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

I'd take the breath-stealing.

( Said directly to the worm ghost, but he's holding a hand out in Licyn's direction for the apple, a badly disguised grimace shaping his mouth. ) And because I've already tried. They want this finished, I think, or they won't be satisfied. Though they keep changing the recipe, to what end I do not yet know.

( Spoiled fruit retrieved, he sets about cutting apart the dead skin in search of the maggots, single-mindedly focused. It should be more upsetting, he thinks, but then it isn't like he hasn't seen food in worst states, gods, he's eaten food in worst states. If the spirits want to unsettle him, they'll have to try harder. Hairrrr another one whines, and Wen Kexing rolls his eyes. )

Do you know how much coin the oil alone cost? ( He glances again to the stranger, sweeping his gaze over him curiously. ) You look like you could spare some.

( Ignore that Wen Kexing's is longer pls and ty. )

( After handing off the apple, Licyn, standing at a very respectable 170cm, clambers up on the nearest counter, sniffing at the air, brow furrowed. He opens one of the hanging cupboards, swaying on the chains that attached it to the ceiling, finding more dust than anything else inside. More plentiful are the hanging shelves, and he carefully slides his feet across the counter, ignoring the gasping outrage of one particular ghost, holding hands to their still breast, claiming, sanitation! sanitation!

He has shelves to explore, tracking after a fresher scent than the one that'd led him to the apples. The question tossed his way, the one that was no question at all, earns a glance back over his shoulder and a wide, insincere smile. )

What, with you and your hair down to your hips? No fancy styling, is it for the sake of good holds in other situations?

( There's a consistency in certain features and the length of hair they wear, female and male, that he's seen in their party, but a number that counts less than two handfuls is one that's never had an explanation he's heard. )

My admiration to your dedication if so, love, but if you're looking for bits of bodies to toss into that brew, check the floors. People always shed.

( He examines the jars on the next shelf over, one filled with what might have been vinegar, another two with older, not newer, herbs. Still, the scent is stronger in this direction. He's getting closer to the source of it. )

( Wen Kexing sniffs noisily, mock offended before he waves off the ghost still demanding hair. ) Oh, find it yourself.

( He doesn't actually think they're malicious, the ghosts he means, he isn't sure about the man sniffing around the kitchen like a stray, starving dog. Wen Kexing eyes him up as he stirs whatever noxious liquid is inside the pot, rounding his shoulders in defiance only when another spectre lingers too close for his own comfort. He's never liked his kitchen full, and they're only behaving like busybodies, gossiping aunties too busy bickering to be useful. At least Licyn is more interesting than they, now. Or maybe it's just Wen Kexing been stuck here a quarter of a shichen and he's bored. Any chance would catch his attention. )

Why do you keep calling me that? We're not acquainted.

( It's not accusatory though, if anything he's merely curious. )

The name's Wen Kexing, if you're to call me anything at all.

I call everyone that.

( Said mildly, and while distracted. There's a fresher scent of herbs his nose has picked up, and he slides himself down the counter, arm extended toward the bottles juuuust out of his easy reach. )

Wen Kexing, love, seems a fine enough name. I'm Licyn Mansbane, and — ah!

( His fingers tap a bottle closer, then curl around its glass with a satisfying slide. The shelf nearly comes undone from the ceiling in the process, but he twists and leaps off the counter while the shelf swings and the remaining bottles on it clack and threaten to fall. None quite make it, though a few of the ghosts start attempting to berate him for the near thing, Licyn outright ignoring them as a manner of personal sanity. Since none could touch him, and none where in themselves magic, he felt fine enough playing see no evil with the haunts. )

Here we are. ( He holds up the bottle toward one of the light providing sconces on the walls, highlighting the cinnamon sticks within. Cinnamon sticks, and... interesting. He meanders his way toward the only other living being in the room, unworking the top of the lid (stuck, for a moment, and he carefully applies pressure to turn it off and not crack the glass itself), pouring the sticks out enough to grasp the slip of paper curled up with them. ) Spice and curled paper secrets. Or not so secret, it remains to be seen.

