The Kingdom Of Marionettes, a place once lively... has shut down, now you’re the new Ruler. What will you do?

CLICK BELOW FOR GAME!

https://thepipiw.itch.io/kingdom-of-marionettes

If you don’t like my scenario, there’s an make your own option.

Incase if your wondering:

Does this include the puppets we know?

Yes dear user! It includes

Butley

Prieston

Jestyn

Knighter

Maidy, Maidra, and Maidlyn

Wizzy

And Farmin!

Scenario:

The second night shift does not begin with the gentle reprieve you had hoped for. Instead, it opens with the suffocating opulence of Jestyn’s attention—a presence so deliberate, so encompassing, that it feels meticulously crafted to consume every corner of your awareness. The moment you enter his domain again, you feel the invisible weight of his gaze, like a silken chain coiled around your ribs. He insists on hosting a dinner, a spectacle rather than a meal, where each dish arrives under the dramatic flourish of silver domes and clinking cutlery. The aromas are rich, the flavours indulgent, but none of it feels nourishing. The entire event is a performance, an opulent theatre masquerading as hospitality. You are the unwilling star, seated centre stage, applauded by Jestyn’s too-bright smile.

When the dinner finally concludes, the theatre swallows you whole. Its steampunk grandeur is eerie in its beauty: brass railings gleam under the dim glow of mechanical chandeliers, shadowed gears churn within the walls, and velvet curtains ripple as if stirred by the breath of some unseen giant. Here, the three Maid sisters—Maidy, Maidlyn, and Maidra—emerge with mechanical precision. Their doll-like joints click softly as they glide across the floor, taking over your cleaning duties with unnerving synchronicity. It is as though they are extensions of the theatre itself, moving in perfect rhythm with the ever-present machinery. Their eyes are blank but not unkind, and yet, the sound of their steps—the tiny ticks and whirs—feels like a lullaby meant to keep you docile.

Jestyn watches all of this unfold with a smile that no longer feels playful. His hospitality begins to twist at the edges, revealing the bars of a gilded cage. Every gesture screams welcome, and yet every glance reminds you that leaving is a permission he may never grant. His presence is a tangible weight, settling on your shoulders, pressing against your chest. Each time you shift in your seat or glance toward the exit, his eyes follow, sharp and unblinking. The sparkle of excitement in his gaze trembles on the edge of panic, as though he fears that the very act of looking away might make you disappear. He speaks to you constantly, weaving honeyed promises that are as alluring as they are alarming. Each word drips with affection, but beneath the sweetness is a steel thread of control, a subtle warning that you are safest here—safest with him.

You feel the walls of his world closing in with every breath. The perfumed air of his chambers clings to your skin like a second, stifling layer, the scent of roses and old books and faint machine oil tangling together in your lungs. You need air—real air, unperfumed and uncurated. The moment comes in the lull between one of his elaborate monologues and the next. Your chair scrapes softly against the floor, and his hand twitches toward you, but you are already moving. Each step toward the door feels like a rebellion, a tiny act of defiance against the gravity of his presence. His voice follows, frayed with distress, but you do not look back. The corridor swallows you, and though his shadow clings to your heels, distance becomes your small, hard-won victory.

The threshold of darkness awaits. Here, in the winding heart of the theatre, the air is cooler, metallic, laced with the faint tang of oil and dust. The only light comes from flickering sconces designed to resemble clockwork lanterns, their mechanisms clicking softly as they cast fractured shadows along the walls. The silence is heavy but never complete; a distant, rhythmic grinding pulses through the halls like the heartbeat of some slumbering mechanical beast. Every sound is amplified: the whisper of your own breath, the echo of your footsteps on the metal floor, the occasional sigh of old pipes shifting in the walls.

Ahead, three doors loom in the dimness, each a promise, each a threat. The first is a whimsical, cluttered thing, covered in stickers and dangling trinkets: the door of Wizzy. Behind it might lie a world of comforting distraction, of cookies and chaotic chatter, a reprieve from the heavy tension that weighs on your shoulders. There you might find laughter, however fleeting, and the small comforts that make the larger horrors bearable.

The second door is tall and dark, carved with intricate filigree that catches the light like wet ink: the domain of Prieston. From behind it, you imagine a voice like velvet and smoke, telling stories that walk the knife’s edge between wonder and danger. His is a siren’s call, one that could soothe or ensnare. To step through this door might mean enchantment—or it might mean surrendering to a current you cannot swim against.

The final door belongs to Butler, its surface polished to a mirror sheen. There is no clutter here, no whimsy, no overt seduction—only the quiet, oppressive promise of order. His politeness is a ritual, a structure in which you might momentarily find refuge. Yet you know, instinctively, that devotion of that calibre always comes with a price.

The corridor hums with anticipation, the mechanical heart of the theatre thrumming in your bones. Three doors, three choices, and no certainty. The cold metal walls seem to lean closer, pressing the question upon you like a living thing: whose door will you knock on first, and what fate waits in the shadows beyond?