westwhere | the house of manouk

the house of manouk | test drive meme

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

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

THE HOUSE OF MANOUK

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THE TERRACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE GROUNDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

▶ Bathing quarters

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

▶ Kitchens

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

▶ Sleeping chambers

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

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

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

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

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THE DUNGEONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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NOTES:

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

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

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

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

■ QUESTIONS & NPC INBOX!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

What happens next is arguably one of the coolest things Marty's ever seen a human being do.

As the vine is ripped out, the sound of tearing plant material is louder than Marty ever expected it to be. He's in shock at first, the emotion persisting even as Jacob starts cutting up the vines around him, but the moment he lands on his knees (his wound stings at the movement, the thorn stuck in him moving), his muscles seem to work on their own.

Adrenaline. That's got to be the explanation. As he grabs Jacob's wrist, Marty pulls him through the hedges, ignoring the fact that he's trailing blood behind him. The vines lunge for them as they go, but by then the distance they've gone is significant-- it doesn't manage to pull them in at all, but a last ditch effort flings vines around both their forearms.

"Oh, shit--" The vines rip instead of pulling them back in. Two forearms aren't much leverage, after all. "--haha! I can't believe that worked!"

In his excitement, Marty fails to notice they're effectively tied together now. Instead, he rides the high of relief, running until either a) he gets tired; b) Jacob asks to stop; or c) he's gotten far enough to feel "safe".

It takes some balls, as well as adrenaline, to make the dash for safety that the other man manages. Through the thick thicket of leaves and branches, the pursuing vines only just behind them, just managing to grab but not managing to stop them.

Running isn't something Jacob is unfamiliar with and as it's a daily occurance, he keeps going. If it seems his companion is slowing down, he grabs hold of him by the arm to egg him on a little further.

When they're in an area with far less greenery, and more ruined stone, Jacob let's them come to a stop, taking a moment to catch his breath but beaming wide from ear to ear.

"Not bad. You interfer with the shrubbery often?"

It's said teasingly, extremely improper as they haven't been introduced, but Jacob isn't overly fond of manners. But he clearly isn't being malicious either, but is clearly trying to make light of the situation. And then, in what could have been called a surreptitious glance up and down over the other, he spots the blood soaking Marty's jeans.

"Find a seat, we'll look at that."

"Oh, ha," Marty huffs, somehow managing to sound sarcastic even in his breathlessness. "I don't even know" -- pant -- "what got them all crazy like that!"

But as his wound's pointed out, his head dips, and he blinks as if he's only just processed its existence.

"Ah..." Marty grimaces. "Shit."

The trail of blood he sees behind him is incredibly humbling. "You don't think plants can smell blood, can they?"

Marty catches a bench nearby, thank goodness. So he heads towards it, only to be surprised at the feel of a sudden tug on his left arm. A sense of dread builds in his stomach, and for a millisecond he's concerned the evil plants from hell have caught up. Fortunately, looking down only shows that he and Jacob are tied together by vine at their forearms. The guy's decidedly a better thing to be stuck to than a monster from an environmentalist B-movie.

"Do you, uh... still have your knife?"

"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."

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?"

Edited 2023-08-09 03:46 (UTC)

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."

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."

Edited 2023-08-09 11:12 (UTC)

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."

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..."

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."

Marty's got to get this guy-- this Jacob Frye-- to give him pointers on in-the-moment first-aid, among other things. Back home he'd always had the luxury of preparedness for even the most bizarre, if only due to Doc's incredible foresight, and what little he knows otherwise is based on pop culture knowledge alone.

He's pretty sure Clint Eastwood movies aren't the greatest gauge for real world scenarios.

"Cold water soak," he repeats quietly, having bent low some to allow Jacob better use of his other hand, "I'll remember that. Thanks."

This close, he considers his companion's features as he continues to apply pressure to the wound on his calve. Jacob isn't much older than him at all, and yet it feels like they're worlds apart. Then again, Marty was born over a hundred years after Jacob's present day.

"I'm Marty," he finally says, offering a smile. "Marty McFly.

"Sorry we had to meet for the first time like this." He laughs sheepishly, shaking his head. "Never thought 'nearly get eaten by evil plants' would be a life experience I'd ever need.

