sharing. It is an unpleasant feeling. )

Ah, it is hard to make friends when one is at a disadvantage. Pray then, young master, what is your name?

I do not envy your skill.

We know the sorcerer Manouk keeps prisoners. ( Perhaps innocent. Perhaps treacherous, vicious, unworthy. Thor cannot speak so with certainty. There is a moment, weighted, when he seems to consider the possibility of further betrayal — that the man behind his bars is no more than bait.

Then he speaks next, tinny, it is with the air of a man who seeks at once to convince himself as his fellow. )

Another has spoken so. ( Lisanther, one level above. A wraith, no different from this one. And yet. )

We may be leaving an innocent man to his fate.

If privacy were what she wanted, she probably wouldn't appear to us. That's the thing about ghosts, they all want to be heard.

( He could be talking nonsense, but Wen Kexing has already affected an air of someone who simply Knows Things and with that delivered he slips his fan free from his sleeves to lazily wave it in front of his face, eyeing the woman in the bathtub with only mild interest. If anything his cool gaze is clinical. Her form isn't anything to him.

But maybe, to the young girl -. )

I would suggest against lingering in this particular room either way, if you're looking for something other than anecdotes from someone long passed you won't find it here.

( Dear gods above, those who heed and those who wait, but he grows tired of observing this, perpetually held back by his bars. He makes attempt, while his saviour negotiates the basic skill of... breathing... to swipe his hands, to claim the hound's attention.

It barely pays him any mind. Disgusting. )

The old man thought me a nuisance. Because I don't agree with every word that drools out of his mouth. Because I'm not a worshipping slave to his commands.

Edited 2023-07-29 13:12 (UTC)

'A grain of rice is a drop of sweat.'

( He quotes the children's poem with a grin that borders on impish, gaze flicking lazily from xiao to ghost to the pot and then back to the man. ) It's almost done, and after all my hard work I'd hate to give up now. ( Will he eat any of it? Probably not. Who knows what these pesky little ghosts have added when his back was turned. But his curiosity is stronger than his need to escape now, and so he chooses to linger. )

Ah, but to make my time pass more pleasantly, perhaps you could answer me a question? ( Lowering his voice, like he and this man are old friends. ) Is your playing truly so terrible as to haunt even the dead?

( Because the spectres are afraid, and of that fine looking instrument. )

( For a time, he seems intent to ignore the woman, as if — his words now spoken — he has shared all that was in him to give. As if he has exhausted his natural ability to care in fresh sparks of hope.

This is not, perhaps, the first time a traveller has graced the grounds.

Not, also, the first time that little has come of it. He casts aside another thoroughly searched tome. )

You don't. ( Simple, cutting, unapologetic. He accepts another tome. ) He'll feel it. The House will feel my freedom. That does not mean I don't deserve it. It does not mean I cannot act after.

( A pause, as he seems to riddle fresh meaning from the book before him. ) Before, I did not know to expect the shackles. I was caught by surprise.

I can. I just don't exactly want to kick his head off. ( His, and not it, oh Wen Kexing wants to set something on fire. Why did it have to look like that, of all the faces? It's not even a perfect likeness! He takes a breath, resolutely looking at the space to the side of the statue and nothing belonging to it, fan clenched tight in one hand and a simmering, seething rage tucked behind his teeth. ) You've seen the thing, it wouldn't even put up a good fight.

( Zhou Zishu would. Zhou Zishu would absolutely stop Wen Kexing from kicking his head off by simply attempting to do the same thing himself. )

If this place wants to feed on us, what good is having us throttled within a day? ( A quick fire glance has Wen Kexing confirming the things mouth is becoming less human shaped, more a gash in the stone. He does as instructed though, resolutely not staring. ) Let's hope it stops when it goes back to it's original form. I don't know about you but I'd rather be anywhere else right now.

( Skittish like a cat riled, bristling. Claws doubtlessly sharp, and he remember, does Lan Wangji, the quick stab and twist of Wen Kexing's tongue, turned weapon. Remembers too that most blades stay sheathed, absent flinches and flickers of violence, until they meet steel in kind.

Bichen sleeps the rest of the quieted, the innocent.

A pass of the hand and, before him, the great unblinking eye of qi opens, and his guqin answers the conjuration, calm. A pleasant weight, familiar, settled on his knees. Curling and careless, the first sound of his fingers at dance is shrill. )

Wangji, clan Lan. ( A staggered breath. ) You will forget again.

( He has, twice already. What then is the use of courtesy? ) Only the dead here know disadvantage.

( Unwise to assume they share in that demerit. Arrogant. Callous. )

You trust their drink?

As one soothes a man. ( With kindness, forethought, honour and attention. He does not speak the words. In the negative space between his hard-carved principles and pronouncements, there is no breathing room for plain, foregone conclusions. ) First learning the root of hurts.

