[Iggy takes those painkillers immediately; this is far from the first time he's woken up feeling like alcohol infused dogshit. He still lounges in bed as long as possible - the accommodations are a lot nicer than his own mattress-on-the-floor-clothes-strewn-everywhere room.
Eventually he gets up and showers - door open, not remotely mindful of the fact that its a shared bathroom - pulls on some silk pajama pants and nothing else and wanders off to explore the house.
It all feels strangely familiar. Like a dream that you can't quite remember the story to but only scattered details: the curve of a vase, the phantom taste of cake, the slant of morning sunlight through the hall window.
Eventually he winds up at the breakfast table. A croissant, a mimosa, and strong espresso - that's all he's got in front of him. Iggy's eyes travel up and down the table with curiosity and an almost disturbing lack of concern for the fact that he doesn't recognise anyone and has no idea how he got here.
No, he's completely at ease as he looks across from him and asks in a low, pleasant voice:]
Hey. Where the fuck are we? ...is this Victoria?
bacchanal
cw: nudity, alcohol, at least attempts at drugs
[Iggy spends a long time staring at the thirteenth bust. There is something about the gorgeous tilt of the sculpted cheekbones that makes his chest ache. He has no idea why, though.
He turns to whoever might be nearby and points at the thirteenth bust.]
Tell me this one's Pluto. That shit's my jam - I'm a Scorpio! Otherwise I'm gonna make alllllllllllllll the offerings to my girl Venus. [A dramatic sigh.] My grandma always said I was too Venusian for my own good. But so sue me, I like luxury goods.
...what the heck should we be offering anyway?
[Patron Slut of Sex and Death, Iggy goes for the world's most horrifying combo of honeyed wine and Redbull. He is pleasantly surprised by the meals for the dead and loads up a few to offer. He isn't expecting the animated skeletons... mostly because he was instead banking on ghosts with more flesh on them. He treats them like he would any dead person - a little conversation, a lot of kindness - and it's only when someone else indicates that they too can see them that he realises this isn't the restless dead that he's used to.]
Wait. You see them too?
[He can be found later on in the public bath, nude and one-thousand-percent in his element, arms hooked on the edge of the tub, a drink in one hand. His eyes are luminous and warm. He very blatantly checks out any male identifying people who glance his way for longer than a second.
He can be found at another point on the karaoke machine (especially if he's managed to score anything speedy) equally at home with the retro musical selection. Look, he knows enough Britney for everyone, okay? At least he can hold a tune.
Regardless of what he's doing, he's always ready to turn a dazzling smile on anyone who looks his way.]
veni, vidi, veci
cw: open to violence and animal attacks, body horror
[Who loves a theme? This bitch.
Which means Iggy shows up to the party in appropriate attire - if being barely draped in a swath of fabric and made up all pretty counts. Not that he really minds what role he winds up in - he's equally happy to lounge about and be fanned and fed grapes as he is to fawn all over someone else. Truly, it depends on the other person - do you look like you need to be told what to do? Then he's going to extend one elegant hand and beckon you over and ask for you to refill his glass, sweetie, thank you. Do you instead exude an air of authority in your Roman attire? Then Iggy will fetch wine and fruit, or move the sluggish summer air around with a palm frond.
The man is a mirror and will reflect whatever you want right back at you.
The nude wrestling is something he's happy to watch - although he abhors violence, men engaging in sweaty naked grappling is pretty hot - but that stone building gives him a bad feeling...
When the Wolfman escapes, Iggy wastes zero time in running the fuck away. He's no fighter, and he is not from a world where a seven-foot snarling man-beast is remotely normal.
Which is how you might discover a pale, skinny ginger hiding in your closet. Or maybe a slender hand reaches out from behind a curtain to grab at you.]
Shhh! Jesus Christ, there's a wolf running around here! What are we gonna do? Should we like... call animal control?!
[Hopefully he's not grabbing at anyone feeling feral.]
wildcard!
[open to like... everything, srsly. Happy to do prose or brackets or carrier pigeon - will match format.]