( He grins, holding up the slip of curled paper between two fingers while he tips the cinnamon sticks back into their holding jar. )

Feel like letting the horror sit for a moment to see what it is? I'm hoping for a salacious note. At least that'd be interesting.

( And not deadly or necromantic or whatever else has been happening lately, which is a blend of all three. )

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

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

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

You're one of those sorts, are you?

( Licyn sounds amused, if anything, even as he clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and unfurls the scroll. Carefully, given the thin nature of the paper and the torn edge it already shows, made more apparent as it unrolls in his calloused fingers.

There's a wax seal he sees, grimacing when he does: written poorly on the back of the scroll a note. He reads that aloud, for the benefit of his living companion. )

"All debts repaid. We know." With wax from the Dawn's Reach Trading Company — leaves an unpleasant taste on the tongue.

( He shows the writing to Wen Kexing, continuing to frown. )

You're too new to know anything about them. They're interested in all sorts of nasty, magical dead things. Hearts and tongues and shards of dark mirrors. What those all mean, don't bother asking me, I'm just a mercenary, but any merchant's group too invested in items of power is a dangerous one. Likely to renege on contracts. Or try to kill you.

( The exact sorts of people he tries avoiding when taking and making his own contracts. He pockets the cinnamon, in the meantime. Pricey stuff, that. )

So what do they know?

( There is a lot about this place that Wen Kexing does not understand about this house and the surrounding grounds. He'd been aware that it held magic that was not of his world, the ghosts alone, the statue chasing him, the woman in the bathroom,- with each new fact only comes more questions. Why exactly is he here? To who's aim is he working? He'd thought, no, he'd hoped it little more than fact-finding and then he'd be sent on his way, but the more the mystery entangles him the less he believes. )

Well now I'm reconsidering the origins of everything in this kitchen.

( Said lightly, like worry isn't currently a noose hanging his heart.
Wen Kexing does not have anything magical of note, beyond his master of the martial arts. But he is useful. The idea that some unseen force might try to sway his hand, make him a lackey has already sat ill with him. It only rises now. )

Perhaps the Master of this house has some inner dealings with this company you speak of. ( By now he's learnt that not everyone he comes across in his adventures is responsible for his being here, some are like him and know very little, some have been brought much earlier. Licyn sounds like the latter ) Or someone else who lives within. But I haven't come across anyone meant to be here. Have you?

( Licyn grimaces, wishing he had the same ignorance. It's less that he's personally done much, but with his hearing, and how he's slunk around while others were herded by the skeletal hounds, he does know. )

He's the former... apprentice, I suppose, of the man whose home this is. He is toddering mad and in the gardens. You didn't run into a white haired old man hunched over and muttering to himself? Lucky.

( Licyn works on rolling up the thin parchment again, keeping it in hand. Their spectral kitchen audience is back to babbling what they wish of the recipe currently ignored. Licyn leans to the right in order to dodge one's kick, the ghost's foot losing definition with the motion, and the ghost sailing right on by with a garbled outpouring of likely unfriendly words. )

If you feel like talking with the man, I can point you his way when the doors open. Even give you the bit of scroll if you like.

( He extends it to Wen Kexing, not inclined to keep magical anythings on his person when he can avoid it. Nevermind that Wrath told him in no uncertain words he himself was constantly shedding magic, visible as a lightning strike during a midnight storm to anyone sensitive to magic and other energies. He can pretend otherwise. )

No, I was too busy being groped by statues. And not in the charming, flirtatious way I'd have liked, either.

( Is it a sore point for him? Absolutely. Fighting with Zhou Zishu is a little like a proxy for fucking Zhou Zishu and he enjoys it almost as much as he assumes he'd like the other. That he was forced into hiding by a careless imitation is going to leave him irritated for days. He can't even cajole the man himself over it.

