the house of manouk | test drive meme

[groundrules]

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!

Comments

[rumorate]

Oh, that doesn't surprise me. Bathrooms are always where the best gossip happens.

[At least in her personal experience. She then turns and peers into the bathroom.]

But not usually gossip like that.

[nothinglikefather]

"Over-watering?" Jacob suggests in reply to Marty's words, amused by the question poised and unable to help himself when it comes to his answer. He has no clue either, he's not from a place where plants routinely attack anyone.

In all seriousness, he needs to think about that but the bleeding takes priority. Not only is it a trail for someone or something to possibly follow, but it will reduce the other man's movements.

....Which are apparently linked by much to his own, as the tug demonstrates when he tries to pull away.

"Yes, let's sort this out shall we?" He says, lifting his left arm up and letting the blade slide free. Up close, Marty can see how it isn't help at all, but extends against Jacob's palm, just missing fingers, which Jacob is mindful to keep stretched away.

He murmurs an apology, moving their bound arms and trying to slice the vines that had curled around them. Unfortunately, being severed seems to have made the tendrils dry hard as rock, resisting the blade.

Its almost as if Jacob's a little embarrassed by the failure, but he shakes his head, letting the blade retract with s movement of his wrist.

"Once it's dry, I can't make a dent. It might just fall off, in a bit. Or we might find a better tool for the job."

[pepsifree]

Jesus, it's like these vines were designed to be as much of an inconvenience as possible. Marty's brows furrow as Jacob's knife scrapes against the stone-esque material, and though it takes some processing...

In the end, as he understands what's happened, all he does is sigh. This actually isn't the worst thing to ever happen to him.

"It's all right," he says, smiling some. "Let's just get to that bench for now."

So, their forearms bound (and really, Marty should've grabbed the guy's hand or something), he leads Jacob off so they can both sit. Taking his weight off his legs is a relief he didn't think he'd needed, but the lack of strain on his calves only makes the sting of the wound that much more obvious.

A typical thorn is tiny, and all it should've done was prick him and let him move on. But this one is long-- over an inch of it sticks out of Marty's jeans-- and he's almost afraid of what the full thorn is supposed to look like. Just how deep is it lodged in there?

That said, Marty allows Jacob to roll his pants leg up if he so desires. He can do whatever he wants, really, barring taking Marty's pants off altogether.

"How bad does it look?"

[bravelyrunsaway]

Make arrangements with people who think they have the right to control the dead? No, no. I prefer to work with people who focus on the living. Makes them slightly inclined to ever leaving you alive.

[bravelyrunsaway]

... The Storm is not a metaphor. It's a magic storm that ravages the northern and southern boundaries of our continent.

[mashiara]

If not the place, than the ... singular person who apparently can be expected here. Have you heard anyone else who isn't one of us?

( Nynaeve lifts her eyebrows at the comment about ducking, though she taps her fingers against the handle of the long knife at her hip. )

Fending him off won't be a problem, as long as you can move quick for more than ducking behind me.

( Nynaeve likewise ignores the familiar statue, causing its features to further roughen again. Heading back toward the corridors of the maze, it's a straight line in, and a left curve, gentle and slow, after. )

[mashiara]

( While he's explaining, and forcing himself to deal with scrubbing himself... into a different state of disgusting, Nynaeve still has the bucket in place. She's never heard of throwing evidence in drains, there's few enough sinks who even have something of the kind in the Two Rivers, though she's seen them elsewhere. )

Haven't heard of anything that ridiculous, but if people are going around murdering, I should probably expect they're not that bright.

( Or more bloodthirsty than sensible. She's distracted as the water quality... shifts? Growing less viscous, more... now it looks like blood. But in all of that, so also comes a cloth, plopping down with a wet little snuck sound. Nynaeve finds her eyebrows raising even as Marty says it made sense to him, reaching into the bucket to carefully pluck the cloth out with two fingers, thumb and index. She holds it up toward Marty after, keeping it at a length so it doesn't simply drip back down on her. )

Gross, yes. Not entirely senseless, somehow. Here, your treasure.

( A small, but present, smile. It's no treasure, but it did come out of his busted pipe venture. )

[weifinder]

( Wei Wuxian cants his head, listening. )

Huh. Hadn't heard of that technique before. Is it the lack of outside sounds? Water distorts noise, I'm guessing you kept your eyes closed, and when you're stilling your breathing, yes... was it in the dark?

