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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
louis de pointe du lac | iwtv | in game
wildcard-ish
He puts on a brave face, however, in the early part of the evening. With silent agreement he separates from his companions to explore and mingle, skirting the edges of the temple, visiting with the gods and goddesses in their silent glory. His thoughts are closed, a distance between himself and his surroundings.
But there are still a few things -- a few people -- who can pull him out of his reverie. He's dressed with no more than a nod to the setting, bare chested and barefoot in white cotton dhoti, gold jewellery at his throat, ankles and wrists. Eyes outlined in kohl, lips reddened with makeup. References to a boy he barely remembers, the man that boy could have become. Daring his own memories, reaching out to hold the thorns before they have a chance to prick him.
He's used to being on display and doesn't mind it, especially when it's a familiar gaze and familiar hands on his body, beloved lips against him. He tilts his head to acknowledge him, though stays where he is, looking out at the banqueting crowd with a faintly troubled crease between his eyebrows. ]
Not even an attempt at historical accuracy. Children, playing with ghosts. And these -- [ He gestures at one of the skeleton waiters as it passes them, fussy with the lack of nuance. ] Gaius is showing off.
no subject
louis does one lap, lays eyes on the garish scene of masters and pets and that's all it takes for him to seek out his love in the crowd. it's easy to find him, alluring as he is, and louis makes a stop at the bar first. a bloody mary, of course, something to give them the appearance of partaking in the novelty of it all. most won't see that he's pricked his own finger, letting blood drip easily into the glass.
he offers it out around armand's side wordlessly, the other hand falling to the smooth skin of his waist, his mouth falling to kiss his bare shoulder. he'd nearly not allowed him to leave their rooms, forgo the party altogether. but it's better to keep in touch with the goings on of this place. louis spots the crease in armand's brows, and pets his side softly, soothingly. ]
They try their best. I saw a kid in his bedsheet earlier, which somehow feels more realistic to me than the botched attempt at some goddess over there - her wig's melting on the candle behind her. So if this is his version of showing off - skeleton crew and all - it's a bit of a mess.
[ another kiss to his shoulder, then his neck above the gold lined there. he allows himself to move and stand beside his love, hand settled low on the small of his back. ]
I'll say they'll all pale in comparison to you tonight. Foolish of them to even try. [ a small grin. ]
no subject
Armand reaches out an arm and puts it about Louis' waist, likewise enjoying the bare skin of his lover and companion. He leans into him, smiling, a brief tip of his head towards Louis' shoulder, a small indulgence in his otherwise carefully controlled poses. ]
Such flattery.
[ He's aware, because he can't not be, of Louis' own feelings about the themes event, which mirror his own. The distaste over children play-acting roles they will never fully understand, the bitter gratitude of being able to walk through it unscathed where so many have borne the weals and scars of a very real past. Sipping his drink and watching the party, Armand appreciates his presence, his silent offer of comfort.
After a few moments, he pulls his arm back from around Louis' waist and uses his free hand to reach for Louis' fingers, lifting them to his own mouth to kiss the freshly healed skin, and then to bite, with gentle but piercing pressure, into him. Sucking gently on the blood that wells forth, his gaze on his lover's face.
Into his mind: ]
They play with history like a toy, pulling it apart into the pieces they want and discarding the rest, emboldened by the fact that they will never repeat it. And we are forced to watch. If this is truly purgatory, it has a sharp sense of humour. If it is Heaven, it is a crude one.
no subject
the pierce of the tender skin of his thumb makes him gasp faintly, a low hum between his lips as he steps a little closer, enough that their bodies brush. armand is beautiful in all ways - ethereal - and he's been unable to take his mind off the gentle dip of his throat, the elegant slope of wrists, the sumptuous curve of his thighs to his delicate ankles - all draped in gold.
his free fingers curl around armand's jaw, soft but the faint points of his nails pressing against his skin, his stomach roiling with heat, his eyes fixed on armand's, affectionate and hazy from the blood sharing. ]
They hardly understand their own present day troubles, let alone the past. Not sure much of it was. But this isn't Heaven, this isn't purgatory, and definitely not hell. Whatever it is, they know what they're doing.
They're trying to catch us off guard.
[ another hum, feeling the way his blood rushes through him, the way armand's mouth works over his thumb. ]
Or distract us. If that was their intent, they're doing a good job. [ louis' thumb presses softly, smearing a little of the blood across armand's rouged lips. ]
no subject
[ An easy decision, not entirely unmoved by the way Louis is looking at him, all the banked heat of his internal fires in those beautiful green eyes. That look has inspired far more distraction in the past. Under that hot gaze, Armand sucks harder, coats his tongue in blood, then releases his hand only to turn and reach for him instead, leaning in to kiss him and share the taste of it between their mouths.