( More often, wrested through song, the zither Lan Wangji withholds in whatever permutations of sorcered storage are permitted to him. He thinks to call on his friend, made weapon, his waiting sword —

Thinks, but settles his right hand behind his back, in the learned practices of posture assigned before strangers. This need not be the hour of violence. Spirits that have receded from the living require a degree of forceful intervention. Here, ghosts flood the living world with the arrogance of their scents, their strength, still.

He nods, patiently, between the man who aids him and the woman of the bathing tub. )

Ask. ( Better it does not come of Lan Wangji first, if he is to interrogate in manner visceral, after. )

( He watches Licyn move with a barely concealed amount of bewildered curiosity. Here the man is, climbing the kitchen like he's some kind of circus acrobat, not a care in the world favoured towards breaking anything. Wen Kexing eyes those shivering bottles with interest, half-prepared for the resulting crash. When that doesn't come he lets his shoulders loosen once more, attention returning to the abomination before him. But he wasn't the only one with concerns it seems - the spectres in a state visible, clustering closer to the other man without really touching. Thankfully, that means they're no longer paying attention to Wen Kexing himself, and he manages to slip the sharpest of utensils into one of the many layers of his robes before the attention is back on him.

The note amongst the cinnamon sticks is a clever sort of hiding place, he makes a note of it even as he's reaching out for a rag to wipe his hands, abandoning pot and muttering ghosts alike in favour of crossing the sooty kitchen floor. )

Now you're saying something. I do like knowing people's dirty little secrets. I've found just as many in people's kitchens as their bedrooms alike. ( Inclining his head a little in thought. ) Well? You do the honours, you found it.

Usually.

[ She slips past the bookshelf after him, into yet another cramped hall full of clinging shadows and – probably – spiders. The only obvious improvement to their situation is that the skeletons are on the other wise, impotently slashing at the creaking wood of the shelves.

On the other hand, there's no very obvious exit, no sign declaring skeleton free safe passage this way! Which is kind of a bummer. ]

I mean... most of the time. Sometimes it gets a little. You know. Persnickety. [ But that's not really her priority, right now. ] Should we be expecting more skeletons?

Like is such a strong word.

[ It wouldn't be the first ghost she's chatted with, but her track record isn't what someone might call spotless: there had been that one Rev with the penchant for slicing throats, but beating it had been less her and more Waverly.

But the ghost currently murmuring in the tub doesn't seem violent, so Wynonna shoulders some bravado and heads past sword-guy into the bathing area itself. ] Hey.

[ Not her strongest start, but whatever. ] Is there, uh... something on your mind?

[ What's left of it, anyway. But the ghost just stares past her, lips moving, whispers too low for her to understand murmuring into the echoing chamber. ]

( Still easy, but said with the hint of gritted teeth. )

Perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else.

( The ghosts seemingly react to the guqin, crowding together behind Wen Kexing's back unhappily. He does not add any more ingredients to the pot, does not let the temperature cool, does none of those familiar important things. Instead he watches Lan Wangji from where he's been this whole time, shoulders tight like a furious animal.

And then his tone is easy again, idle curiosity. )

When did we meet?

Dude.

[ Offense. ]

I don't just shoot random people. [ Anymore. Her aim's way better now.

Wynonna pushes up and leans back on her palms, eying the corridor before giving him a disbelieving glance. ]

You really think I know? [ She reaches with one hand towards him, rotates it at the wrist, impatient. ]

Gonna help me up or just stand there?

( Shrapnel of his attention wandered, spirits hiss and groan and stretch out in the ill-stitched skin of their present appearance. He despises this: that they have been so reduced, to clinging and hooks, like fish netted. That they cannot roam free, delivered of their mortal coil.

The guqin wails with them, fleetingly. Where they answer in murmurs and turbulence and manufactured cooperation, he cannot press without inciting war. Better, to ease them. Slow play, meandering. Notes forgotten. )

More than a year passed, the first turn. ( A pause, then: ) Less than, the second.

( An answer, by definition, unhelpful. The drum of his fingers on string syncopates. )

Time lapses differently here.

hey don’t shoot the messenger
it was clint’s idea

It was not Clint's idea.

ok fine
it was stark but clint and i were the ones who didn’t change it

have you even seen that movie??

Friend Stark is not to blame for all things.

That's true. [She speaks matter-of-factly because, well, she knows from experience there.

Still, she watches with some degree of pity.] It must have seen a lot here, with not a lot of people to talk to. It's enough to drive anyone crazy, probably.

[But she doesn't seem to either heed nor hear him about leaving, instead slowly wandering the room to look at everything, quiet and curious, until she asks:] Then why are you still here?

are you sure?
he’s not here so it’s convenient

We may only fault him for those things for which we cannot blame my brother or the wizard Strange.

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the house of manouk | test drive meme

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