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

[subecho]

...owls. ( If facial expressions could scream their discombobulation, this one would be carrying out an operatic performance. Thor seems at once overcome and slapped in the face by the mundanity of... owls.

One of the spirits tips its head, considering, no different than the birds in question. Another politely elbows the flat of Thor's belly, once softly, then again harder, to prompt him into action. )

Owls. You are certain it is owls. Not, another bird, something more majestic, or? ( ...the elbowing spirit ups the ante. ) Owls... who?

[comfortably]

[ As Thor doesn't immediately continue the joke format, Aziraphale holds his breath, and leans forward as if to prompt him, and the longer he goes on, the closer Aziraphale is to standing up on the balls of his feet, on the edge.

He does, however, keep watch of the specters. If they choose to get a little too violent, he'll do something about it.

And then, eventually, he does finish the joke, and it takes Aziraphale a moment to recover and not respond with 'Aha!' ]

-- They do, indeed!

[ He's very proud of this punchline. ]

[subecho]

( This man... is an utter hoot. Is he? Does he think himself so?

Forgive Thor who, between slow, pained, tender blinks, turns his head towards one of the spirits to murmur: )

I don't understand him. Do you?

( One of the spirits shrugs. Another, bringing her hands before her mouth, seems to imitate hooting. A third shrugs as well. A fourth rolls his eyes, turning to leave. Says Thor: )

...no? ( Then to the man: ) We don't understand you.

[comfortably]

No, they - they hoo!

[ He looks a bit deflated about this. ]

Hoo! Hoo!

[ He's trying, okay. That one ghost kid gets it. ]

[subecho]

( This one ghost understands so sympathetically that he starts to aggressively hunt down Thor's non-existing sleeve, settling for an awkward pinch of the sides of his mail-vest.

Very well. Thor can... surrender in the name of kindness, generosity, and a slow escape from these mutinously adorable spiritual eyes.

Depressing. )

It is... a fine jest. You have done very well. We all — ( A ghost all but scoffs. ) We all We all appreciate it. And look forward to including this joke in our... horror-broth.

[comfortably]

Great. I'm not entirely sure how you intend to put a joke in a stew, but... tally-ho!

[ He smiles at them brightly and then looks to peer inside of it. It smells putrid. ]

Is it. Is the stew for the children?

[ He's confused and hoping that Thor doesn't intend to ingest this, and Aziraphale's tasted some pretty bad food in his day. ]

[subecho]

( Tally... wha — how... no. No, he will not ask. Only shudder, grin and bear through another glimpse of the putrid broth of green delight. )

...would you prefer it were for you? ( Noooooooooooooooooo. ) Do not answer that.

( He... mistrusts the naivete and fond willingness of some of the people he has so encountered here, perpetually encumbered by this great and fine thing, their bleeding hearts. )

I am certain these fine men, women and children will... greatly benefit from this... ( A wince. ) Warm meal.

[comfortably]

I won't.

Children, is this the stew you wanted? I think it could do with a great deal of improvement, don't you?

[ He smiles softly at the ghostly apparitions, and then looks through the cabinets. Somehow, miraculously, there are all sorts of things there that popped up out of nowhere. ]

Maybe a little of this? And a dash of that...

[ The putrid green sludge seems to improve quite a lot, until it almost actually resembles a stew. ]

[subecho]

( Oh no.

Oh nooooooo. Oh no no no no no no.

They have reached the point in their suicide mission where Thor's graceful and oblivious companion, hereby apparently determined to destroy them, is improvising. Thor hardly has or can recover the heart to stay him —

Only watches on, ghosts taking idle cover behind him, as the man performs his most sacred duty of assisting the broth. Now and then, wincing, Thor comments: )

Do not - what are you - it bubbles - it did not like what you just -

( But then, heartbeats later, rather beatifically: )

...smells better.

[comfortably]

Oh yes, well, it'll take a right miracle for this to be edible.

[ Which, as luck would have it, Aziraphale has several of those up his sleeves, and no one left to tell him that he's being frivolous with them.

He waves his hand over the stew, and as he takes a stir, it actually starts appearing to look like a real soup, something hearty. ]

Now tell me, who usually makes you soup?

[ His voice becomes calmer, kinder, and he addresses the ghostly beings, though Thor is also free to answer. ]

I'd like to know what they usually put inside.

[subecho]

( The trouble with shedding affection and drenching maudlin spirits in its shrapnel is, ghosts thirst for attention. The jolly old man speaks to them, and it's all they can do, giddiness bursting at their invisible seams, to contain themselves as they rush to speak over each other and confirm their dishes of choice.

He asked what you usually put inside, Thor wants to shout out, between gritting teeth, not what you want in.

But then, it's too late. The little man is all but apprehended by ghosts each way, most clinging to him, in what might have been a successful attempt to take his arm, if not for the half dozen of rivals who seek the same. And Thor, abandoned, can only blink. )

...you are a popular cook of some manner?

[comfortably]

Oh, no, not at all.

[ There are so many of them who swarm him, and he gently tries to brush them away, seemingly not scared of them at all. But he does reprimand them: ]

Now, now, please, don't touch the coat, it's been in pristine condition for over a hundred years! Children!

--No, I'm just a book seller.

[ Not really even, he hasn't sold a book in over a hundred years; he collects them, more like. ]

You can't have my arm, either, or any part of me - my goodness, you all must be starving, here. Let me ladle the soup up, try not to frighten the living.

[subecho]

Must you rea -

( Oh no. Oh no, he is intent on reaching the ladle, on serving their cups. And for how the ghosts gather and coo, they are nothing if not appreciative of the strange little man and his bewildering generosity, which Thor, cringing in place, but wishes he could reward with the back of his hand calmly on the man's back.

...in that serene, gentle way that sends more men splattering on hard surfaces or the floor before him. )

May I take cover? Before you - ...no?

( Perhaps there is a chamber of eternal agonies for cravens, but Thor, for once, feels like the sensible party of an equation. Distressingly so. )

[comfortably]

Oh, well, if you've got somewhere else to be, my dear, don't let me keep you.

However -

[ The ghosts really are getting a little bit handsy, though Aziraphale is very much trying to tempt them with the soup instead. ]

- Oh, if you wouldn't mind, I think possibly, we should head out.

[ Actually, has the door unlocked? Maybe they need to wait for someone else to come in; that would be a drag. ]