Pressed against him, he makes a soft and wanton noise. ]
Do you remember the gallery in the MusΓ©e d'Orsay? [ Part of the long hot summer of their early relationship, when they'd been fond of breaking into the grand palaces of Parisian culture. To talk and wander and look at the art, mostly, but occasionally to couple frantically in the shadows, pretending at their fear of the guards and being caught. ]
no subject
Do you remember when we nearly knocked over a Rodin? Your legs around my waist, my hands up your shirt. Or the way I laid you out under the Van Gogh - our own starry night.
[ his hand slides to the low of armand's back, fingers easing just beneath the fabric at his waist, pressing their bodies flush together. ]
I'm hungry for you the same way now as I was then.
no subject
[ Armand hums the memory across their mental connection, arching up into Louis' hands as he drapes his arms around the younger vampire's neck. Blood sparkling between them, sweet and dark. He gives himself up willingly into the kiss, into whatever Louis wants to do to his body, bending to his will like a tree leaning into the storm, safe in the knowledge that their roots will survive the tumult.
He's hard beneath the cotton fabric of his trousers and presses himself up against Louis, needy and pliant, kissing him with rising desire. ]
Sate your hunger in me. Devour me.
no subject
[ the memory alone warms him, fuels the burning thing in his gut, and feeling armand's arousal against his own only serves for him to deposit a deep, low growly into the kiss, a nip to his own tongue so that when he licks hungrily into armand's mouth, their blood mingles. ]
As you wish, my love.
[ it's with vampiric strength, eerie speed, he moves to press armand up against one of the large, decorative columns. the arena is off somewhere behind - the smell of blood and dirty on the air as louis bodies up against him, one hand reaching for a slender thigh, fisting the pale fabric, the other poised at armand's jaw, thumb pressing to his lips. ]
They might hear me devouring you, mon amour. Would you like that? Let them hear the pretty sounds you make when my mouth is all over you. Let them imagine what they cannot touch, what they cannot have? Let them all thing it is me who holds power over you, when it is you I would devour from the very ground itself if I had to. Start with your ankles, all the way up. Would you let them watch?
welcome
The gates were just a convenient place to lean.
But he's not so far gone that a voice isn't enough to rouse him. When Louis speaks Gideon quickly straightens, blinking a few times to clear his vision.]
Right. Trying not to.
[There's a hint of an accent. Something not quite French. It occurs to him after he speaks that Louis probably isn't talking about napping, but it doesn't matter. He'll follow the advice either way.]
I suppose I should head back.
no subject
Were you... asleep?
[ he can absolutely understand the pull of sleep so strong and so heavy that you feel as though you could rest standing up. there's a lot of that to a place like this for him, when he spends so much time in the sun. ]
Not sure I'd advise sleeping against the gate, but I'm not here to judge.
no subject
[He was only slightly asleep. Had he been entirely asleep it would have been much harder to wake him. And he likely would have been on the ground.
He glances up at the gate and sighs.]
No, youβre right, I think. It makes a terrible pillow.
[It's an easy, lighthearted response in spite of his general sluggish demeanor. Itβs better to joke about it than to treat it like a big deal and let on what a liability it can really be.]
welcome
Fucking buggery!
[ Alan whirls around and finds himself -- hm. On his knees in front of a rather lovely American with the most striking eyes, caught putting his criminal skills to work. Good start for a scene, wouldn't that be? ]
What do you mean? [ he manages. ] They going to let the hounds out on me or something?
no subject
No hounds, but leaving these gates - you can walk a while, but you'll wake up back here, in this place. Figured I'd warn you in the meantime.
[ he shrugs, then, stepping closer, green eyes alight with amusement before he offers his hand down to him. ]
I'm not gonna stop you either way.
no subject
Alan sways back on his haunches as his new companion steps closer, the better to keep his eyes on the other man's face, and accepts the hand up. His right hand has the distinct callus of a pen on the middle finger. ]
Wake up back here like I woke up the first time, you mean? [ He brushes dirt off his knees. ] No idea how I got here? Head like you've gone three rounds with a heavyweight?
no subject
[ he helps the man to his feet, smiling as he feels the callus on his fingers as he pulls away. he tilts his head a little, watching him. ]
They don't want us to leave and they certainly don't want us to find out why. I think some in this place are trying to find out the why but they're particularly elusive.
no subject
[ He gives the gates an annoyed look as he finishes adjusting his clothes, the fastidious little gestures of someone who knows that his first impression needs to be good. ]
Which "they" do you mean? Those toffs, the Balfours?
no subject
[ if the balfours are at all, even, and there's not something more malicious at work. ]
I'm Louis - [ a small smile and the offer of a hand. ] You know the Balfours, then?
no subject
[ He shakes Louis' hand, properly this time, and returns the smile with a wry twist of his mouth. ]
Well, I've seen them at breakfast. Tried talking to the staff about them, but I didn't get far. More loyalty in this lot than you'd usually find. Back home I'd try bribing one of the maids, but-- [ Shrugging, he tucks his thumbs into his pockets. ] Nothing to bribe them with.
You've been here a while, then?