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

---

Image source.

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…

Image source.

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 —

Image source.

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.

Image source.

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

QUESTIONS

[groundrules]

An evil necromancer was exiled into a pocket dimension.

He's serving time.

Re: QUESTIONS

[spoilers]

With regards to the maze reflecting moods, can this be underlying feelings or does it follow surface feelings?

For example, River always carries some anger and maybe a bit of sadness, but she's also excellent at hiding what she's thinking and feeling, sometimes even from herself. So like, can I plague her with a puzzling humid heatwave? Or on the flip side, would the ability to mask her actual feelings be super helpful if they wanted the weather to take a more pleasant turn?

NPCs

[groundrules]

Drop a very quick starter (only a handful of lines!) if you'd like to thread out an encounter with one of the NPCs below. To ensure we get your threads where you need'em, please start them before 5 August and aim to complete them by 9 August.

You can engage with:

Karsa: the party's young (?) sorceress and steward, perpetually in awe of you. Would put coin on the odds of the village goat to outwit you.

Lisanther: seemingly hard at work in the Grounds to break his chains and elude Manouk. Has carried out some kind of trade with the Dawn's Reach Trade Company.

The prisoner of the dungeons: at once arrogant and honey-tongued, demanding his freedom from a dog who, really, has seen juicier fleas.

Manouk: mad, maddening or simply unhelpful, an old man attending to his bloody garden.

The spectres: victims of someone, somewhere (or were they?), now reduced to wandering souls. Please specify which group of spectres you are asking and where your character is located when doing so!

The bear: ...not a thread exactly, but you can always request rolls for bear reactions, if your character runs into it. On an honour system, please play them out c:

Treat NPC threads as character interactions of sorts: how you approach a NPC will dictate their willingness to assist as much as what you ask. Remember: no one earns exile in a pocket dimension without committing some kind of crime.

Please remember to share findings with the group...!

the prisoner | this will start stupid and i'm almost apologetic

[weifinder]

( This is, of course, not a helpful asking. Instead there's Wei Wuxian, who upon entering the dungeon room with a certain sense of bland accomplishment, guard lowered by the humanoid skeletons outside the door, is twirling his flute between his fingers and glad he's seen the last of the skeletal dogs when...

... There's another one. Right there. Next to the prisoner, who doesn't look so grand themselves, but the doggishness of this skeleton is much harder to ignore than the first of those he encountered above. Something about sitting like Fairy had been ordered to years ago, with the collar and dangling keys. All those teeth. No lips to even pretend they're less horrifying than they are. Right there. The sudden cloying feeling of being in another dungeon, locked into another room, with an even larger beast of the canine family slams home, the spike of fear immediate and consuming.

Wei Wuxian breathes in, sharp and startled, and bolts to the far side of the chamber, calling out uselessly for the man who is not currently present: )

Lan Zhaaaaaaaaan!

( Meanwhile tucking himself as far away from where the bone dog sits, and consequently, from the occupied cell of the prisoner. )

CLUES & THREADS

[groundrules]

In the fashion world, pocket dimensions are known for their timeless style.

THE GROUNDS | ROOM SEARCHES

[groundrules]

Comment here with one of the rooms of the Grounds (kitchens/bathing rooms/sleeping chambers) where your character will be furiously examining, and where they're likely to be looking. If you have a preference, mention if you're more interested in them finding a chain-breaking scroll piece or a talisman.

You'll receive back a prompt with what they find, where and in what state!

You can come back and request an additional clue, once you've threaded out discovering the first one. Please make your last clue requests by 7 August.

thor | mcu | tourist

[subecho]

i. the terrace | the old man

( Honour the ancestors, guard sympathy for elders. Spare them the choicest cuts of feasting meats and lend them the great breadth of your back when their frail limbs wither, and they need carrying across a cold, cruel world.

These are the guidelines. Less set in every stone Thor that would now wish to take in his two hands and summarily crumble is this: this old knot of bones and gristle who keeps springing up from hard ground to prick Thor's calves with his needle-stick is a pest. A nuisance. Worthy of stumping, swatting, and other such hardships that, on close scrutiny, Thor suspects have already been visited on the man's dentures.

Bad enough, to be summoned to a strange new world like an awkward second-grade meteor bereft a convenient waiting gallery of overgrown lizards, lined up for extermination. Now, trotting merrily and wine-free down every winding path, he is forced to breathe in the fresh air, take in the roses, bask in the brilliance of the idyllic apocalyptic pinked sun —

And not crush the old man who suddenly blitzes out of a bush to thwap his knees — again. How is the old man this fast? Worse still, how does he retreat, shivered and cackling, behind a wall of vines and think he goes unseen?

Thor's fists fingers roll and, knuckles snowed, curl into tight fists. Release. Pulse closed again. And he mutters, to whoever's been stranded cruising the maze beside him: )

He... tests me. Like rot tested his teeth, and shiny things test the friend Hulk.

ii. kitchens

( The cauldron soup recipe du jour, such as a rug-apron Thor has been obediently observing under the careful watch of thirteen specters, each more particular about about his julienne, paysanne, baton and chiffonade than the last: pinch of salt, pile of despair, sprinkling of three-headed snake's scales, gleaming leather of a thrice boiled boot, and now —

No. No, he searches their faces, stern. The ceiling, unresponsive. The floor, crackling and sympathetically wetted, but unhelpfully not opening up to consume him whole. Then, finally landing on his assistant in this matter: )

A children's knock-knock jest. ( A beat. ) For seasoning. ( Here, the specters all nod in perfect harmony that Thor grudgingly falls in line with, the giant ladle in his hand waved like a conductor's baton. ) Go ahead.

( They're getting out of this kitchen, dignity be damned. )

iii. dungeons | the prisoner

( Here is the trouble with angst-ridden, arrogant, likely overly skilled and questionably moral agents of imprisoned chaos: they're always neatly deposited behind bars for a reason.

Not that Thor has experienced precedent (Loki), that he knows precisely the kind of creature of trickery who takes ultimate advantage of a gentle stranger's rescue (Loki), or that Thor looks at this prisoner's gaunt, disheveled and haughty manner and suffers a flicker of familiarity (Lo... ki). No, no. He has crossed the dungeons' level whole, shrugged off a meteor's weight of dust off his shoulders, then politely dived back into it to retrieve a pitifully meek slate of token stone — and now he gets to enjoy the privilege of taking standing orders from a watered-down version of his brother.

This is a farce. Worse, it's family dinner.

And so, being the most experienced man in this world and the next (ten), he gently intercedes with an oily grimace and a hand held up high, when his companion seems, however minutely, to consider collecting up the hound's keys. No, no. )

Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii do not think it wise.

iv. network | username: strongest avenger

Henceforth, one and all, your bear privileges are removed.

It is not the way of my people to take that which we did not give. You have your birthright. I honour it.

...unless it is a bear, mad, raving and snuggle-prone. The bear is banned. No more bear for you, or you, or you.

iv. @taken for granite

[rumorate]

[Allison doesn't recognize the username but ... she does recognize the bear.]

White bear, somehow always knows how to find you no matter where you go?

[Just hazarding a guess. At least he's not stalking Wei Wuxian for a change.

... Sorry Thor.]

merrin ☾ star wars ☾ tourist!

[nochnaya]

THE TERRACE

[ Merrin isn’t particularly happy about being “summoned” by undead lords—the dead don’t summon her; she summons the dead—but it does placate her somewhat that there’s a seemingly straight-forward way out, and that this place exists outside of time. She’s worried about Cal, Greez, and Kata back home. That, and she has things to do.

Though it doesn’t show much on her face beyond a faint frown, her worry and ire are reflected in the weather, which fluctuates between overcast and chilly, then clear and humid.

Even when she doesn’t appear to be there. Unsuspecting maze explorers who might think they’re alone may find themselves suddenly not alone anymore when Merrin blinks into existence next to them—or behind them—out of nothing but a cloud of misty green ichor. One second she’s not there, and the next she is.

