the house of manouk | test drive meme

[groundrules]

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

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

THE HOUSE OF MANOUK

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THE TERRACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE GROUNDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

▶ Bathing quarters

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

▶ Kitchens

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

▶ Sleeping chambers

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

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

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

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

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THE DUNGEONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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NOTES:

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

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

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

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

■ QUESTIONS & NPC INBOX!

Comments

[downswing]

A violation. ( Slap of a cheek might be a kindness compared to the swift, decisive pronouncement of this: foremost among the practices of Gusu Lan, Inquiry. But what is it, if not transgression, the forcible extrication of truth from mouths that would sooner stay stitched?

He knows, each note meandering into the next in playful fluidity, like gossamer catching spears of light — there is cruelty in the beauty of his song. That to deprive spirits the pleasure of their silence is so often to unmake them.

He does not waver, fingers calm, air potent with anticipation. If he releases them now, he knows, they will rip his throat with flinching arcs of spattered blood. They would take no singular, no accidental, no carefree pity on him.

A simple thing, to play, to question. )

They are not... gladdened by their living companions. ( The necromancers please them not. Ah, to think. )

[wifedup]

You're communicating with them?

( It's an educated guess, though if he were being honest it looks like interrogating might be the better word. )

The living? The people wandering around their house, you mean? ( Or someone else. Wen Kexing knows so little of this place, of why he has been brought here, he knows he's ignorant. It doesn't upset him half as much as it might have done once upon a time. ) I haven't met anyone yet who is willing to be here, maybe you could have them understand that. It isn't a choice. But perhaps they can help get us out?

[downswing]

Not us. ( Quick correction, cutting. He has... scant time to himself, his own attention ripped from the husk of his body and deposited to the shrill, spindling song that curls, blossoms and blooms, flowers greedily.

Not them, who enjoy only the fleeting, wandered, make-believe hospitality of this House that is hell, divorced from the time that might have dictated its meaning. They travel, and they have come, and they will not stay.

Such, say the ghosts, is the way. )

The other — ( A pause. He listens, pristine, immutable. ) One. ( No. ) Three. Necromancers. ( Three jailers, he suspects, but does not rile and ruin the spirits with inquiry. This much is plain, self-evident.

And his breath paralyses, limbs shackled. He listens again. )

There are waypoints in this quarter. Search the grounds. ( Lan Wangji, after all, must keep these spirits their company. )

[wifedup]

( So the people are not the only things trapped in this house. He had wondered briefly about the kitchen shades, but in the grand scheme of things their concerns had meant little to Wen Kexing. He had obliged their demands to pass the time, to gather what little intel he could. He wasn't like Lan Wangji, who could merely demand an answer, a skill he'd like to know more of. Another time.

It is a curious thing, to watch this communication. The ghosts are more and more agitated, and the man - well, he's certainly doing something. )

Where? ( Why is his real question, but it sits unused behind his tongue. ) Wait, what about you? They weren't harming anybody before, but you've got them worked up now.

( Will he let a severe looking cultivator become soup? Maybe. Who knows. )

[downswing]

( Dark eyes, bright enamel. And his hands coy and quick. This much he remembers of Wen Kexing: the unctuous, slippery quality of his presence. Now, he paints the picture of a gentleman assailed by the inconvenience of spiritual woes, as if he has never painted his hands red, as if death does not know his face.

As if he does not wield it. Often, too often, Lan Wangji forgets: this too, conventionally handsome and untarnished, can be a killer's visage. The tension of the moment defies him: first gathers, then entirely dispels.

He is left, qugin unsummoned, like an actor who has completed the last act's dance but failed the queue of his exit, and must now gaze unblinkingly at his devote audience. A little out of place. A little more lost. )

You require an escort. ( ...a question, despite the finality of his tone. )

[wifedup]

Mm. No. Perhaps not? ( He smiles, easy, like they're old friends. ) I suppose I could find my way around this place, bear and ghosts aside. I do like to adventure, I have a wanderers heart, you see. But isn't that vaguely ungentlemanly of me? You've opened the door, and I could leave, but shouldn't I thank you?

( Truthfully, there is something ... upsetting about all of this that Wen Kexing cannot currently name. Lan Wangji says he knows him, but there is no recollection even in the darkest corners of his mind. Usually, trying to prick at the past brings pain, but right now all there is is a tension. He needs to know more then, needs to pry the secrets out somehow. He watches Lan Wangji with a keenness that maybe does not match the curve of his mouth, before he heaves another airy sigh. )

Unless you wish to take over as kitchen master, but let me tell you you'll have no thanks.

[downswing]

Then, thank me on behalf.