"But this place has been crazy since I woke up here, anyway..." Marty trails off, suddenly realising: "This isn't your home, is it?"

"Pleasures all mine, Marty." Jacob replies, and it's true. He's had a decent scrap because of Marty, with an enemy he'd never have fought at home. Got the blood pumping and whatever little scrapes and bruises they've walked away with aren't dangerous.

"Nor I, truth be told. I normally only get to fight people. It's a nice change." He says and, because he's finished working on the man's leg, and their tied arms are making this whole thing difficult, he shifts up to sit on the bench next to him.

"Bloody hell no. I woke up here today, no fucking idea how or what I got here." He pauses, glancing over the other man's unusual clothes, "What about you?"

Anyone who calls fighting Satan's houseplant "nice" has got to be a little insane, Marty thinks. But it does make his mouth quirk up into a slight smile, if only because insane people are the ones he seems to get along with most anyway.

"I just got here, too," he admits. "To be honest, I still don't know if I dreamed all this up." A beat. "And you, too. No offence.

"Kind of leaning towards it not being a dream, though. I don't think my brain could pull off your accent."

He purses his lips, brows furrowed. "Did you see that lady before you found me? The one who talked about... um, tokens." Marty knows she said more, but he doesn't remember all the names she'd listed. There was something about zombies, certainly, but the undead sound more absurd than tokens-- better to ask about something a little more sane.

Jacob might well be a little... odd. But not insane, he thinks. He just knows things very few humans are meant to know, and he was brought up to kill people. That does things to a person that probably isn't healthy, and Victorian coping mechanisms are gin or opium. Or both!

"Nightmare, more like. But I think we have to assume it's real until we wake up home and in our beds." He says with a lopsided, apologetic smile. It's a lot to deal with, a lot to take in. "And I'll take that as a compliment."

He nods in reply to Marty's question. "Something that will help us leave this place, yeah? Stone... tokens, with eyes on." He remains that, amongst the sea of information. But thankfully, there's something familiar about this. It's like a mission, go find the thing, kill the target, bring it back, go for a pint. He can do this.

"Do you want to stick together? Two heads, better than one." Not that Jacob tends to work with people he just met, but it seems a good way to keep Marty from getting snatched by another tree. Besides, he's intrigued. He's never met someone who dresses like that or talks the way Marty does. Not even Ned, another American.

Marty doesn't even bother pretending like Jacob's suggestion doesn't lift a huge weight off his shoulders. He isn't incompetent by any means, but he agrees with all Jacob's said.

So, quite enthusiastically, he says, "Jesus, yeah, I wanna stick by you.

"And not even 'cause we're cemented together." He lifts their joined forearms with a short chuckle, then sets them down again. "But soon as we're outta this maze, we can probably find some kinda rock or something to break this with, anyway." The imminent dangers of hammering something atop their arms with a relatively heavy object doesn't even occur to him.

Marty sticks his free hand out, his fingers curled into a fist. It's as much a gesture of camaraderie as any, even if he fails to realise such a thing probably has no meaning in Jacob's place in time.

"I'll watch your back." And then, bolstered by the fact he doesn't have to go at this alone, Marty grins. "I owe you one, anyway."

The way Marty replies makes a wider grin form on the Londoner's face, and he nods his assent that this is a good move all round. Neither of them know what they're going to face, and while Jacob's not see what Marty can really do yet, he's keen to. And besides, having gone to the trouble of freeing him, he'd like to see him survive a little longer.

"I was thinking there's probably something we can use. Probably best to get rid of that sooner than later, I've never had to fight while literally having a hand tied behind my back. But for the moment... you think you can stand?"

They should move on, rather than linger here much longer.

"Do you have any idea where we should head? Apart from to the middle which I suppose is the point." They are in a maze after all.

Their forged alliance brings with it a clear sky, a gentle breeze, and a kinder heat from the sun above them. Marty notices it with a curious, upward tilt of the head, but doesn't dwell on it. More important is brainstorming and getting to his feet.

Having rested some, feeling his calve muscle go tense as he rests his weight on it makes Marty wince on instinct. But it's an easy enough pain to get used to, and one that a quick shake of the head is quick to dismiss. He's going to be fine.