Without any preamble whatsoever, she says: ] You’re searching for these waypoints as well?

[ Her Dathomiri accent is pronounced and coincidently Slavic-sounding. ]

THE GROUNDS

▶KITCHENS [ The specters haunting the grounds don’t bother Merrin in the least—it almost makes the place feel like home. But Goddess help her, these spirits are restless. It makes her lose a little respect for whoever must’ve raised them, since they seem to be trapped outside the Spirit World, alternating between awareness and not. Did the spell go wrong?

But she doesn’t mind helping the kitchen spirits, if only because they seem so hung up on perfecting their meal. So she only tests the doors once, just to make sure they’re well and truly barred (they are), before taking heed of their instructions. ]

A love story?

[ She fixes her gaze on the other person trapped in here with her, arching her eyebrows in an expectant way. ]

You must have one, yes? [ Is she throwing you to the rancors? ]

▶SLEEPING CHAMBERS [ Merrin isn’t much of a student of history, but the pages on magic—without a k—certainly interest her, even if the vast majority of them seem to be focused on achieving immortality, for some reason. ]

Foolish.

[ It’s a soft aside. Death is unavoidable, a lesson she learned the hard way. According to her people, death is an essential part of life. Natural and necessary. Nightsisters may not celebrate death, but they do not fear it either.

Gathering up as many of the pages as she can find, she settles onto an overstuffed cushion to read them, hoping to find some more insight into what’s happening here—or at least some magic more compelling that the quest for eternal life. Either way. ]

THE DUNGEONS

[ There’s tension in the line of her shoulders when Merrin comes across the patrolling skeletons, though she doesn’t reach for the knife attached to her belt just yet. The tension remains even though the skeletons don’t attack (yet)—call her paranoid, but one doesn’t go through the effort of reanimating and arming a bunch of corpses for peaceful reasons.

She would know.

That said, she ignores the skeletons as long as they ignore her, slipping past a pair of them in the corridor in order to approach a large stone door that radiates magickal energy—which has to be significant. Why cast a spell to protect nothing? ]

There is magick here. [ A pause. She leans a little closer to the door, straining to listen. ] Do you hear that?

WILDCARD

[ feel free to throw whatever you want my way if the spirit so moves you, i’m down for anything!! i can also fw either brackets or prose, whatever your preference. merrin is from the very end of jedi: survivor, so please let me know if you’d like me to avoid spoilers? ]

the grounds - sleeping chambers

[deescalate]

[This place definitely doesn't sit well with Cal, what with the skeleton dogs and the specters that feel like...nothing. Then again this entire world isn't exactly great, but he's here and he has to deal with it.

All the same, he tries to keep his hands to himself as he travels the rooms. There's a wrongness here and he can tell that if he were to get any Force echoes then they could very easily overwhelm him. This does, however, make his current quest for scroll hunting somewhat more difficult, but he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it or something.

As he approaches a new area, though, something familiar prickles at the edge of his senses. Something...or someone. Cal pokes his head inside, eyes immediately finding Merrin's figure. Relief floods his body, quickly followed by guilt. He's so glad to see her, but...he shouldn't wish her here. Still, he takes a moment to just look at her, allowing himself this moment of selfishness.]

...Hey, Merrin.

Diamond | Land of the Lustrous

[diamondize]

A. THE TERRACE

[it's beautiful here.

Diamond was laid out on the grass, eyes closed as they peacefully listened to the sound of the wind and whatever else might be going on, a small smile on their face. In the sunlight they glitter and glow, their iridescent hair and eyelashes sending rainbow lights scattering along the ground.

It's nostalgic, so Dia allows themselves to soak it in. They can't be upset over this new development--after all, Dia and their kind went centuries without any changes. Something like this was novel. The idea of being able to change was too enticing for Diamond to pass up.

But for now they were content to relax, at least until they hear people coming closer.

Their eyes open--the same iridescent color at their hair and nails--and they sit up, turning to see whoever is approaching. Eagerly they climb to their feet, hurrying over] Excuse me! You're a human, aren't you? Wow, I've never seen one up close before. You're so cute!

[Regardless of how you might actually look, Diamond, at least, thinks you're adorable...And is currently circling you and fawning over you like you were an animal. It's fine. Probably.]

B. Sleeping Chambers

[Somewhere, there is an unearthly glowing. If you follow it to its source, it appears to be...a person?? Just on the ground??

Diamond lays curled up on their side, their hair seeming to glow with its own light as they nap. If you try to touch them, you'll find their body unnaturally hard and freezing cold, much like putting your hands on a cold rock. Their 'skin' is also not that at all, but a powder that won't be coming off anytime soon, but done in a way to give the illusion of skin.

They barely stir though, seeming content to just lay there and doze, but... Surely that's not good for them, right? If anything, the glowing might be obnoxious and distracting at least...]

C. Dungeons
[At some point on this misadventure, Diamond's arm has gotten broken.

But, like. Literally. In half.

But the effect is rather gorgeous, once you get over the fact that Diamond is currently wandering around with a jagged point just past their elbow, sparkling like, well, diamonds, and they're carrying the pieces and their hand in a bag.]

Um, excuse me? Could you give me a-- [Diamond at least has the grace to look sheepish as they wave the bag] A hand? Haha! I need to make sure I got all the pieces, but I can't open it so easily with only one hand...

A

[pepsifree]

I'm what now?

[ And yeah, sure, Marty's heard "cute" before, but that's usually coming from his longtime girlfriend, who's earned the right to it. This strangely sparkly person most certainly hasn't. ]

You, um... [ Self-consciously, Marty turns up the collar of his shirt. The fabric brushes against either side of his jaw, but doesn't really help as far as obscuring his features goes. ] You not human or something?

[ Briefly, he considers the possibility they might be one of the undead freaks that supposedly got him here. They don't look very Night of the Living Dead-esque, though. ]

River Song » Doctor Who » Old Timer

[spoilers]

The Terrace

( Something unsettles her in this place, the garden beautiful and menacing, and just out of step. Unbound from time, it prickles against her skin, reminding her of The Library. For a time, the air, hot and heavy with the threat of rain, feels suffocating. But she presses on through the twisting maze, deeper and deeper, following phantom screams. Until eventually, she catches sight of a staircase, long and spiraling. Gorgeous, really. )

Well, hello. I wonder where you lead.

Bathing Quarters

( It looks like something out of a horror film. Or, perhaps, a true crime? She hasn't passed anyone injured, there's no body to be found. So she wonders, is this a glimpse of the past? The future? This place doesn't abide by her rules.

Hearing someone approach, she stiffens almost imperceptibly but doesn't immediately turn around. )

Do you ever get the feeling you've seen this movie somewhere before?

The Dungeons

( River's not exactly thrilled by how readily she accepts the living dead these days. Or magic. But is it really so many steps from science and aliens? Of course there's a magically-barred door with skeleton guards. )

They don't look like they'll put up much of a fight. ( There's a faint, teasing glimmer in her eyes that can only mean trouble. ) The three truths of each day. Any ideas?

( She likes a good puzzle, but sometimes she gets a little impatient for the solving. )

Wildcard

( ooc: Hit me up via formallyintroduced or discord @ formallyintroduced or just drop me a PM if you'd like to chat/plot/want a more customized starter. Or just do your own thing and we can roll with it! )

the dungeons

[pepsifree]

[ With the sound of the skeletons moving, Marty is doing his very best not to freak out. The considerably calm demeanour of the woman with him helps, but also leaves him to wonder what in the hell kind of life she lives to just be cool about all this.

But he digresses. If they were both panicking, Marty'd be boned for sure. (Heh.) ]

I'd ask which three days we're talking about, [ he looks around, ignores the shiver down the back of his neck as he hears the skeleton guards rustle, and starts walking ] but I guess that's vague on purpose.

You think these're some ancient journal entries or something? [ Marty gestures to a rather impressive stone tablet collection to the side. ] There're three shiny ones... [ He even counts each pedestal to be sure, muttering the numbers under his breath. ] ...which might match the three truths.