( Only, it does not suit Wen Kexing's stormed presence, his hubris, his nature. This, Lan Wangji — recoiling, drifting up, dragging the dregs of his relaxed manner into poise once more — remembers on behalf of two.

Spirits spiral, coil around him, a chaos of turbulence. They feel electric, their energies unfocused, radiating outwardly. Lan Wangji, an uneasy scholar, traverses the kitchens to where Wen Kexing still plays matron over the boiling cauldron, and they may supervise its hiccups and bubbled wrath, and the greenish, curdled sheen of its froth.

...delightful. The stench that builds and spreads repels. )

Zhou Zishu? ( Sir, where is your better half? )

[wifedup]

( Somehow, that is even worse.

Wen Kexing's shoulders draw a hard line, bones sharp. He thinks once more of the knife he has spirited away, of the fan in his sleeve, of the power in his palms. ... He thinks of Zhou Zishu, who despairs when Wen Kexing kills the only source of answers.

Very carefully, he takes a breath. )

Who do you work for?

( An educated assumption, even if it turns out to be wrong. There are many men after the pair of them, and they do not make their association a secret. At least, Wen Kexing does not, heart bleeding on his sleeve and his giddy, childish need to bother, to see and be seen. They go hand in hand, by now. He does not look at Lan Wangji, but the stillness means he's aware. A viper coiled. )

You say you know me, then you should know I am not a man to be toyed with. If any of you have touched him I will flay the skin from your bones while you still stand. ( Could he be here, hidden away from Wen Kexing's questing gaze? No, he'd know, wouldn't he? He looks up then, eyes flat and flinted. ) Am I clear?

[downswing]

Limpid. ( If seemingly logged in the annals of Lan Wangji's private understanding with profound, long-learned, scathing indifference. He does not shiver beneath the weight of a blood-burdened glance. Swallows and feels, in the back of his mouth, the ashes of another man's anger.

And attends to the spirits, still, calling them close with curls and coils of fragile fingers, bidding their time. Work must be done, despite the petty interference of one man's hubris in the strict, claustrophobic confines of a kitchen run derelict and its wars of soot. )

Then, he did not return with you. ( Perhaps, more the blessing. )

[wifedup]

We've never even been here.

( Somewhat hissed, Wen Kexing's rising frustration threatening to swallow him all up. It is one thing to think his own mind has been tampered with, that's normal, but Zhou Zishu? Clear-headed, stubborn, ridiculous Zhou Zishu? He'd have mentioned something. He'd have reminded Wen Kexing in that infuriating, slightly judgemental way of his. And so Wen Kexing finds himself desperate to move, agitated, rage badly banked, the kitchen claustrophobic even now the door has opened.

He makes a noise, an enraged snarl, hands like fists beneath his robes. )

Tch. This place.

( More to himself than anyone else, Wen Kexing finally fully abandoning the stove and kitchen alike, pacing away in agitated movements. ) If what you said is true, then we have escaped before, yes? Then it can be done again.

[downswing]

( Can it? Speaks Wen Kexing with clarity, with certainty, as if the world trades him alone her secrets. Perhaps it is within his grasp, better than that of Lan Wangji — a limpid, imminent escape.

Unbidden, generosity blooms in him like a sickness. Hope rots within him. He raises his gaze and meets Wen Kexing's stormed anger, and he does not flinch. Zhou Zishu's absence is a nightmare, sprawling. To think of life devoid of Wei Ying tatters his bones. )

It can. ( Do not lie. ) It will. ( There is no obligation between them to appease, to satisfy. He owes Wen Kexing nothing but the courtesy of his soulmate's acquaintance. And yet. )

These spirits are imprisoned here. Not the living.

[wifedup]

( It does little to appease Wen Kexing, but it is enough to give him pause. It could still be a trick, he has not survived this long by letting his guard down. Lan Wangji could be lying. And yet --. The statue with his zhiji's face bearing down upon him, the weather following too closely to Wen Kexing's oft hidden moods, the very real ghosts in the building. These are all things he has never seen before - and he has seen many strange, ridiculous sights - what more is memory loss and frequent visitation? A sickness curdles in the pit of his stomach, but he wrangles his sharper edges back, rolling his shoulders in a visible attempt to wrest control again. )

Not the living.

( Is he? Not before he crawled out of the Valley, living was hardly the word for it. He has been trying and while humanity isn't easy, he'll wear it if he can escape. With short, sharp movements Wen Kexing offers up a shallow bow. It's a far cry from the easy going caterer from earlier, but the stabbing behind his eyes and the ache in his chest are distraction enough. ) Many thanks to the young master for his aid, but if I am to seek my way back I can no longer stay.