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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
Humans can be such selfish things. He's aware of it, has been at their mercy, a victim of their darker sides, and his frustration has propelled him into a belief in his own superiority.
Erik maintains it, until he wonders, and decides to test the waters. His hand sneaks a little lower between her legs, to slide between her properly, one finger pressing at her opening as the heel of his palm keeps a steady press against her clit. He wants her consent, of course, but he's not sure how much she's aware of what this is, so - ]
It can feel good to have something inside you, as well. That's where my cock would go, if I fucked you now. [ His fingers tease, just a little. ] Would you like to feel it?
no subject
One is at her entrance, testing and teasing at her when even she is aware he could push up inside of her so easily. Even without feeling it, that is the feeling her body has craved, her release so close now.
He tells her what he could do, filthy words falling from his mouth, the same one that kissed her so sweetly. She doesnβt know them by definition, but she could put it together. His cock is what presses against her, letting her know he does feel what she does. Fucking is the sounds of the people that seem so far off now. Her mouth goes dry, but she nods her head.]
Fill me. Please. [With his fingers, she knows. On instinct her legs spread again, wanting to imagine he is taking her already even if it might be jumping several steps.]
no subject
He might not even be here for much longer. He doesn't intend to stay, which could explain his recklessness, touching and indulging as he does. Nothing matters much more than destroying the gate again and attempting his escape, but if this is some kind of strange, twisted dream... Indulging is just that.
Slowly, with her consent, he pushes his finger into her and begins to move it slowly, a rock of his hand against her even as he goes. It's a faux fuck, what he might do if he had his cock in her, if he was giving her what he thinks she might be imagining now, but he's not going to go too fast. She'll be tight, it might be sore, and he knows better.
Pain has its place, but not right now. ]
no subject
It is almost too much, a virgin like her who is already overwhelmed, but he gives her what she's asked, and she does feel herself adjusting, body stretching where it needs to, though one finger is not enough to break that threshold of her hymen, still intact. Her hand comes to hold at his arm, her mouth gently kisses where she can reach him just below his lips. It's a softness she knows she's asking for, doesn't deserve, but somehow she thinks he'll give it to her now anyway while he starts to fingerfuck her with his cock at her backside. Her squirming against him is a little more pointed now that she's thinking of it.]
no subject
The fact that she squirms and writhes back against him has him breathing out a low, pleased noise. ]
Take what you want. Show me what you like, Francesca.
[ She wants kisses? He turns his head, free hand trapping her tight against his body as he gives her it freely. ]
no subject
It is a perfect thought that makes her desperate for him when he does turn to kiss her, and she is so close, that heat building up so much she is sure she is going to burst from it all. Her head spins, whining into the frenzied kiss. He tells her to take, so her hand follows his down, and holds him right where she needs him so her hips can right there, one finger in her cunt, and her clit pressed to his wrist.
That is when the world truly falls a part, and she cares less and less for her virtue now. This place is for depravity, and perhaps she likes it, has enjoyed being on the outskirts until she was thrust onto him. And now she's had a true taste of it. Her cries turn lower, heady, and he'll feel her suddenly soak his hand as his name fall from his lips again, far louder than the supple sounds she's been managing to keep for mostly just his ears, tucked in the corner. But this she cannot hold back for anyone.]
no subject
(His mother wouldn't have had anything else).
Watching her take her pleasure as he pulls back from the kiss is good, seeing her hips grind and use his hand for herself, like he's a toy for her enjoyment. When she moans, falling apart for him, he leans in to press his face into the warm skin of her neck, squeezing her close, breathing out softly as he keeps up the motion of his fingers. It wouldn't do to have her come and lose all pleasure because he was too quick to tug his hand away.
Only when he thinks she is done, calmed breathing and soft gaze back on his, does he move his hand, deliberately wiping it on her outfit. ]
Good girl. [ She seemed to like the praise before. ] You looked beautiful.
no subject
There is a vacancy there now, something she will remember. He has touched her there now, taught her what it feels like, how to do it. Francesca thinks she can repeat it, and now he's given a level that must always be reached. It will be hard to not have this standard now, to remember this by.
When she can, she does finally look at him while he gives her more praise. Francesca is still flushed, near glowing from how euphoric she is still feeling as he tells her she looked beautiful. Compliments tend to mean little, but in this instance she's all smiles, curling her nose up at him like she could not be happier.]
It was truly perfect. [There's a soft hum as her arms hold where she can.]
And you then? [She can still feel him when she's pressed her back against him. Even if she isn't writhing on him, he's still so close to her. She does not want it to be said she is selfish. Besides she still may yet be curious of him, of what else a man might feel besides just pressing his cock to the backside of a young lady.]
no subject
Heβs on edge, and as his arms slip away he manages a nod. Itβs not perhaps the romantic overtures she might have liked, or the softness that a young woman ought to have after her first foray into sexual pleasure, but Erik isnβt particularly soft or romantic. Heβs hard steel and danger, bloody hands lifting, to tug the strap of her outfit back over her shoulder and redress her.