Unless it's a trap.

zari tomaz | dctv/legends of tomorrow | tourist

[loopholer]

I. The Terrace

[A thundercloud grumbles softly overhead, following Zari around in an irritatingly Eyeore-ish manner. It's so annoying that, even as the thundercloud continues to build slowly, dripping heavy rain at periodic intervals, the weather around her is also becoming increasingly, uncomfortably, warm.

She's not meandering with any particular purpose. She's not in any rush to find waypoint tokens. For all she knows, the home she left doesn't exist anymore, or is so different that it might as well not exist. She might not have any place in it. She's not entirely convinced she didn't accidentally create this place somehow. The dangers of time travel.

Arms crossed petulantly over her chest, she lets her head fall back and utters a groan up at the sky. Her reward for this is another bout of rain directly on her face.

Before she can finish wiping the water out of her eyes, a bloodcurdling scream tears through the hedge maze. Zari takes off running towards the source, not caring who she's running past – or directly into.]


II. The Grounds (Kitchens)

[Zari never learned how to make a decent meal, and every ghost in the kitchen is being very certain to let her know that, even as they continue to pressure her to cook for them. She's doing a terrible job of chopping up some dried bat wings when the ghosts inform her of the next ingredient.

She scoffs.]

Yeah, I'm not telling you a love story.

[Her boyfriend just died. Like, literally just died. And she certainly has not processed the emotional rollercoaster of the love her life getting murdered by a demon and then resurrected by a bunch of singing circus-goers right before she was wiped from the timeline. So, no, she doesn't want to tell - or even hear, really - a love story.

She looks up to the other hapless victim of these culinary spirits, raising an eyebrow in a silent question: do you want to tell them one?]


III. The Dungeons

[The skeletons haven't really been bothering her, so Zari hasn't really been bothering them, perfectly content to just wander around, exploring at her own pace, trying not to be freaked out by all the ever-so-slightly off reflections of herself looking out at her from all the broken mirrors. Why are there so many mirrors in a dungeon? Are they there for the express purpose of upping the creepy factor? If so, it's working.

But once she stumbles across a massive stone door engraved with writing, things change. Now the skeletons are all angry, and she can tell that they're angry because they're marching very deliberately to block her path to the door, swords raised.

Someone else seems to have found the door at the same time. Zari grimaces at them.]

You think those skeletons're gonna open the door for us?


IV. Wildcard!

[Go hog wild folks, I'm up for anything.]

ii - Zari!! I love her!!!

[cosplayqueen]

[Kamala's cooking skills begin and end with being able to do whatever her mother instructs her to do in the kitchen. It's not going well for either of them. Kamala at least has the practice of being Ammi's little helper. She has the energy of someone used to faking it until they make it.

Regardless, she gives a thumbs up when Zari looks her way.] I've got us!

[She proceeds to recap the plot of Disney's Beauty and the Beast. Really, they asked for it.]

lucy carlyle — lockwood & co — tourist

[justreckless]

TERRACE & CO

[ [ despite her bemusement, lucy is used to taking in a lot of information while her head is pounding and nerves are crawling up her spine. that's what ghost hunting is, essentially, especially since it is up to Talented youth to expel and remove ghosts. she's sixteen, it shouldn't be up to children to rid the british isles of ghosts and yet she's been an agent since she was eight years old, advancing to her grade three certificate by the time she was eleven.

so far she's not seen lockwood or george and she's not seen a single biscuit, which she may be more desperate for. not because she's hungry, but because she wants something to nibble on from the stress of it all. there is no tea either, so she's really at a disadvantage here.

she frowns, looking around. ]

Are we meant to do this unarmed? Without any supplies? [ she asks no one, thinking aloud. ]

GROUNDS & CO

[ lucy's Sight is poor. (her eyesight is fine, no need for glasses, but sometimes it feels like the ghosts have to be right on top of her or oozing blood from the ceiling to see them so it's best not to say she can see them even if she can. sometimes.)

like now, with blood pooling beneath the tub, drip, drip, dripping over the edge of the porcelain, splattered across the tile and the ripped curtain. it's like the aftermath of the scene in psycho. she doesn't have anything to defend herself; no rapier, no irons, no salt bombs, no lockwood.

just herself and the ghost rising from the tub like she's come right from the drain, hair lank, a type two, a spectre, clear and defined. even if lucy couldn't see her, and she can, she very much can, she can hear the woman when the ghost begins to speak. lucy's Talent is Listening and even as she backs out of the room, knowing better to engage with a ghost on her own, with no weapons, nothing to protect herself, she can't help but Listen. ]

Sorry, you watched someone give birth? [ how is that relevant, ma'am! ]

DUNGEONS & CO

[ lucy doesn't dare go into the dungeons, not properly, not when she can linger at the edge of the corridor, listening. Listening. ]

Oh, I think Flo would be much more suited to this, [ lucy whispers, fingers playing at a delicate necklace with clear nerves. the undead lords should have picked a relic-man over an agent, they have no fear. ]

WILDCARD & CO

( go where your heart takes you, lucy is a nosy, teenager ghost hunter who resents adult supervision but is also very out of her depth! hit me up at plurk (baleinette) or discord (dostoevskyish) if you want something special xoxo )

Terrace & Co

[recklessenough]

Good thing I'm armed then. [ His voice is a lot more casual than should be possible, given the combination of utter delight, and dread, he was internalizing.

He'd stood off to the side, like some sort of creep, and watched her for a bit as he'd struggled to determine whether she was real or another hallucination. He'd just come from a particularly nasty experience with a statue, one that had left him shaken enough to recognize that his mind could still be playing tricks on him.

In addition, he also wasn't sure he wanted her to be real. This world was incredibly screwed up. As dangerous, if not more so, than their own if only because their Talents did not always afford them the edge they were used to having in a fight.
In the end his desire to have his friend here with him, his selfish desire to have Lucy by his side again, overrode any ideas of noble sacrifices.

He didn't run over and hug her. That wasn't his way. But to someone who knew him -as well as Lucy and George knew him- there were signs of his utter relief and delight at seeing her, in the way he sauntered towards her. ]

Supplies may prove to be a bit of a problem, if only because I haven't found any tea. [ Typical Lockwood, he kept his tone bright and upbeat, doing his best to project positivity. Never mind that he probably looks more than a little rough around the edges; cheekbones more prominent than usual, eyes more shadowed. ]

We've broken time, you see, and are in a bit of a 'time-out'. [ Look how quippy he is! ]

Lan Mandragoran | Wheel of Time | Tourist

[thewarder]

A. The Terrace | A King Without a Kingdom;

[The emptiness he feels is looming. The sky is beautiful, the greenery some of the most exquisite he's ever seen, even in all of his travels, and yet he can't take it in.

Alone. Standing on this terrace even with others being sent for the same quest. He can't feel her through the bond, it's severed and gone. His body is his and his alone for the first time in decades.

The one power seems to be gone but his senses are still in tact that it's easy to feel the person trailing just behind, following in the same direction as he is. He stops when he reaches the tablets though, they profess lives lived and loved in a way that nothing else quite had yet here.

Then it appears. don’t turn your back to them, blood reeks strong on them.

Strange, given that his back was already turned. The magic here, or whatever it's called is so different then what he's used to.]

This tablet seems to think you're going to try to kill me, are you? [He asks as he turns to face the person behind him. If he was less confident in his fighting skills he'd be drawing his blade, but something tells him the danger is in the tablet itself, more then the person.]

B. The Grounds| Bathing Quarters | Nothing to Live For;

[ Baths had always been a reprieve for Lan after a long trip. Time spent with his companion to discuss the day, or the weeks, that they had been traveling since their last ability to take a long soak. They were a place that typically brought peace and calm to his mind.

Yet there was nothing peaceful about the room in front of him. Dried blood lead in a trail into the tube where a ghost of some sort was leering at him from inside the tub as he glances in from the hallway. It seems to be murmuring something to itself although he's not quite close enough to hear from this far out.

