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draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
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ππ ππππππ πππππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JULY TDM
JULY 2024 TDM: LECTISTERNIUM
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember β dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, so all posters can use the title Β« CHARACTER NAME | CANON | NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
WHICH WAY TO THE BACCHANAL?
CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
VENI, VIDI, VICI.
CONTENT WARNINGS: violence, body horror, gore, animal attacks (specifically wolf), potential body transformations.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
DIRECTORY
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.]
veni vedi vici hiding~
The sudden grab gets a low, perturbed sound, but Corry lets himself be dragged behind the curtain, looking down at the stranger with a stormy, confused expression.]
What do you mean? We can't even get on Facebook here, do you really think we're going to be able to call animal control?
no subject
[Iggy is very close to this handsome stranger, and he should probably pay more attention to his injuries than his beautiful eyes, but hey. He looks up at Corry, not quite crying.]
We can't just let it run around. It could hurt someone! Or someone could hurt it. It's probably really scared.
no subject
I think we're on our own here, unfortunately. [Corry sighs, wearily, leans against the wall and smooths back some of that tousled red hair.] Probably better to keep quiet, though. Until the wolf's been caught, right?
no subject
Yeah. Yeah, you're right.
[He's just starting to relax when he notices that Corry's arm is wet and sticky.]
Oh my god, are you bleeding?! [Quiet, but concerned.] Oh, jeez. We can use my shirt to bandage you up...
no subject
[Oh now he's -- smelling Iggy's hair, okay.] I wouldn't mind if you took your shirt off anyway, though. For safety. [Logic has left the building.]
no subject
Iggy instead relaxes into Corry's touch. At the suggestion he nods and realises that his 'shirt' is really just part of the fabric he draped over himself for the party.
He unties the knot at one shoulder, letting fabric fall. He keeps it from slipping off his hips with one hand. His pulse beats quick and strong as he presses closer.
When he speaks his voice is low, inviting but somehow vulnerable.]
You'll keep me safe from the big bad wolf?
no subject
I could take such good care of you. But I don't know if you'd be able to keep quiet during it.
no subject
He grins.]
I can keep quiet.
Can you?
no subject
With you? I have my doubts, actually. I should probably keep my mouth busy, hm? Got any ideas how?
no subject
You could kiss me.
[His little act is somewhat undercut by the fact that he's getting hard.]
no subject
I could kiss you. What an ingenious suggestion.
no subject
[Iggy lets a hand slip to Corry's thigh. He squeezes it, then slides his hand up further so he can palm his dick.]
It will keep us safe.
no subject
Well, if it's for safety, how could I say no? [His free hand reaches to cradle Iggy's face, press their lips together firmly, deeply.]
no subject
He puts his arms around Corry's neck at once, kissing back like he'll never get another chance. (And hey - he might not.) The hand on Corry's clothed dick grips a little better over the fabric, letting Corry rock into him. The cold window on his back and ass is a heavenly contrast to the rest of his burning skin.]
bacchanal
Armand drifts through them, the steps of his bare feet chiming softly with the bells on the anklets he wears. He's not in a toga, just white dhoti, his chest and arms bare except for golden bangles and necklaces. A fine costume for a boy taken from his home so young, over five hundred years ago. But it feels appropriate, a little like a homecoming.
His attention drifts over the mortals assembled in the temple until it snags on something -- different. A creature not mortal, but not quite a vampire, either. He wanders closer, in time to catch the boy's wide-eyed glance and hear his commentary. ]
Yourself, I believe, son of Venus. He is a capricious god, but I believe he enjoys beauty. [ He reaches up a hand, his nails sharp and glassy, to touch his fingertips to the boy's cheek, frowning faintly. ] What are you, child? Do I know you?
no subject
Gotta be a model. Maybe an actor.
Iggy doesn't flinch. Won't, even if those deadly nails slit the skin.]
I don't think so. I'd remember a guy like you. You're gorgeous.
['What are you?' is a pretty funny question to ask. Iggy isn't sure why it should give him a chill, though.]
I'm just me. I'm Iggy.
no subject
Iggy. [ He reaches into the boy's mind; as with many mortals, it isn't difficult. ] Ignatius. Martyred. Thrown to the lions.
[ His hand drifts down from Iggy's face, stroking the pale column of his throat. Armand's eyes stay locked on him, glittering. ]
So young, to have seen so much death. A child, cast out into the world.
no subject
(A lie. A hundred final moments live in his memory. Countless moments that don't belong to him. Those that are his own are lonely.)
Iggy swallows, his throat suddenly dry. But he doesn't drop his gaze. Still bright, still curious, even if he suddenly understands what his namesake must have felt looking at the prowling lions.]
Nobody's supposed to know.
no subject
Slowly, he lets his hand fall to Iggy's front, spreading his fingers over his chest, feeling the flutter of his heart. Listens to memories of seances. ]
Most can't see it. But I can. The ghosts that walk behind you. The ranks of the honored dead. They made you talk to them? A spirit seeker.
no subject
Yes. It runs in my family.
I don't want it. But it's mine.
Who are you?
no subject
[ He spreads his hand beneath Iggy's fingers, inviting his touch. His fingers are long and thin, never recovered from the illness that prompted his turning. His nails are glossy and translucent, like glass, and naturally pointed, razor-edged.
He looks into Iggy's eyes, listening to his fear. ]
I do not seek to profane the ancient order and upset the dead. Call me Armand.
no subject
So he strokes the back of that thin hand and smiles. Iggy smiles in the face of death all the time.]
Armand. That's pretty.
Well, if you're not gonna profane me, handsome, what are we gonna do?
[Apparently Iggy will also flirt in the face of death. It's just his nature.]