( If it's cutting off senses, he'd guess it'd need to be. What an interesting idea. Definitely not what any immersions in water with resentful energies around managed for him, but the context was very different anyway. What he's heard from Lockwood makes that apparent. )

What was the driving need?

[weifinder]

( The upward turn of his lips, the inclination of his head. )

Charmed for a third time's try. I'll have faith in the possibility. You've better luck than most.

( The area right ahead opens up again, a pile of stone tablets in the middle of the area, collapsing outward. )

You'll be back where you left off, and by my guess, never will know you've been away.

( Again. It's a mixed blessing, that thought, but he's glad of it for the ones it remains important for. For those who have people to get back to, now. )

[nochnaya]

[ Her lips twitch into a fleeting smile in response—she likes his honesty. ]

Would you stop me?

[ She's teasing him, since the likely answer seems to be no. He's heretofore let her do whatever she wants to do, tagging along, and without even much of a complaint. She also likes that.

A moment later, she's striding towards the mad old man, though this player was too damn slow for a thread so we're going to skip over their entire conversation! Let's just say that Merrin has little patience for his ramblings, through she still attempts to get as much information out of him as she can. Something something, Manouk, his House, eternal life, something something.

When he attempts a swing at her with his cane, she teleports out of his reach, reappearing right back at her companion's side, wherever he is. ]

We should move on.

[weifinder]

Tired night question: is there any viable way to send any of the spirits on from this pocket dimension when the PCs are leaving? Even collecting them all up and bringing them out?

[nochnaya]

[ He does appear younger than her, it's true, but she's the last person to judge by youth or appearance. She and Cal were younger than him when their entire lives changed, after all. ]

Yes, that is what I'm used to as well.

[ For the most part, anyway. Very, very few people in her galaxy are aware of spirits—in fact, she may be the only one left. But... everyone else is definitely scared of them. ]

Why would I be afraid? I have communed often with the spirits of my sisters. They have guided me. Fought for me. That they are spirits— [ she gestures to ones around her ] —does not diminish them.

[topoiran]

It is not quite the worst welcome we have had.

[ ... he'll not mention which it is but it'll take a while for anything to come even close. ]

Let me wash them, and I will look.

[weifinder]

( This is not his expectation for the moment, or the day, or whatever time is happening that he cannot fathom or count, endless in flow, unceasingly unchanging. There's the spirit, the ghost, still trapped between them. There's his husband's raw edges, cutting his hands, bleeding freely.

Blood. Death. Justice. The necromancers. An end to pain.

Pain never truly ends. Not without it being something let go; and to a spirit, there are ways it might be unable to do so. Like the witches Wei Wuxian had tried helping, had broken out of outside control, in Taravast. The ones frozen in endless burning. In pain.

He steps forward, surges like a tidal flow, trapping the spirit between them, hands for his husband now, side of his head against the ghost's golden locks. Day and night, a stark contrast. No heart beats against him, the damp negligible after Lan Zhan's, the heat less than what storms in his husband's eyes. )

We all learn to be more than what we were. That includes you.

( Lan Zhan. The ghost. His head turns, brush of lips past a ghost's temple, light against hair. )

A blade hurts, a blade protects. Justice for the blood drawn, for the lives consumed. Freedom. Trapped, do they not devour themselves, these necromancers?

( Murmured like a lover's words, for the ghost, for Lan Zhan. For the piteous half angry sob out of the golden man and his molten eyes, and the arms that encircle his torso in turn, not so much welcomed as an inevitability. )

[nothinglikefather]

If Marty had said that out loud, Jacob would have agreed with him. The vines, once severed, binding them together is probably a way to slow them down and thus capture them again. But bad luck for the plant, they're quicker on their feet.

He'd like to offer his arm, put it around the other's shoulders to give him some support, unfortunately, the binding means he can't at all, and so he just stays close, moving a little awkwardly once Marty sits down to kneel in front of him. Marty is just a touch shorter than he is, and while he was trussed up like a Christmas goose, Jacob hadn't got a good look at him. Now he can- and he appreciates that open, humour-filled face. Marty might not be cracking jokes this very second, but there's a light in his eyes that suggests he might. Hell, he doesn't even manage his own joke, despite how readily one should come to his lips.