Or at least, Lan assumes this is a ghost. He's never actually seen one, which triggers his warning senses. New unforeseen threats are always the greatest of concern to him so he turns to his traveling partner.]

What do you know about ghosts around here...?


C. The Dungeons | And Nothing to Die For;

[Somethings about the dungeons aren't so different from catacombs he's been in over all of the years of his adventures as a Warder.

That is until he sees the patrolling skeletons. Is that this worlds version of Shawdowspawn? If it is, they less aggressive then any Trolloc he's ever met. Yet he won't let his guard down, not with the chance that they could turn at any time. Many things have been disconcerting as he's traveled through this path, but this by far has sent the sharpest chill down his spine.

A piece of flooring crumbles and causes him to take a leap forward out of the way. He turns to look at where the last brick his foot has been on. It's missing now and instead a large gaping hole is there allowing him to pier into the abyss.]

I thought we were already underground? How is there something still below us?

[Whatever that place is, it looks corrupted. Like no good could come from it.]

D. Wildcard ;

[[ooc: Want something different? Throw it at me or hit me up on PM or Plurk endtransmission for something more customized. ]]

a

[mashiara]

That would depend on how much of a fool you think I am.

( Nynaeve says, stepping out from the opening between parallel lines of the maze, tone perfectly level, and perfectly serious. One hand rests at where the long knife at her hip hangs, while the other finds the end of her braid, tugging at it as she makes her slow, soft-stepped entrance to the section of the maze he's in. )

If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead already, wouldn't you?

( Factual, but not an easy fact: Nynaeve doesn't have the driving need to see someone she's saved die, let alone in a pointless place and space like this. Anything else tangled in can be ignored, and summarily is for the moment.

Her lips twitch into something like a grimace rather than a smile, eyes flicking to the piled tablets. )

I have no intention of undoing my hard work.

( This place, on the other hand, might delight in the chance. No, not might. After the dead they'd been fighting in Yancai, it would definitely delight in the chance. )

licyn mansbane | original character | old timer

[bravelyrunsaway]

like the wolf
cw: he can be nude in one of the below scenarios

He trots, odd figure he makes as an overly large wolf with a bundle tied across his back, and a sword sheathed and carried in his mouth, but he doesn't like the look of this new place, a place out of time. Magic continues to do no services in his estimate, first the relentless shifting of time and dead in the place they'd left, Yuncai or whatever it'd been called, to this. He's reminded of the disturbing time on the island that was no island at all, on the back of a whale, only if this all begins to sink, there's no ships to carry them to safety.

Everywhere he trots, a chill follows, even as the vines snake out from the foliage covered walls of the maze he's in. Scent alone brings him across another living soul, where he pauses depending on their circumstances.

a. if vines have captured you, he pauses. The outline of the wolf loses clarity, and soon following the blink that it takes to resolve if one's eyes have started to blur a man holding an unsheathed sword and its sheath, with a bundle tied tightly across his chest and resting across his back, moves with no semblance of modesty to attack the vines with precise, methodical distaste. At least things begin heating up. Or flashing between heat and cold. Vines, at least, fall apart when struck with tempered steel.

b. dodging the old, red-eyed, white-haired and hunchbacked man who is toddling after him attempting to sweep the wolf's legs out from under him with the cane he's carrying. Ill equipped for speech in his current form, Licyn instead leads a marry dancing leaping game of dodge, ultimately darting around behind you. Take care of talking to the old man, will you?

( ooc note: with the second option, I'll start us a thread in the NPC section for any conversation had, and roll the answers into my tags in our thread if you wish! )

down, friends

He's back to being dressed after descending the stairs, now carrying his pack and sword more traditionally, and with increasing irritation as he faces down the skeletal hounds.

"What storm-struck nonsense is this?"

He never encountered the hellhounds of Alem, having been too wise to descend to those depths of Hell, but this display is... unpleasant. Licyn grimaces, using his sheathed blade to nudge back one of the skeleton hounds pressing into his immediate personal space. With a spectral whine, the hound mouths his sheath instead, attempting to tug him down the hall.

"I'll note I don't find this comforting, Old Bones. Leave off," he says, baring his teeth as he does, almost growling, "And lead the way like a good dog."

The skeletal hounds hunch their shoulder-blades, giving no regard for any companion of his beyond an initial glance and then subtly sidestepping closer, to see if they might take hold of a sleeve that doesn't belong to the overly-magical werewolf confusing their senses.

wildcard!

( ooc note: hit me up with anything from the tdm prompt! Licyn can be found in human and wolf form, as you like. )

like the wolf - a)!

[nachocheese]

Nacho grits his teeth, trying and failing to yank at the vines that holding him with increasing desperation. Beads of sweat, form by exertion, pool on his shaved forehead and roll down the sides of his temples. His heart starts to pound in terror at the sight of what looks like a huge fucking wolf approaching him. The struggling, which had slowed from exhaustion, picks up the pace furiously until...

The outline of the wolf melts away into a man. Nacho's brows twitch in confusion, and his eyes widen when he sees the sword. Before he can protest, though, he sees the silvery flash of a metal weapon and he feels the vines loosening as he collapses to his knees.

He rubs the red marks where the vines had grabbed him, panting, taking a minute or two to collect himself. There are faint indents on his wrists from where the vines had grabbed him, a little circular depression working its way around his wrists. He looks up at this rescuer.

"Thanks, man," he says, breathing a little easier. Then, a double take. "...uh. You don't have any clothes. You, uh, want my jacket or something?" A buried part of him is darkly amused by the fact that that is more of a concern than the fact that this guy just changed from a goddamn wolf. But here, the idea of somebody turning from a person to a wolf and back to a person seems completely normal. How long has he been here to accept that kind of logic?

nynaeve al'meara | the wheel of time | old timer

[mashiara]

on the terrace, statuesque

( It's one thing, to have arrived. To arrive suddenly, or slowly, after that hurried rush through the gateway, Light spare them, leaves her frustration rising. Nynaeve stalks the terrace, into the clearly magical maze, muttering under her breath as she tugs at the length of her combined braid. )

Open a gateway, find the way home, but no, Light spare us the nonsense, we're in a pocket dimension. Whatever that means! How many keys do we have to find to leave this version of a world?

( A question for which she expects no answer. She draws up short before two of the crudely carved statues looming on the terrace, near a tall wall of foliage scantly draped by vines. Her brow furrows, studying the features of one... which slowly shifts and morphs into more familiar features from the Two Rivers. Hard to tell who at first, and so she continues squinting, a hand dropping down to the long knife she wears at her hip, still dressed in the lighter robes of Yancai, the satchel at her back carrying her more sensible Two River woolens. )

Not promising.

( She takes slow steps away, edging further into the maze, even as one of the statues increasingly takes on aspects of Egwene. )

Not in the slightest.

bathing quarters, we call this planning

( She's taken to ignoring the young spectre sitting in the tub, droning on and on about the treasures hidden within the bathing chambers. She'd backed out at first, then observed them, only determining in the end that whichever flavour of spirit or creature or haunt this was, it was securely attached to the sound of its own voice, and had no vested interest in moving.

Or shutting up. )

Will you shut up?

( She asks, tossing a glare at the young male ghost as he began to go on at length over what kinds of treasures would certainly turn her head: she can't imagine taking anything out of this place, even if the treasure is real. Other than whatever talismans they need to escape this pocket dimension. What nonsense, again!

The spectre splutters, throwing her a very pretty frown, before crossing his arms over his translucent chest. )

Well, I never! What possible need for rudeness have you? Bath attendants were never so crass before in my hearing!

( The slow turn of her head to stare down the spectre for his comment seems to actually cause him to wilt a little, sinking further into the bath. Where her hand is resting in the bath, testing the changing temperature and clarity of the waters as the silt levels slowly shift, even while the bathing chamber as a whole appears to decay and bleed like a living creature, her fingers twitch, fighting curling into a fist. This feels both absurd and indecent, but she does want something to freshen up with, and the sink won't fit the bucket she's found under its spigot. )

I am not a bath attendant. And you're beyond the help of a simple bathing, you fool!

truths of the day, dungeons

( She regards the three golden tablets standing on their pedestals with a frown. )

It can't be as simple as speaking these out loud.