Ignatius "Iggy" Melville | OC | new character
[Iggy takes those painkillers immediately; this is far from the first time he's woken up feeling like alcohol infused dogshit. He still lounges in bed as long as possible - the accommodations are a lot nicer than his own mattress-on-the-floor-clothes-strewn-everywhere room.
Eventually he gets up and showers - door open, not remotely mindful of the fact that its a shared bathroom - pulls on some silk pajama pants and nothing else and wanders off to explore the house.
It all feels strangely familiar. Like a dream that you can't quite remember the story to but only scattered details: the curve of a vase, the phantom taste of cake, the slant of morning sunlight through the hall window.
Eventually he winds up at the breakfast table. A croissant, a mimosa, and strong espresso - that's all he's got in front of him. Iggy's eyes travel up and down the table with curiosity and an almost disturbing lack of concern for the fact that he doesn't recognise anyone and has no idea how he got here.
No, he's completely at ease as he looks across from him and asks in a low, pleasant voice:]
Hey. Where the fuck are we? ...is this Victoria?
cw: nudity, alcohol, at least attempts at drugs
[Iggy spends a long time staring at the thirteenth bust. There is something about the gorgeous tilt of the sculpted cheekbones that makes his chest ache. He has no idea why, though.
He turns to whoever might be nearby and points at the thirteenth bust.]
Tell me this one's Pluto. That shit's my jam - I'm a Scorpio! Otherwise I'm gonna make alllllllllllllll the offerings to my girl Venus. [A dramatic sigh.] My grandma always said I was too Venusian for my own good. But so sue me, I like luxury goods.
...what the heck should we be offering anyway?
[Patron Slut of Sex and Death, Iggy goes for the world's most horrifying combo of honeyed wine and Redbull. He is pleasantly surprised by the meals for the dead and loads up a few to offer. He isn't expecting the animated skeletons... mostly because he was instead banking on ghosts with more flesh on them. He treats them like he would any dead person - a little conversation, a lot of kindness - and it's only when someone else indicates that they too can see them that he realises this isn't the restless dead that he's used to.]
Wait. You see them too?
[He can be found later on in the public bath, nude and one-thousand-percent in his element, arms hooked on the edge of the tub, a drink in one hand. His eyes are luminous and warm. He very blatantly checks out any male identifying people who glance his way for longer than a second.
He can be found at another point on the karaoke machine (especially if he's managed to score anything speedy) equally at home with the retro musical selection. Look, he knows enough Britney for everyone, okay? At least he can hold a tune.
Regardless of what he's doing, he's always ready to turn a dazzling smile on anyone who looks his way.]
cw: open to violence and animal attacks, body horror
[Who loves a theme? This bitch.
Which means Iggy shows up to the party in appropriate attire - if being barely draped in a swath of fabric and made up all pretty counts. Not that he really minds what role he winds up in - he's equally happy to lounge about and be fanned and fed grapes as he is to fawn all over someone else. Truly, it depends on the other person - do you look like you need to be told what to do? Then he's going to extend one elegant hand and beckon you over and ask for you to refill his glass, sweetie, thank you. Do you instead exude an air of authority in your Roman attire? Then Iggy will fetch wine and fruit, or move the sluggish summer air around with a palm frond.
The man is a mirror and will reflect whatever you want right back at you.
The nude wrestling is something he's happy to watch - although he abhors violence, men engaging in sweaty naked grappling is pretty hot - but that stone building gives him a bad feeling...
When the Wolfman escapes, Iggy wastes zero time in running the fuck away. He's no fighter, and he is not from a world where a seven-foot snarling man-beast is remotely normal.
Which is how you might discover a pale, skinny ginger hiding in your closet. Or maybe a slender hand reaches out from behind a curtain to grab at you.]
Shhh! Jesus Christ, there's a wolf running around here! What are we gonna do? Should we like... call animal control?!
[Hopefully he's not grabbing at anyone feeling feral.]
[open to like... everything, srsly. Happy to do prose or brackets or carrier pigeon - will match format.]