Jacob forces his attention back to the man's calf, his fingers having nimbly rolled up some of the material, but that thorn is just too long to move the jeans past it without possibly snapping it and leaving some in there. That's the last thing Jacob wants to do.

"I've seen worse." He admits. Not giant thorns stuck into people, but knives, bits of splintered wood, glass, and bullets, some of which he's had to pull out of himself. This at least should come out cleanly, it doesn't seem barbed. But it hurts, and it's going to hurt a bit more before they're done, so the Victorian reaches into his coat, finds the hipflask tucked away, and passes it up.

"Take a swallow or two of that. Then we'll pull it out."

[nothinglikefather]

[ He hadn't been about to do anything, staying put but the signal acts to ground him, and the fact the knight seems to be keeping his head helps Jacob pull himself together, nodding in reply. Of course, with their attention on the ghostly figure, the knight probably didn't see that.

Taking the other's lead, he'll remain still, as peaceful as he can be while the ghost looks at them from her tub, or maybe looking past them, Jacob isn't sure. ]

Can we help you?

[He tries, knowing full well that most people seem to want his help and this place might not end up being very different. Even dead people probably have errands for him to run. But instead, the woman shakes her head, and in a distant voice replies:]

In my living days, I was no sorceress or a necromancer, or a woman possessed of any such high learning. I was but a maid, a fine one, but I do not know how we can be freed.

[pepsifree]

The combination of "seeing worse" and being given a flask makes Marty laugh. It's a disbelieving sound, but he takes it in stride, wrapping his fingers around the drink and affording the flask a curious look as he turns it in his hand.

"Thanks for this," he says as he unscrews the top. "Not just the booze, but... saving me, offering to get the thorn out." He offers a slight smile. "I appreciate it."

Usually folks aren't so kind to him.

Once it's opened, Marty gets a whiff of what he's been drinking and whistles. It's the strong stuff, that's for sure. The kind of stuff he has to ask his drummer to ask his college brother to buy for them from the liquor store-- and they've all got to pool their money just to afford it.

"Sheesh," he muses, "if I gotta drink for this and you've seen worse, you gotta come from some crazy timeline, huh?"

Still, Marty knocks it back. Twice. If he's going to be offered free drinks, then he's going to take absolute advantage of it. The burn is new, but to his endless pride he doesn't choke or sputter on it. It simply slides on down.

"All right," he murmurs once he's swallowed, his chest warm and his throat tickled. Rock 'n' roll. "I'm good."

[pepsifree]

My wha--

[ Turning to face Nynaeve rewards him with the bizarre sight of rolled up cloth. And what comes out of him isn't joy nor pride, but a miserable little: ] Aw, man, I shouldn't have tossed that towel...

[ Nevertheless, once he's retrieved the crumpled up thing from the floor, Marty takes the rolled cloth carefully in his towelled hands. What mess of bloodsludge hasn't been absorbed by the material rolls off the cloth in rivulets, and he's doing his best to resist the urge to sniff it. ]

So the scary Tub Lady was right about treasure, I guess. [ He does his best to unfurl the cloth, revealing some ruined parchment. Heavy freakin' duty. ] If this is even treasure...

[ No matter how carefully Marty does it, he can't unstick all the paper from the cloth. Half of it's absorbed the bloodsludge and has been rendered brutally unusable. The other half, however (which he peels as daintily as his hands can manage), contains actual, legible words.

Words and-- ] Do you know what this is, Nynaeve? [ Marty holds the parchment up, showing the wax seal on top of it. ]

This might be what that chained guy said we should look out for!

[traumatology]

I can handle myself.

( not tha the's going to brag or anything like that but if there's one thing he can do, it's fight. )

So yeah, fine. Let's team up and get this over with. Little tired of fighting...whatever decides to step in front of me.

[nothinglikefather]

Jacob let's their fingers brush, just to make sure that the young man has the flask in his hand before he withdraws, letting Marty sip it in peace, or relative peace, while he thinks about what he needs to do next.

Quite simply, he needs to tug that thorn out, wash it clean and then bandage it up. He's not really got bandages to hand, but he can make some. A sleeve will do, at a push.