( Arms crossed over her chest, she ignores the skeletons in their scant arming, ambling past when she doesn't move toward the door again. Whatever compels them, it's clearly a compulsion with the door and the cries behind it. Pleas? It's horrible, either way. The fact she still hasn't found a token or talisman or whatever will get them out of here leaves her temper hair thin.

She nudges at the rubble around the base of the nearest pedestal. Engravings and words are visible on the broken pieces below. Nynaeve grimaces, looking between the engraved door, the engraved golden tablets, and the broken stone beneath. )

Seeking life eternal. One terrible idea after another in this place!

bathing quarters | gonna say marty needs a Bit to be able to see the spectre for the lulz

[pepsifree]

Uh...

[ He can't say he's ever been much for peeping and spying, but the shouting coming from the baths had been mildly concerning. Marty opens the door a bit wider, looking at the woman in there and the glare she seems to be directing at the incredibly empty tub.

Yep. Totally sane. Then again, the lady talking about "undead lords" and "pocket dimensions" hadn't been completely there, either. ]

Hi. Who're you, uh, talking to?

wen kexing ( word of honor / tourist )

[wifedup]

a. the terrace / statues.

( Wen Kexing is having a very bad day.

Oh, he was having a bad day before all of this, but at least it was the kind he knew how to handle. It didn't involve sorceresses, or undead lords, or time dimensions. It certainly didn't involve crumbling, ugly little statues that became more and more familiar the more he looked. ) You're very annoying.

( Yes, he is talking to it, thank you very much for noticing. It's doing nothing to soothe him, the talking, not if the irritated way he slips a fan from a blue sleeve to snap in front of his face is anything to go by. It flutters just a beat too fast to be easy, short sharp little movements that belie the icy expression on his features. The wooden bones creak closed just as suddenly, Wen Kexing cocking his head to the side as though catching wind of someone else's approach. Still, he doesn't look away from the statue, and it's eroding, achingly sweet brow. ) Who does this look like to you?

b. the grounds / bathing quarters

( There's blood staining the tile just beyond his foot. Wen Kexing pays it no mind, choosing instead to level his gaze on the ghost in the bathtub. He doesn't react when the bathroom door opens, but his voice carries across the room conversationally. )

Oh, don't mind her. She comes with the place, I think. She was muttering about wickedness a little while ago, I thought she'd have something more entertaining to tell me. ( He leans over to flick the tap on behind the muttering woman, the water runs dark behind her, visible through her skin. ) Which house hasn't seen a stabbing or two?

c: the grounds / kitchens

( Here Wen Kexing is, hair frazzled by the steam of the soup pot, billowing sleeves tied expertly back, fingers stained green with herbs. The spectres are noisily barking instructions his way, but the man himself only hisses through his teeth. ) I do know how to do this, thank you very much. Nobody likes a back saddle chef!

( He looks up as the door closes, a smile, weary. )

I hope you have a lovestory to spare? They didn't like my one about the Capital courtesan.

kitchens!!!!

[downswing]

( Kitchens are a simple space of companionship, welcome and soothing — of yang and flame and strength. And Lan Wangji's fingertips unflinching and taut, stringing silence like a noose, between careful, calculated taps — here, where soot rises thick and unctuous, slickened by humidity and time; there, where desiccated spices have dripped to shape constellations. He touches the wall, the tables, the carvings on each door's frame.

A cold hearth and a warm crowd. The man who unwittingly bides the time for Lan Wangji's unhastened inspection appears, at long last, at wit's end over how to further entertain their spectators.

For his part, Lan Wangji concedes nothing past rasped, unstitching murmurs, as he takes the knee in gentle descent, the white waters of his silks unspooling over cracked tile. He searches, palm hovered, for turbulence in what little qi still spreads out from the ground. Nothing, so far. )

One of death, despair, parting. ( His story. A spectre politely groans. Three rolls their eyes. A few, in the back, wave him away from proceeding. It appears their audience is discriminating enough to pronounce Lan Wangji's contribution as lacking. ) Perhaps revisit the courtesan.

wynonna earp | wynonna earp | tourist

[pacificator]

a. my heart went from red to black → the terrace

[ It was winter back home, which she knows not only because she’d spent hours only days ago chipping away at frozen ground, hands blistering as she sweated away beneath her heavy coat and scarf.

Now, she stands under the baking heat of a sunless sky and glares at the statues, who stare right back at her with uncannily familiar eyes. She knows that I’m disappointed in you look, those broad shoulders, those intent eyes; she just never thought she’d see them again. And that statue over there – had it been sporting that hat and that mustache earlier?

She turns away before any of them decide to start impersonating Waverly, but shoots a wary glance over her shoulder as she makes her way into the maze, smacking away a curious thorned tendril when it gets a little too close. ]

I mean… we can outrun a bunch of statues, right? If we have to.

b. sweet shot of kerosene → sleeping quarters

[ The occasional screams are really starting to harsh her buzz. She flinches at them as they keen through the air, echoing hollowly off cold stone walls and floors, the same way she would with a bunch of frat boys who’d gotten their hands on an air horn.

Aesthetically, this place is crushing it. It’s the best haunted house she’s ever been to, including that one she barely remembers, aside from a hazy memory of getting down and dirty with a vampire who turned out to be a teacher at the local community college. But goddamn, give it a rest! People are trying to piece together clues, here.

And maybe she’d have managed it, too, if it weren’t for the bear. Why there’s a bear, she doesn’t know. All she knows is one second she’s considering taking a quick catnap and the next she’s fleeing down a hall, waving frantically at the person she’s rapidly coming up on. ]

Bear – bear – bear!

c. that ain't no way to live → dungeons

[ The engravings seem like a bad idea; staying in the hallways doubly so. Wynonna pokes at some of the letters, curving, carved into metal, curious, because, at this point: why not poke and prod whatever she can to see what doors open, what undead creatures of nightmare attack, what explosions do or do not happen?

Also: it would be so great if Peacemaker would decide to start working again, now that there are skeletons shambling around, but no – when she pulls the gun from its holster, the muzzle stays sullenly cold and dark, and the trigger stays jammed. ]

Come on, baby, don't embarrass me in front of my nice new friend.

[ That’s never worked before, and it doesn’t now, either. She slides the sulking Buntline Special back into its holster and grabs hold of one side of a bookcase, ready to pull it over; lifts her eyebrows at her companion. ]

So, on three? Or…?

d. wildcard!

dungeons!

[clavesregni]

[It's an open question as to whether a bullet through the skull will kill a skeleton, and Caitlyn would rather not experiment when the skeletons are far too close for comfort. If her - very mundane, not at all magical - rifle fails to dispatch the skeletons, the skeletons' swords will have an easy time dispatching her.]

Is your gun broken?

[She follows the other woman's lead, positioning herself on the opposite side of the bookshelf and giving a curt nod.]

One. Two. Three. [And she shoves.]

stephen strange . mcu . old timer

[rehandle]

( a spot to house some closed starters, maybe some open ones once I've got myself together! If you want to plot anything pls feel free to reach me via pm, miscreates or sculpts @ disco. )

for America / starlingroad

[rehandle]

[ This time, he resolves not to leave America entirely to her own devices. There's danger here and though she's more than capable of looking out for herself, that doesn't mean he has no responsibility for her wellbeing. She's still a teenager, and he's still the only adult who was known to her before her arrival here.

He loses her up on the Terrace but finds her again once they reach the Grounds. It's been a long - morning? day? Unspecified, timeless time, in a time-locked dimension anyway, and surely sooner or later they're going to need some rest, but on stumbling across what would appear to be sleeping quarters it's clear that resting is far from America's primary concern. He'd promised her a shared exploration in search of what they're all supposed to be looking for, and by goodness that is what they're going to do. ]

... Fine. Let's look around.