But the flurry of activity to his side has him lifting his gaze and raising an eyebrow Licyn's way, opening his palm for the fragile bit of paper to drop into the cage of his fingers. He remains undecided, but it is interesting that the other man would give away such a bargaining chip so easily. A trap, maybe? He doesn't know. Wen Kexing hums, thoughtless, tucking the paper away somewhere safe before he turns to survey the kitchen again. The ghosts are agitated, imploring him back. He ignores them for the time being. )

Are you not curious, then? ( To Licyn, voice easy-going. ) Perhaps the madness has something to do with the note.

It's lamentable how few individuals understand flirtations around here.

( A shake of his head, the cluck of his tongue. With the scroll handed over, he's as at ease in his own skin as he was before. Perhaps more so, as he continues ignoring the chatter of the ghosts, increasingly more flustered as they are for the whole abandonment of their Dream of the Cooking Pot.

More, something different, something else. Full of demands without promise. )

People hardly need paper to induce their madness. Some craft it themselves. Some slide there over time. Some never see they're there. Do I wonder which kind the men here are? Ones who've earned their madness, perhaps, or their anger. There's plenty of that festering, love.

( Then he turns away, back to searching through cupboards and now the lower shelves, trusting his nose. )

( He almost wants to laugh. He knows madness, has witnessed it in all it's varying shades. Licyn is not wrong. Though self-crafted, that's the one he's intimately more familiar with, the mantle of Lunatic Wen his more close-fitting robe. He has been thankful there is no need for that here, though the longer that he lingers the more it threatens to slip free. )

And what if there is a bargain to be had, for the safe return of it?

( Because this he does not understand, giving away something potentially useful. Is that a madness in itself? )

Surely that has some promise?

( Licyn pauses, crouched down and peering into the lower cabinet he'd moved on to. There's valid thoughts to that, and he smiles, not as carefree as he seems about all this. )

Then bargain with him, love, I won't stop you. Only I question why any men were left here, in this place, cut off from the rest of the world. The lovely Karsa works hard for us and herself in getting us out. What benefits do we have in here?

( He doesn't mind handing half a scroll over, either, because in the end: it doesn't matter to him. As long as he survives, and Karsa does, as the Merchant's contact. That he'd not wish for harm to come to a number of their party is more self preservation, in his view, than anything personal, surely. )

Sometimes a jailor does not look like a jailor.

( He is master of Ghost Valley, after all, and yet it's bars cage him in from all angles. Zhou Zishu was Tian Chaung's leader too, and he threw himself from the Window to escape. Appearances are not always what they seem, and the kindness of a benefactor can be laced with poison. And so he has no allegiance to this Karsa, in fact, he had only gone along with her request because there had been no other alternative. His trust is a near depleted thing, and he would be foolish to give it.

But it is interesting that people still offer faith. )

Sometimes a cell does not look like a cell.

( A smile, sharp edged. The cooking has well been abandoned now, Wen Kexing reaching to turn off the heat before pulling his fan free from his other sleeve to wave it lazily in front of his face. His expression gives away nothing behind it. ) How long have you been a part of this?

Sometimes a nose lies, too, love, and you keep clear of what you can.

( A negligent shrug, before he returns to his shelf scoping. Nothing much else of interest, other than a somewhat pretty blue and white bowl he reaches out to take hold of. )

Been here what... since... they left some islands, Ke-Waihoo? Wanu? Which must have been oh, s...

( He trails off, paling a touch. )

Storm take it, am I getting closer to a year?

A year?

( He sounds surprised, and a little suspicious. )

A year and you'd pass up the opportunity of an arrangement. Curious. Is the general air of violence about the place to your liking?

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

It sounds to me like control has little to do with living or dead.

( They're being used either way. Alliance for the sake of protection, but still tasked for it nonetheless. ) All right, if you do not want it. But I think this place has passed it's usage. ( The kitchen, the ghosts. They grumble, but the door clicks open regardless. He has given them his allotted servitude. Wen Kexing straightens with another easy smile. ) Maybe it's time to take some air.

( Whether he runs in to the man Licyn mentioned or not remains to be seen, but. There are more questions than answers, and he only really plays at idleness. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

the house of manouk | test drive meme

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