"I kinda thought gettin' out of the maze was the point," he muses, but he doesn't argue Jacob's suggestion. "But if you're talking directions..." Marty looks down at the grass and where his blood had trailed behind him-- if nothing else, it tells them where not to go-- and then starts walking in the opposite direction. The first few feet they travel doesn't seem to offer any threats of peril, and with each turn they make, Marty vandalises the corresponding corner of leaves formed between their originating path and their new one. A big, hand-shaped hole should be easy enough for them to spot in case they go around in circles.

Curiously, and after their relative peace hasn't been disturbed in a while, Marty poses, "Have you seen anyone else in here besides me? Y'know, besides that lady with the token spiel."

Edited 2023-08-12 10:49 (UTC)

As they're still secured together, it's easy enough to give Marty something to lean on, if those first few steps are harder than he expected. But, to Jacob's relief, the other man seems to quickly get to grips with the aches and the pain that come along with the injury, and they head forwards. Marty's idea about leaving a trail seems like a good one, and Jacob nods his approval.

But just to be sure, he flexes his wrist again, letting the hidden blade slide free, and scratches a mark into the uneven flagstones underfoot. "Just in case those bushes grow back somehow, I don't think I trust any of the plants around here."

"Really? I always thought the point was finding the middle. Getting out is easy then." After all, every way you go on the way out takes you further from the centre. But that's getting a little philosophical. "I've heard screaming. Seen people in the distance when I was on higher ground. But not meet anyone, save you and her. You?"

"No-one," Marty says, "but I followed the screaming, too." He gives Jacob a pointed look. "And then I got vined to hell and back."

For obvious reasons, he doesn't much care for a repeat experience.

"Where's this maze even get off, bein' all weird like this?" The question's rhetorical, but not any less exasperated. Watching Jacob make another mark has Marty thinking he's got to start taking more knives with him in case he really is stuck here. "If this is anything like a movie, I bet'cha we're gonna see one of three things.

"One, a minotaur. Classic maze creature." And one Marty really wouldn't look forward to fighting, so he knocks on wood (er, hedge). "Two, some hot lookin' chick, but she's dressed in either a flowy nature-like dress or like she climbs every mountain, fords every stream...

"Finally" -- and probably the most middle ground-esque of his three possibilities -- "a creepy old person. Probably insane. Probably talkin' to themself. But also probably knowin' way more than they let on."

Edited 2023-08-12 12:10 (UTC)

Jacob listens, frowning as each of the possibilities is suggested and elaborated on. None of it sounds good, but aside from minotaurs, Jacob is familiar with crazy old people and strange women. Although he doesn't think Pearl Attaway is likely to climb into any fountains.

"We might find all three. Hopefully not, but if we do, can you fight?"

He doesn't assume that Marty can, or that he can fight to Jacob's standard. Hopefully Marty had a normal childhood and wasn't taught to kill people from the age of six. But if he was, Jacob won't complain right now.

They head onwards, deeper and deeper, Jacob making the choices about which way to go- listening intently to the sounds around them as well as his instincts.

It isn't long until they come to the piles of stone tablets, left abandoned in what seems like a little clearing in the maze, and Jacob nudges Marty in the side.

"Jackpot," He murmurs, assuming that these are the things they've been sent for.

When asked, Marty's confident as ever as he says, "I can fight."

But whether he's as cool as Jacob is at it is another matter entirely. Considering their different backgrounds, though, he doesn't dwell too long on any irrational feelings of insecurity (or at least he tries-- it'd suck if Jacob needed his help and he dropped the ball, and the sentiment lingers in the back of his mind like a bad smell).

The tablets, once found, confuse him, but so does Jacob's declaration of success. He assumes that this discovery's got to be a good thing-- Jacob's expression certainly implies as much-- but why it's a good thing is out of his hands.

"Jackpot," he echoes, pumping his fist up lightly. "Yeah! Uh...

"What are these things?"

Upon closer inspection and some reading, the messages on each tablet resemble the kinds of things you'd read in an obituary. Reading an inscription out loud has him muttering phrases like "beloved brother" and "a warm-hearted mother", and the whole thing makes Marty's skin crawl.

"...I got a bad feeling about this."

Were people buried here?