[ Honestly, the adrenaline's making it difficult for sleep to be that high on his own personal agenda either. The quarters don't look like much, but with all the abandoned pages strewn about the place it can't hurt to have a bit of a hunt. ]

Anthony Lockwood | Lockwood and Co | Old Timer

[recklessenough]

I. The Terrace

[ No matter what the weather was like just moments ago, there is a gradual shift to rain.

It starts light. Then, gradually, becomes steady. Eventually it develops into the sort of soaking downpour that even an deep Atlantic rain gear wouldn't be able to withstand.

Not long after the worst settles in, the slim figure of a young man, still in his adolescence appears. Despite being soaked through, his dark hair plastered to his pale forehead, his smile can only be described as megawatt. As if it contains the full warmth of the sun within. His voice, when he speaks, is low and posh but cheerful as he makes a genuine effort to be engaging; even with strangers. ]

Hello! Have you taken a wrong turn? I believe I may have done so about three turns back, this maze is quite tricky.


II. The Kitchen - Network/Action [OOC: THREADJACK ENCOURAGED!. Our lovely mod has provided a list of dubious tea experiences. Anyone interested in having an RNG experience of which tea they get? Because marmite tea. Yum ... yum? ]

[ It isn't as if he feels any physical urges for tea. It is strictly a self soothing habit to search out and then prepare tea. It is also a self soothing habit to offer tea to others.

There may be an argument to be made for Lockwood to have tasted each of the teas before he put them on offer. But that's probably going to be a lesson learned; after the fact. ]

Un: Lockwood I don't know about the rest of you, but I've always found that impossible situations seem less impossible over a cup of tea.

To this end. I've scrounged through the kitchen, and I've found a selection of tea leaves on offer.

If you're concerned about the ghosts and their odd demands, not to worry. Ghost hunting is my business back home. I know all the tricks to keep them at bay. Besides that, I think they've found me a bit boring to be honest. Too young to have any good love stories to share.

III. The Dungeons

[ It's no secret that Lockwood enjoys his own reflection. At least, that is the image he likes to project.

He has come down here with a purpose in mind, having heard others mention the young man incarcerated -at least last he heard- down here. The mirrors, however, have caught his attention.

Lockwood's expression is pensive, and there is a lost quality in his dark eye, as he watches an older version of himself -trapped within the reflective frame- stumble about. There is a half broken marionette quality to his reflection that seems to fascinate him in the present, and his usual brilliant smile is absent.

Without the animation of his habitual smile, his eye are deeply sunken in their sockets, the bruised shadows under his eyes highlighted by the hollows through his cheeks. It gives him the appearance of being more skeletal than the actually skeletons rattling around in the corridors. ]

ii. network

[redhourglass]

( ... tea. seriously? but also... )

what kind of tea

and what kind of ghosts

natasha romanova | marvel cinematic | old timer.

[redhourglass]

( top levels will be below, feel free to hit me on iothe or in discord for plotting! o/ )

the grounds / bathing quarters

[redhourglass]

( it's second nature to search the house — even with the lingering gazes of the specters clinging to her skin. she's half expecting a ghost to pop out of nowhere when she enters the blood-streaked bathroom, every cell in natasha's body on guard for it. so she's ready when the woman appears in the tub, keeps to the side of the walls to avoid her unblinking gaze. (why is this entire continent so creepy?)

expecting the ghost as she was, it's the newcomer who surprises her — someone steps foot in the room and depending on proximity natasha is either close to attacking them or moving to try and tuck herself behind the bath and the creepy woman in it.

once she recognizes a fellow traveler, though, she has the grace to look a bit sheepish. )

Whole place has me on edge.

lan wangji | the untamed | old timer

[downswing]

( Just a handful of prompts this round, but PM if you'd rather do something specific! )

open | the terrace

[downswing]

( Hours of silence string along, ruinous. Pink smear of empty skies flushes feverishly above, vast, unending. Thorns glisten and threaten like petty, wildling teeth, looking to graze his passing limbs. The stillness of the grounds haunts him more than the wet, tight knot of the maze he has wandered for either seconds, or for half of an eternity.

He does not question the sudden mound of remains, the numerous, empty or shallowly carved tablets within. He kneels, silks an agony of white beside him, and palms each tablet he finds, new and old, reading out names, inscriptions, dedications —

Until the long shadow of his travel companion withdraws, and the words of warning present themselves. He studies every piece with absent-minded, academic interest, barely murmuring: )

These tablets seek to seed discord. ( A pause, then idly: ) Name you treacherous and false.

( And unspoken, but inevitable between then, Are you? )

nicholas d. wolfwood | trigun stampede | tourist

[ministries]

i. the terrace

[ clearly, a sandworm has gotten to him. that's the only explanation on why, when wolfwood opens his eyes, he's greeted with the sight of the terrace, which is nothing like anything he's ever seen. the spiel makes about as much sense as anything else that's happened to him, so wolfwood nods along, muttering something about waypoints, and sets off to explore this place.

there's something eerie about the place that creeps him out, but wolfwood's a fool of a man, and he keeps going, searching through the maze. he's cool, he's calm—

those fucking vines are trying to eat him. ]

Back off, plants. [ plants. can't trust 'em.

well. maybe one.

he fights his way out of the green walls before the plants can get him, grumbling and moving along. they will reach out and try to bind him to someone, should anyone approach.

the old man captures his attention, though. he's seen erratic behavior, so he follows closely, keeping an eye on him, ready to engage should anything look too weird. ]

ii. the grounds — sleeping quarters

What kinda place just has shit like this all lying around, unused?

[ it's a treasure trove! he's definitely grabbing a blanket and a ton of pillows and making a nest. it proves too soft, his body sinking into the cushions, and wolfwood looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he's stubborn enough to stay. ]

A guy could get used to this.

[ but it's not to be— the bear is there, chasing him out of the sleeping chambers, leaving wolfwood scrambling to escape. he's not ashamed of his screams: the creature is terrifying. ]

iii. the dungeons

[ eventually, he ends up in the dungeons, avoiding the revived skeletons as much as possible, and the mirrors— his older form he can handle, his younger image not so much— and tips over bookcases with gleeful purpose.

searching the rubble reveals a waystone, and an unlocked door, and wolfwood does have to pause, considering. ] This is what she wants. [ it's gotta be, right?

he looks from the stone in his hand to the door. ] Could just go give it to that lady and finally go smoke a fucking cigarette. [ he sighs, and shoves the stone in his pocket, heading further down. ] Fucking curiosity. Thought they got rid of it when they did all that other shit to me, but no, I gotta be an idiot.

[ it's the fault of his friends, he reasons, as he steps forward, yelping when a spike suddenly shoots up. he's a little more cautious going forward. ]

Really shitty idea.

iv. wildcard

[ wolfwood will be around, grumpy and trying to find a place to have a cigarette. throw a wildcard at me and I will roll with it! pm me for plotting. ]

ii.

[topoiran]

Ouhrsson!

[ there is a leisurely and slightly amused voice in the wake of the bear.

seeming to be addressing the bear. ]

You have to meet all the new arrivals, don't you?

[ the man the voice belongs to shows up at the door, long hair and small smile and playful eyes. ]

Please excuse him, he sometimes joins the group. At most inopportune times for some.

[ if you see a naked long-haired man running around, it's probably the bear.

not this long-haired man, of course. ]

Jimmy McGill | Better Call Saul | old timer 👴

[slippin]

i. the terrace

[ Looking up at the sky-high hedges interrupted by—deceptively, he's sure, he knows how this works by now—serene ponds and artful ruins, for a few improbable moments Jimmy McGill is speechless. Enjoy them! Soon they're gone forever and he's sizing up the nearest (beautiful, exquisitely trimmed) clump of shrubbery as if it's a lock he's intent on picking. ]

There's always a trick to these. What, is some rich guy gonna memorize a whole maze? When he could be thinking about stock prices? You, uh, turn right every time—for example. Or [ —he rounds on you, whoever you are, to point— ] see those statues? Maybe they're pointing the way. Or, check this out. [ With a theatrically contemplative frown, Jimmy prods the ground underfoot with the heel of his shoe. Beckoning you to him, he lowers himself to a knee and runs a hand over the earth as if feeling for a seam.

