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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
no subject
[ Itβs interesting, then, how panicked this man is by the notion of his arrival. If Erik isnβt part of the first βgroupβ of people to be brought to this house of decadence, then there must be some rota or meaning to it. Itβs slightly alarming to think that there could be more people dragged here by their ears, and those less capable of standing up to it all.
When Erik looks over at the man in front of him heβs reminded, with an awkward pang of feeling, of Hank and his own nervous shifting as his too quick brain came to conclusions. Erik didnβt think he was capable of missing someone like that, and yet here he remains. ]
Iβm not among the first, then.
[ Nor, does it seem, will he be among the last. ]
no subject
[ He looks back to Erik, his expression resolving from "they said if I didn't calculate the square root of pi they'd shoot my dog" to a look of almost sorrow. Almost guilt. ]
It's a long story, [ he says, ] but ... basically, another guest and I went down to the kitchens to try and get some answers about the weird shit going on. Most people wouldn't talk to us, but one girl said this kind of thing happens "all the time," which to me implies ... you know. Maybe there were guests before the batch of us came a few weeks ago. We just never got to meet them.
no subject
[ Either they get sent back, or it's something more nefarious. Erik is familiar with that - the way that humans are - but this is a slightly different twist on the usual: sexual exploitation and enjoyment rather than torture and medical experiments. His lips curl into a frown as he considers it for a moment, almost as if he had completely forgotten that Matt was there at all.
Finally, he glances back over. ]
How long have you been here? This 'new set' before me?
[ Because someone important to him has been here, but Erik hadn't noticed him missing. ]
no subject
Something. Yeah.
[ He'd almost prefer not to be perceived, at the moment. He's currently considering himself as if from outside himself, looking down from an unflattering distance: a betoga'd collaborator, one more item on the menu at the manor's perpetual party. But turning invisible isn't an option, so he musters a faint smile when Erik looks back to him. ]
A month, maybe? A few weeks. My timekeeping hasn't been totally meticulous, [ due to the handful of days when he was absolutely out of his mind and had possibly been turned into cake, ] but it more or less matches up with the date in my phone.
no subject
Instead of lashing out, Erik nods his head, letting himself ponder it. Heβs steely as his gaze flicks around them, as if expecting someone to appear out of nowhere and go for his neck - which isnβt necessarily an odd thing, considering his murdering, Nazi hunting lifestyle. At least it would be more familiar.
Turning back to the man beside him, he shakes his head. ]
And thereβs no way out through the gate. [ Heβd definitely tried. ] Not unless youβre particularly strong willed.
no subject
Word's out on if there's a way out through the bottom of the lake.
[ Matt's attempts to cast spells that will let him breathe underwater have, so far, been unsuccessful. In the meantime, he doesn't notice any change in Erik, at least not consciously, but his spine straightens a touch, neck stretching absently. ]
I'm Matt, by the way. Did I say that?
no subject
[ It might be a joke, but Erik is taking it seriously. What he is conscious of is the fact that there doesn't appear to be any kind of obvious way out, despite his irritation and frustration.
There has to be a way. They were brought here, so they'll be a way to let them go.
Turning back to the stranger, he shakes his head. ]
Erik. Or Magneto.
[ It's a cool name, do not judge him. ]
no subject
Regardless, judgment is not what one has to worry about from Matt, but the opposite. It's on the tip of his tongue to say what a pretty name before he redirects: ]
Oh--like magnetoelectric? [ Not beating the Hank allegations tbqh. ] I vaguely remember reading something about that, though I'm not really a hard sciences guy. [ He thinks it might've had something to do with galvanism, which is incorrect, or maybe lighthouses, which is closer. ] Nice to meet you, Magneto--sucks about the circumstances.
no subject
Erik nods his head, and around the room, the metal seems to shiver, as if responding to an invisible caress. ]
You could say that.
[ Looking around the room, he frowns. At least, he thinks, their captors have been kind enough to give them decent shelter, good food, entertainment. He might be on edge and ready to destroy the entire building, but he has enough sense to hide his time. Heβll manage.
Besides, ]
Iβve been in worse prisons than this.
no subject
Few people have demonstrated any sort of preternatural ability in front of him, John and Alia and the vampire he encountered in the club being excepted. And he has Louis. And this house is such a closed system, it doesn't exactly lend itself to keeping secrets; between Matt's own indiscretions and the number of people here who can read minds, he can almost feel his scrim of plausible deniability falling away. Maybe there really is no reason to hide here.
Maybe. ]
I see, [ is what he ends up saying, for the moment. The words are bland, but his tone carries a current of fellow feeling. ] Um. I'm sorry to hear that. But you're not alone there either, actually. At least a couple people here came from places they described as worse.
no subject
His eyes move around the room, roaming, as if devouring whatever he can see, before he turns his head back to Matt. ]
Is that supposed to make us feel better? That our hosts are offering us 'better', to keep us in line?
[ Erik looks a little bit like a lion prowling in a cage, bristling with frustration. ]
no subject
[ He'd hoped Magneto might feel comforted to know there were others here who share similar circumstances. But of course, he doesn't know this guy at all, despite his growing suspicion that they, too, have a few things in common.