"I've got a dangerous line of work. You look after each other." He explains, and then looks up again. Marty and he might not be that different in age or in height, but in the way they look they are worlds apart. Jacob's clothes are practical, warm, heavy. They are very old fashioned in comparison to what Marty wears.

And Jacob knows nothing about time travel. It isn't possible, or at least, isn't possible yet in the world he occupies.

"It's 1868 back home." He let's that sink in and uses any potential surprise to help in getting out the thorn. "I'm going to pull this thing out now. Take a slow inward breath, then let it out... now" He says, and then in one steady movement, he pulls the long, evil thorn free.

Dropping it to the ground, and only having one hand free, pulls the fabric of the jeans higher up the other man's leg. The blood flows freely now, and he takes back the flask to wash some of it away with the alcohol.

"I know that hurts like all hell, but it's out. Looks pretty good too, should heal up nicely."

a terrace (terrace a.)

[reparo]

[Statue, statue, statue - don't look at them for too long, Hermione, that's a good sport, don't want to get stuck there staring at the likeness of Harry, Ron, or her parents - turn the corner, statue, statue - the path down to the grounds was here somewhere, surely, yes?

More statue, turn a corner, statue, coffin, stat - ] What on Earth?

[What is a bloody coffin doing on the terrace? That was not here before, was it? Maybe it's a clue, maybe it's the way to finding more information about this House, maybe -

Maybe it just talked.]

Did you just talk to me?!

[pepsifree]

1868 sounds like forever ago. Sure, Marty's seen 1886, but he's also seen that even twenty-ish years can bring a million and one changes. Judging from Jacob's accent, he probably isn't even American, and while he doesn't look surprised, he certainly looks like he's got a lot to process nevertheless.

Even if his expression contorts in a wince as the thorn is pulled out of his leg.

The strange feeling of something stuck in him fades, but it's replaced with a dull ache around the close vicinity of the wound. It flares up into serious pain once Jacob pours the alcohol over it-- pain that has Marty's free hand coming up to press the side of his fist to his mouth-- but with a flare of the nostrils as he inhales, he calms himself down.

Gently, and with a crooked smile on his mouth as he dips his head, Marty says, "Thanks."

Once the fiery feeling fades, the leftover throb is small. Marty looks down to give his exposed wound a proper look, and he finds with some curiosity that each beat of pain matches with the drool of blood down his leg. Whoa.

"Y'know," he starts, his breathing coming a little steadier now, "now that you've worked your magic, I'm less worried about the wound and more about my jeans." Because, God, now that he looks at it, they're freakin' drenched. With blood!

"That's so gonna stain..."

[nothinglikefather]

At some point, Jacob may well see 1886 too (spoiler alert, nothing good comes of it) but from his current vantage of a 21-year-old, twenty years in the future is a long, long time. He doesn't even know what he'll be doing tomorrow. Hell, he doesn't even know where he is now. That's what he needs to focus on, the here and the now. Home is somewhere, and he can get there, but it'll involve all his focus. And then the young man on the bench is smiling a crooked smile at him and Jacob's focus dissipates.

"My pleasure. Er. Mister?" He doesn't know the man's name. They're tired together with vines like steel, Jacob's kneeling between his legs and they haven't exchanged names. Why is he like this? "I'm Frye. Jacob Frye."

He shifts a little, the motion is not easy as it could be, with their arms still secured, but he pauses and then realises he has a cravat on and pulls it off with one easy movement. With it, he can bandage the wound and put some gentle pressure on it, keeping it clean and slowing down that blood loss. And no one had to lose a shirt sleeve.

"A good laundress will get it out, don't worry. Cold water soak, not hot." Jacob mutters, regarding the fabric. He's had a lot of blood on his clothes before now. "Works a treat."

[beitangmoran]

[Yes, let's not mention any of that.]

At least the ghosts aren't too rambunctious here.

[Moran is still of the opinion that ghosts are totally unreasonable and should not be a thing, but he has had to come to terms with the fact that they are a thing here, which, with his usual practicality, has of course immediately translated to assessing how useful or annoying they are.]

Still you should take better care of yourself, Xunxian. What would I do without you?

[scrapgege]

That's what I keep telling everyone! Just because they're ghosts doesn't mean they're not people, and they have feelings!

[Sorry Merrin, he might be waving the knife around a bit because he is very against discriminating against dead people.]

And if they're being troublesome, there are ways to deal with them.