...unfortunately, this leaves him totally oblivious to the vine snaking out to wrap around his wrist—and maybe yours as well. ]

ii. kitchens

[ Maybe you hear voices—one extremely American voice in particular—and decide to investigate. Maybe the door conveniently swings open as you pass by. Maybe a skeledog is nipping relentlessly at your heels. Whatever the reason, you step into the kitchen and see a man caught up in two things: not getting soot on his suit, and what he's currently saying. ]

A. So he's back in the woods looking for her mood ring. But what he doesn't know—you see where this is going? Don't say it. What he doesn't know is the beehive he knocked down, those bees are still there. And while he's thinking about, you know, that kiss, and maybe what color the ring would've turned if she'd been wearing it, a bee—

[ He stops where he is, hand in the air, thumb and forefinger pinched together in approximation of a bee's flight. ]

B. That's a, whattayacallit, a tautology. Like saying a yellow banana, or an orange orange. [ So intent is he on this argument that Jimmy doesn't immediately turn when the kitchen door creaks open. Too bad: he might've been able to scurry out before it slammed shut again. ]

These three [ —he gestures at the specters as though they're a group of good-for-nothing hecklers rather than...uh, whatever they actually are— ] are hankering after an unpleasant truth.

iii. wildcard

[ Pick your poison! Jimmy will take very little convincing to ransack various rooms...getting him into the dungeons will be a tougher sell (might require some dragging) but I'm all for it.

Feel free to PM if you want to plot something specific! ]

i.

[nachocheese]

I don't think the people here care about stock prices, man. I don't think they know what those are.

[ Nacho fights to keep the smile off his face; the amusement out of his voice. He's Mr. Serious, after all. >:[ No smiling!

He blinks when Jimmy points at him, then questioningly points at his own chest as if to say, Who? Me? before following Jimmy's gaze, questioningly, to the statues. He doesn't get the chance to say anything else, though, before Jimmy is leaning down - STILL talking - and Nacho kneels down beside him, only half-listening as he notices the vine starting to snake out, inching its way towards Jimmy's wrist.

Nacho's eyes bug out. Jimmy might not see the vine, but Nacho does, and he knows what they can do.

It happens very quickly - Nacho leaping up like something burned him, his mouth forming a horrified o-shape; the vine twisting around Jimmy's wrist and dragging him towards the wall. Nacho's eyes are still wide; his jaw drops slightly. He starts to make his way to Jimmy, with only a slightly irritated exhale through the nose. ]

Hang on, dumbass. I'll get you out.

[ There's the tiniest modicum of affection in his voice, belying the insult. But Nacho suddenly stops dead in his tracks. The irritation seeps out of him abruptly. He doesn't smile with his lips, but something lights up from somewhere deep in his eyes. His under eyes crinkle in telling amusement. He holds up one finger and points directly at Jimmy. Almost mockingly. ]

In a little bit. [ With that, he takes several steps backward and folds his hands behind his back. This time, his lips actually do curl upward into a soft, faint smile. ]

Su Xunxian | Oh! My Emperor | old timer

[topoiran]

i. the terrace

"Ow!" There is a thorn prickle, and Xunxian makes an exaggerated motion of pain, though whether he will manage to pull his hand fast enough... is yet to be detirmined. And while he is fully aware he can talk to animals, not plants, he still chides the vine. "That is not nice!"

ii. kitchen

"A good love story, is it? Well, I have one that should work very well." Oh, he is already planning on dashing, he is not eating what they are making. But the doors are shut, and he is, in a way, at their mercy. He has promised to not die, so, dancing to their tune while it seems reasonable it is.

And he doubts his published and successful books have quite made their way here. He has a lot of stories to tell. Ones that are sure to please.

iii. sleeping chambers (mostly for Moran)

Prickled and scratched and somewhat exhausted, Xunxian is very pleased to settle against the soft, luxurious pillows. He has collected his own set of writings that were left about, but his smile is first for Moran.

"Have you found something new and interesting yet?"

It is far too soon, probably. But it does not hurt to ask.

iv. wildcard

ooc: ... need an animal whisperer? or a storyteller? or a non-magical guqin player? or just someone handsome who is getting better at fighting but is still not at fighter levels?

iii

[beitangmoran]

The tablets outside seemed to speak of people who lived and die here. I very much doubt the men we found chained here are the only ones who met their end in this place. They're the... mostly successful experiments. Clearly, there were other before.

[He finishes making notes in his beautiful calligraphy and puts down his brush to look at Xunxian.]

Don't you want to at least wash your face?

Holga Kilgore | D&D | tourist!

[spudarian]

The Terrace

[ Huh... She hates it... And why is it so damn hot? Holga stomps around, pointedly ignoring all of that statues that start to almost look too humanoid, too familiar, so she keeps her murderous gaze pointed straight ahead.

Since she's not actually in this "house" yet, she's pretty sure she won't find a waypoint thing out here. No point in bothering to search, she figures.

While making her swift way through the area, she doesn't really note the foliage that brushes against her. At least, not until it wraps around her arm and tugs hard enough to yank her back with a shout. And before she knows it, she's tied to someone else.

Holga looks the new person up and down, not very impressed (it's really hard to impress her, to be fair), before she reaches for the battle-axe on her back. ]

Hold still.

[ The sudden scream gives her pause. Or, well, the scream from several yards away. If you were screaming, that's your problem. But her head whips around and- ]

Come on.

[ Bindings forgotten, Holga attempts to run for the sound. She's a strong girl, so hopefully you're stronger. Otherwise, you're going for a ride. ]

The Grounds - Sleeping Chambers

[ At this point, Holga's not entirely sure what she's looking for exists. This place feels like a maze or a trap, and she almost wonders if this is actually some kind of test. Probably. She wouldn't put it past anyone who owned a place like this.

But as she's thinking it, ruffling through the books and opening some once to grimace and toss aside, she finds a scroll. And next to it- ]

Huh.

[ That sure does look like the waypoint that was described.

But another shout rings out, this one just a few rooms away. She stuffs the waypoint token in a pocket, already moving forward, when a great ruckus breaks out and a bear practically slams into the room. A bear.

Fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or- The bear roars, and Holga darts away, running out into the hall she came in from with the freakin' bear on her heels. ]

Wildcard

[ OOC: Feel free to catch Holga in any old place! She'll be grumpy and glaring and quiet but ever present. If you want to make a buddy, give her a potato. ]

terrace! - HOL-GA HOL-GA HOL-GA!!

[reparo]

[Hermione isn't one to stomp - well, not with as significant an effect as someone used to carrying a battleaxe on the regular, at least - and less so in an unfamiliar garden. Terrace. Maze.

Why is it so bloody hot in this maze?

She has to summon a cooling spell just to keep herself from sweating, the heatwave incredibly oppressive for the time being. Maybe it's how long she's been here - maybe here is cursed.

And then three things happen. She rounds the corner and spots a stranger, someone in the maze lets out a blood-curdling scream, and the vines attack.

In the blink of an eye, she's caught and the world tilts on its axis and Hermione lets out a scream of her own, and then - her hand gets tied to the stranger's hand by vines. The vines subside, the screaming with them.]

Alright, hold on let me get us o-

[The stranger, a taller and altogether far more athletic woman that Hermione has ever seen, speaks in a low and determined voice. Come on.]

No, wai -

[Aaaaaaaand they're running.]

- iiiiiiiiiiit!

Clara Oswald | Doctor Who | Old Timer

[makemeasong]

[ ooc: just two little baby open starters, but if you'd like a private starter or anything, PM me/shoot me a message on discord and I'll whip something up. And as always, feel free to wildcard me! ]

➥ MAZE

[makemeasong]

[ There have been plenty of things that Clara's done, or started to do, on her own that have ended in her rescue. Ice monsters, sand worms, the crumbling and falling about house, the woods...she's been risking it lately. (Though, there are things the Doctor has taken away, and she's blissfully forgotten them.) Today she's aware enough (of the worry others have for her) to ask someone along to explore the maze, see where it goes, and do anything helpful.