Matt pauses. Then decides. ]
Hey, um--could I show you something? Not here, someplace more ... [ Don't say private. ] Less people.
no subject
[ Erik has never had much space for comfort, offered or otherwise, because the world had rarely given it to him. The idea of being stuck in a realm of any kind, even if it is one where they're taken care of, is too close to another experience he doesn't want to talk about.
It irritates him, and he grits his teeth a little to reign the anger in. Serenity grows harder and harder to find, and if he slips into anger... He can't be entirely blamed for what could happen.
The request has him raising an eyebrow, but he nods his head all the same. He's curious, and unafraid: he thinks he can take this guy, if he has to. ]
Go ahead.
no subject
He gives a grateful nod when Magneto agrees to accompany him, and leads them out across the grounds. Not very far--just through a gap in a row of secretive hedges, placing them in the cool, green center of a sort of leafy courtyard. Not part of the Roman makeover. Matt glances around, making sure he's not standing close enough to anything to cause it to catch. ]
Um. [ Glancing back to Erik. ] It's not a secret or anything, I just ...
[ He lifts a hand, palm up. Focuses his breath for a moment.
An orange flame appears over his open hand. ]
no subject
Following after Matt, without too much hesitation (he thinks he could take him in a fight, a deserved thought or otherwise) Erik watches the display of power.
Not a secret, but he's showing it off quietly. Hm. ]
You have powers.
[ He leans forward to look. ]
Do you call it mutation, or something else?
no subject
There is a genetic component, [ he answers, ] so mutation is involved ... but we call it a few different things. "Magic" is mine.
[ With a puff of an exhalation, almost like he's blowing out the flame, the fire vanishes, leaving only a few wisps of smoke in its wake. In its place, a spherical bauble of light appears. It gleams a buttery gold. ]
You can touch that one, if you want. [ There's a hint of breathlessness in his tone now. ] There's no heat, just light.
[ There's a kind of warmth to it, but it resonates more with the emotions than physical temperature. ]
no subject
Magic works, for some. [ You wouldn't catch him calling his metal powers anything close to magic, thank you. He's getting the impression not everyone is familiar with his world, however, so that's another issue to deal with later.
For now, he leans back, watching as more is shown off. ]
How many elements can you draw upon? Or is it more than that?
[ He reaches out to poke it. ]
no subject
[ Matt pauses a moment, trying to think how best to summarize the full range of his abilities. Meanwhile, Erik's fingers pass right through the light orb, prompting a ripple of not-quite-warmth, a feeling like touch but lacking the tangibility. Matt laughs in a flutter. ]
I can do ... uh, a small amount of levitation, which I guess would be air. Remove toxins from a water source. Help plants bloom a little faster and healthier. Past that, there's restful sleep, invisibility, good luck, finding lost objects ...
[ Okay, redirect before this list becomes a thousand years long. Back to basics is probably a good idea. ]
Where I come from, magic is defined as human sentience plus some element of ritual, channeled into an outcome. So the specific effects are ... theoretically limitless, but practically limited by my knowledge and available energy.
no subject
[ Various different things, in that case, which Erik can appreciate. His mutation is similar in the sense there's a variety of things he can do with it, but there's one focus: magnetism, and the metal that goes hand in hand with that. He's not quite as varied as someone like Darwin was with his ability to survive.
He's not sure if it's better to be a jack of all trades, but if Matt has mastered all of these skills... ]
It's impressive. How long did it take for you to learn it all?
no subject
I'm definitely still learning, [ he says, warming a little at impressive, ] but everything I know now ...? Ten years, about.
[ He lets the bauble of light fade away, letting his hand drop. His palms scrub absently over his thighs. ]
I thought you might understand.
no subject
[ It had taken him another eighteen to learn how to control it properly, thanks to Charles Xavier. It's a different kind of strength now, and he's proud of that, of how far he's grown, how much stronger he is, the kind of thing he would be smug enough to want to show off.
A coin is dragged out of his pocket, and Erik begins to spin it around his fingers absently, nodding his head. ]
I understand. There's a natural aspect of it, but there's work, too. Practice.
no subject
[ He watches the coin spin with fascination, tracking its movements. With a corner of his awareness, he's watching Magneto too, keeping half an eye on his body language, his posture and breath, to determine if using his powers requires the same physical investment that Matt's do. ]
So much practice, [ he agrees with a fond roll of his eyes. ] I can't even tell you how many fires I set in my bedroom when I was getting started. But I kind of pushed through that initial hump just by practicing all the time. Magic was like the first thing I was ever really interested in learning.
no subject
I had to learn, to survive. If I didn't have my mutation, I wouldn't have been able to get what I wanted.
[ Killing Shaw. That's all he cared about. ]
no subject
[ Awkwardly expressed, but genuine. Matt's often frustrated by his inability to put his thoughts and feelings into words, to make them land the way he means them. As things are, his well's and filler sounds feel like so much cardboard against the single, stark survive. ]
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[ The less said on that the better, however. Erik isnβt particularly inclined to go into details about his past experiences with anyone, let alone a near stranger. There are some traumas heβll never share without that deep bond, the kind he still rebels against. ]
Does your power sense anything that could be preventing our leaving?
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