Itβs a denial before he even speaks. ]
Not today.
[ Not because he doesnβt want it or wouldnβt enjoy it, but because of the strange, biting discomfort of being seen, of being perceived, giving into their games. She canβt block him from view the way he could her, and his head turns, darting, as if predicting some kind of fight or attack. Heβs a creature born of suffering. And torment, and he cannot relax, even here. ]
Another time, perhaps.
no subject
Well perhaps a little but more so because sheβs still so curious, but not because he is not suddenly sweeping her off her feet or anything of that nature. That is not what she wishes for in this moment anyway. Her head still feels light as she adjusts her straps. She should tie the bodice, but she takes his hand lightly and gives it a squeeze.
Whatever this was between them it was still perfect, and she wouldnβt forget it quickly.]
If you insist then. I did have a lovely time of it.
[And while she is aware of the sounds of the party still happening not far out of reach, she thinks her curiosity there is sated for now. Besides her petticoat needs changing now.]
Would you escort me out then?
no subject
He's too experienced in that.
Kissing her cheek, not quite ready to leave her bereft, aware enough at least of taking care of someone after an intimate moment, Erik steps back and looks around at the rest of the guests. It would be cruel to leave her here now, and he nods his head, offering his hand to her.
Not the one that was inside of her moments ago. The other one. ]
I'll walk you back to your room.
no subject
So she is not afraid to lead him back to her room, starting back toward the manor itself. It's hard to not look back for a moment, but she at least feels like she has accomplished something besides just standing around and watching what was happening like before she was named the Diamond. The difference now is the feeling of being sated, that sort of calming aura settling over her as they walk.]
I suppose you will now know where my rooms are. [An indirect invitation perhaps, but her own smile turns into a little smirk herself.]
no subject
[ Erik would've been able to find her anyway. Any metal she's wearing will have become familiar to him now, and as he walks her out of the party and back towards the main bulk of the manor, he wonders if she's been able to tell anything about his mutation yet. He's not hiding it, but their unconventional evening together didn't lend itself to giving it away either.
His eyes flicker to the gates as they walk, and the metal there shivers a little as he wraps his power around it. ]
I'll have to show you where mine are, to even the score.
no subject
She does not notice the gates, but he did move his drink earlier. It is simply a lot for her to take in from everything that happened, both around them and what she was feeling in the moment. Now though she simply holds his hand, enjoying the idea of perhaps seeing his rooms. She gives a little nod of her head.]
I would not dream of bothering you. [Unless he wishes for her to show up. It is not as if they have calling hours here as they do back home.]
no subject
[ Would he extend such a thing? Perhaps.
Erik has delved a little into this world with her, and while he hasn't been left disappointed, he has been left frustrated. He doesn't want to fall victim to more of this, to feel as if he is at the mercy of some higher, more powerful being, not any more - but he is here, and there isn't much more it seems he can do.
Not until he and Charles (and perhaps some others) figure things out first.
It does mean that he will need to entertain himself a little. ]
no subject
[It is about the only thing she does here, something up until this evening was the only thing she had enjoyed about this place. Of course she is used to grand pianos, but the one here she has found is truly beautiful, and if she spends all day playing it, so be it. Though now perhaps she may have something else to do.
Her smile is light as they finally reach the manor, heading into it despite the night being young for many. She has indulged, and she is truly happy with the way it has unfurled, still feel a tinge light from it all. If that is just a promise of what may yet arise, she interested truly in what else she may learn.]
no subject
[ He likes music well enough, even if he's not particularly musical himself. There never seemed a huge amount of point to it when his focus was on finding Schmidt, so now...
Leading her up, into the hallways, he looks down at her with a tilt of his head. ]
How long have you played?
no subject
Since I was four. My eldest sister started her lessons, and I enjoyed them as well.
[It is clear from her smile just from talking about it that this seems to be Frannie's passion. It is the one thing that truly seems to make sense to her, and she is very talented for it. It's also how she's learned to express herself best-- so far anyway. Sex can certainly rival that as she becomes more adept.]
no subject
Walking with her, keeping his eye on their surroundings, he makes sure that there's no hint of the wolfman, or anyone else, as they move. ]
How many sisters do you have?
no subject
And then he asks after her family, and itβs typical questions she is used to. Things she has answered plenty of times.]
Three. And four brothers. I am the sixth. [The typically forgotten one.]
no subject
An anchor, as always. ]
That's a great deal. [ Erik was an only child, so... ] I can't imagine it.
no subject
It is a lot, I must confess. Too much for one household. I escaped to Bath with my aunt as often as I could. Where I could play and visit the Sea.
[But she is of marriageable age now, meant to be out. She is still young of course. But it is no surprise to see a young lady her age married either. Her mother could not have been a year older than her when she wed and fell pregnant with her eldest brother. Though she herself is hardly thinking of a love match. She is too sensible and has a very specific need of getting out of the house.
Though the idea of marriage is completely useless here, in a place they seem to be stuck in. If she simply finds people she likes, and currently has no siblings to worry of, it is already a better (albeit strange) situation.]