It's going well enough until they take a turn together and a vine snags the opportunity to quickly wind and twist around her wrist uncomfortably, joining her together with her partner in crime's hand. It happens before she understands what's going on; the vines wrap and wrap, small thorns pressing into her skin on the edge of hurting badly. Still, she manages to joke by the time it's clear they've been plant-cuffed together. ]

If you wanted to hold my hand, all you had to do was ask.

xue yang | the untamed | tourist

[curtains]

grounds & hounds.

[ Xue Yang initially thinks he is going to have to hack down a whole pack of wild dogs until they wander close, sniff Jiangzai (dark, corrupted, reeking of violence, why is it so spicy) and … drop their snarls. Still terrifying to behold, it isn't until he pats his thigh and tries out a whistle that they act more like dogs than monsters and pad forward with wagging tails, tilting their decaying skulls into where he rubs between their absent ears. He barks out a pained laugh, lung hurting, and kneels down to rub their skulls and shoulders and spines, grinning as they all butt in for attention. ]

Easy, easy. You're just scary-looking, hm?

[ From a corridor over, he hears snarling and screaming; sees a body race past to be hunted down by more of the dogs. Xue Yang turns back to his and fusses them with neither the energy or the will to care about someone else possibly running for their life. ]

Well, you aren't eating me. Good dogs ...

[ They lead him to Lisanther. Pathetic man, really. Xue Yang solely agrees to help on the condition he is released from this place too, and so he and one of the dogs continue on their way … but perhaps you run into him before that. ]


kitchen.

[ The ghosts are currently cooing over the blood-laden soup that Xue Yang made for them, boiled water and his own coughed-up, rust-flavoured phlegm. The stab-wound in his clavicle missed his heart but it definitely punctured a lung so he keeps rasping up bloody clots now and then, much to the delight of the creatures who have long since stopped requesting them. Left alone to sit on a table with Jiangzai beside him on the table, radiating the dark aura of a tense tiger, he eats from the handful of mooncakes he bargained for. It's hard when he can't stop coughing in the process, exhausted, dirty, and wounded, but he washes it down with water from a jug and makes do. They aren't as sweet as he would like but he has bigger problems. At least he has his new friend, the skeletal dog, at his swinging feet where it crunches through an animal leg-bone to simply turn it to dust in its jaws: occasionally it lifts its head and he tosses it some cake which is similarly pulverised, albeit into comical mush.

Xue Yang looks like he needs to sleep, badly, and not only to rest the surly mein of his body with blood soaked into the left half of his clothes over a chest. His eyes hold dark circles as he ruminates bitterly on the lack of a very specific spirit-trapping pouch in his possession. ]


BEAR.

[ It's fucking huge. The damned thing bursts out of a side-corridor and chases him for a good five minutes, taking a swipe that almost knocks him off his feet when claws lash at his robes, and when its paw really does slam him aside it's through a door which promptly lands on top of him in a pile of dust and debris which (thankfully) make it appear as if Xue Yang has disappeared.

The bear leaves.

Xue Yang's dead dog finally arrives, outpaced by both. It noses at him until he wakes enough to return to consciousness. Battered and sore, he crawls out from the splintered wood to sit against the nearest wall, a river of dark blood coughed up with a shudder as his punctured lung tries to fill and fails. His eyelids shutter as he wheezes, head tipped back, and he gives up any sort of defensive posture to simply sit and try to breathe. An arm loosely loops over the spine of the hound that noses in, sitting close. He grips onto it as tightly as he can with a trembling hand, the other deadlocked around Jiangzai.

Behind Xue Yang's eyelids the white bear trying to hurt him turns into swirling white robes and, as he listens to the hallucination, it screams Let me go. ]

BEAR

[brightestmoon]

[ It's a miracle he made it this far. Blind, confused and not exactly happy about finding himself alive again, Xiao Xingchen has been practically stumbling his way through this place. He's never been an angry person, but in his head he can't help but to curse whoever brought him back. The only consolation is that he doesn't think this could possibly have been Xue Yang's doing.

Eventually, he is drawn to the sounds of commotion. He hides when he hears the roar of what sounds like a bear. He also hears someone sprinting for their life, probably chased by the thing. The old Xiao Xingchen would have rushed in to try and help, but the old Xiao Xingchen is dead. This Xiao Xingchen can't even bear (no pun intended) the thought of holding a sword again.

Still, once the bear leaves, he figures that he can at least try to find out what happened to the person the bear had been chasing. So he feels his way along the walls until he reaches a splintered door. Hesitating a bit, he calls out: ] Are you alright?

Jacob Frye / AC Syndicate / Tourist / open to all

[nothinglikefather]

TERRACE

Jacob's been to Kew, explored the Royal parks around Buckingham Palace and some of the pleasure gardens around Vauxhall but this? This is like something out of an opium dream.

He didn't understand half the things he had been told, something about universal pockets and the... trade company? He doesn't trust the East India Company as far as he could spit, they're mostly Templars, so of course they're involved in this.

There's too many questions he has no answers to, but finding this house or whatever targets are within it are the priority, so that's what he sets out to do. That's what he's used to doing, after all, and while everything here seems too much like a Mad Hatter's Tea Party, he's not scared.

Even if, from the corner of his eye, that statue looks too much like Roth for his comfort, with it's too-wide grin and weathered scars, he passes it by without a second glance. It's a statue. Just a statue, and the fact that he's letting the place get under his skin is the problem.

Thankfully, the scream sets him to rights. A brief, terrified, pained scream is something that he can deal with. He sets off at a run, ignoring the statuary and the twists and turns of the path, leaping instead over the ruined benches and bushes.

Coming to a stop where he was sure the noise had come from, a little corner of the maze in the shade of tall hedges, frowning as he peers at the blood on the dirt around the roses, crouching down to put his fingers to it- it's still very much wet, still very fresh.

THE GROUNDS

The twisting staircase is possibly the largest he's ever seen, depending into the ground like a grand mine shaft, and it appears the only way to go is down. London has its fair share of tunnels and catacombs but none like this.

At the bottom, having spoken to the strange man, Jacob clearly is even more distrustful. He doesn't want to do as this man says, choosing to continue his own investigation. The corridors twist and turn and he hears and sees nothing, no one, until suddenly, from the arched doorway, a silvery-blue man steps out, looking at Jacob with eyes that seem to barely register his presence- or barely care.

Jacob, for his part, doesn't move. It's not fear that freezes him in place, but sudden uncertainty. Ghosts aren't real. Anyone who says differently is a bloody idiot, his sister included, but... but he isn't in London, or even England right now, and he has to admit, whatever that thing was, some shadow of a person or a... a memory of a soul, it's nothing he's ever seen before.

"What the fuck is going on here?" He demands, and maybe the slight widening of those dead eyes is a little gratifying.

terrace. | HELLOOOOOooooooo

[pepsifree]

Marty almost thinks he's imagining things when someone stands in the way of what little sunshine makes its way towards him.

Trapped in the maze walls, his eyes widen. There isn't much space in the foliage, but he's absolutely certain that there's someone here. Someone standing. Someone who might even be able to track him?

He tries to call out, but a mouthful of leaves keeps him from doing it. The vines wrapped around his limbs tighten as if aware of his attempts to garner attention, and he lets out a growl as he squirms that much more. If the hedge was any thinner, maybe he'd be able to shake it, but as it is he's trapped so deep within it that the leaves on the outmost parts barely even rustle.

If Jacob's attentive enough, though, he'll see the blood seem to trail deeper into the hedge. It's smudged against the pretty green of the leaves, implying that something bleeding went through it. Considering the sizeable thorn still sticking out of Marty's calve and the blood oozing out around it, a hypothesis of this sort wouldn't be inaccurate at all.