Edited 2023-08-12 13:43 (UTC)

They're stone tablets, and that's what they've been sent to find, surely? The stone tablets with the symbol on, the tablets that will get them back where they need to be. Sure, it's a little easier than he expected but he's not the one that got grabbed by the greenery.

"You were listening right? These stone things are meant to get us home."

Of course, as they set to examining them, there's writing on the tablets rather than the image of the eye they've been told to look for. Jacob feels his initial buzz of triumph begin to wane as Marty reads the stones.

They do sound like memorials, but they're not grave markers, surely? There no obvious graves here. Then again, maybe the plants don't leave much behind to bury.

"Er-" He begins, as Marty says those fateful worlds, and Jacob turns away slightly, the scratchings on one stone looking remarkably like his companion's name. He reaches forward to pick it up, but they're still tied together, and he doesn't want to make it obvious what he's doing.

"You never did tell me when you were from." He says, conversationally, craning his neck. Yes, he's sure it says Marty. But the rest is still obscured by the stones piled haphazardly on top.

These things look more like profiles than tombstones, considering the fields about occupations. Marty's head cocks as he reads a tablet about a so-called "alchemist", and how apparently this man had a heart more rich than any treasure. Even the sweetest folk are destined to die someday, he knows, but this stark reminders like these are exactly why he never went to graveyard parties on Halloween (that, and nobody ever invited him).

"Hm?" He turns when Jacob speaks up, none the wiser to his plight. "Oh, uh..." There's a moment's hesitation as he considers telling Jacob when he's from, but hey-- they're a team now, and Jacob had been more than forthcoming about his own situation. If this is a dream, then there aren't any consequences; if this isn't a dream, then maybe Doc'll make an exception if they're both out of their respective time periods.

So, free hand rubbing lightly at the side of his neck, Marty admits, "I'm from 1986. Sorry. I probably should've said so sooner, huh?"

Jacob's attention isn't on the tablets any more, his eyes turned to Marty, reading him. The tension in his shoulders, the angle of his spine, the slight hesitation before he speaks. Whatever that stone says, he doesn't know, doesn't know if he'd trust it even if he'd been able to make out the words, but he thinks he's a good enough judge of people.

Okay okay, he was round about Pearl, but he's not wrong about Henry, or Roth, or any of the rest of them.

And he's good enough to know that Marty is hiding something. He just radiates it right now, and Jacob cocks his brow.

Then Marty says it. Over a hundred years. That's a bloody long time. That's why it was hard to picture him as an American, despite the accent. A hundred years! Everything has changed in that time. The American war is probably, hopefully over. The fashion for top hats probably is too, mores the pity. It's almost unbelievable...

And its enough to make you want to hold back on telling someone. Jacob let's his own tension fade and he laughs, patting Marty on the shoulder.

"I can see why you thought you had to keep that to yourself. It's a long time. Don't worry. It's... it's alright. I won't ask about anything. Messing up the future, right? Anything you tell me, I might try to change, blah blah blah the end of the world? Something along those lines."

Marty doesn't know what he expects, but it certainly isn't laughter. And it definitely isn't the almost infuriating logical sense in Jacob's answer. The man talks about "messing up the future" like he knows about it by heart-- truthfully, Marty had been thinking less about the real ramifications of revealing the future and more about what Doc would think if he failed him. It's as humbling as it is hilarious that Jacob's got better etiquette than Marty does about all this.

"I... I don't know about the end of the world," he says honestly, "but I got a friend who once said it could 'threaten your very existence' knowing too much about your own future.

"But for what it's worth, I've never met or heard of a Jacob Frye." Not that he can recall immediately, at least. Besides, Jacob would probably be dead by 1986, wouldn't he? "So it's not like I can tell you much, anyway."

He smiles, lips pulled into a crooked little tilt, and then turns back to read through tablets again in the hopes a token might magically pop up.

Once he's moved the tablet he'd last been looking at, Marty's head tilts. The one just beneath it looks... startlingly like he'd written it himself. "Uh...

"Uh, what got you askin' about my time?"

the house of manouk | test drive meme

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(did you app? are you in??? )

yes and yes!! and i'm down to make this game canon if you are 😎

Fantastic! And yes please, that'd be great!

🥰

<3

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i imagine we can end this w/ them finding the old guy who makes the house appear before walking in?

perfect!