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draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
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π πππ'π ππππππππ ππππ πππππππππ ππππ β£ SEPT TDM
SEPTEMBER 2024 TDM: LUGHNASADH
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, using Β« 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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
β momofuku's "cereal milk" β
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
ITSY BITSY TEENIE WEENIE
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
FRUITS OF LABOUR
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, gore, cannibalism.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
DIRECTORY
wildcard(ish)
paul is more self-loathing than outright upset β the barbs alina launched at him during their fight all hit their mark, and since then he's been hyperfocused on his shortcomings, ultimately agreeing that alina was right. she should leave him. domesticity is not a feature in the cards drawn for the kwisatz haderach, and the sooner he comes to terms with that, the easier all this pain will be. of course you don't get the girl, paul. you're a monster. a freak several millennia in the making. what soft and supple thing could ever love you?
he's at the stewing part of any pain, finding further knives to stab himself on. feeling miserable and out of place in his skin, unoccupied hands, untouched skin, relearning life as an individual and not a whole. if there were any kindness in the world, it'd allow paul maybe a week of suffering before he started work on getting her back. enough time to make them both feel insubstantial, to pave the way for regrowth. of course β the world is not kind, forcibly tying him and alina up at the wrist, paul's right and her left. the world also has a sense of humor, apparently, and occupies alina's right hand with a knot tying her to alia's left. so. a happy family reunion, a couple days post cataclysm.
ordinarily it wouldn't be an issue for paul to be in such close proximity with alina, skin to skin, his fingers wrapped around hers. but βΒ he can feel her discomfort from the moment they get stuck together, her frustration when paul's and alia's crysknives won't cut the tied rope, her exhaustion when fighting seems entirely futile. so, they're stuck together. heaven, kind of, if things played out differently βΒ except now paul only closes in on himself, staying sternly without any emotion, going through the motions of the day. tucking alina's hair behind her ears and offering to feed her sweetcakes. nodding firmly when she snarls at him for trying.
when it becomes clear they aren't getting out of this tonight, paul dons his leadership role, a hundred years older than he was a few days ago. ) We'll sleep in my room. ( he offers, not opening the conversation up for debate. instead, he just scoops alina up, anticipating her denial, and walks them all back into the house, making the way to their adjoined rooms with silent, severe intensity. inside, he doesn't bother trying to figure out how to change into softer clothes, just sits on his bed and stares at the wall, briefly lost in a trance of his own making.
eventually, ) There has to be some way to break it. Any ideas?
no subject
And other times, she wants to be comfort, she wants to be water in the desert, wants to soothe the wounds Paul and Alina have torn into one another, wants to bind them and kiss them and smooth away their tears, all better now, no more pain, no more suffering. She wants to offer herself in between, a sacrificial lamb for two pairs of teeth, baring her jugular and giving them her lifeblood to guide them back to one another, a path of self-denial that will mend things, the way Alia herself had been first conceived -- Jessica had known Leto's death was imminent, known his doom was knocking at her door, and she gave him a daughter to etch their love into flesh, a daughter he never knew, never met, never loved, a daughter she never loved either, truly. A burden and a reminder she left on Arrakis. Alia can be that, can be an anchor weighing her brother, her beloved in place, wrenching them irrevocably together, forbidding their movements beyond the scope of each other. If they make her it, she can become anything.
But, more times than any, Alia is just herself: moody and withdrawn and brooding, even after her wrist is tied to Alina's, even after watching Paul's tight-lipped retreat into himself, reminding her of a thousand sleepless nights, of Muad'Dib looking over his armies, his kingdom, and hating, hating, hating it. So she flops down on the bed, tied wrist lifted, draped over Alina's lap at an angle, mumbling into the pillow:] We could all chop our arms off. Or slit our own throats, see if we come back untied.
[She's not helping and she knows it.]
cw suicidal ideation...... sorry. she's normal
self-destructively, she thinks it might even be freeing to put herself in the ground. to let the worms and maggots eat away at her mind until the thoughts stop, until she goes cold and doesn't have to face existence for — forever, if she's lucky. temporarily, if the manor is merciful enough to give her even the tiniest of reprieves. so, suffice to say: there's nothing good to be found in the pinched twist to her expression, like she's genuinely weighing alia's suggestion, an animal that would rather chew its flesh off in chunks than sit in this trap.
(un)fortunately, she's the only one among them that's without a crysknife (another tally in her hindbrain for alina starkov, outsider) to try it. she settles for removing alia from draping across her space, flinching until alia's body slides to the mattress. only shuffling away means bumping into paul and his looming shoulder, annoyingly, like she's uselessly trying to outrun her own shadow, left and right. immaturely, she finds a third (worse) option away from them by slipping down the foot of the bed and pooling onto the floor, uncaring if it pulls either of them into an uncomfortable hunch. they crushed her between them and their great, incomparable love for one another. the least they can suffer in return is a crick in their backs.
she pops the gum in her mouth, brattily filling up the spaces of silence. then, she forces alia's wrist forward to spit it out into her right palm, so she can sloppily stick it onto the leather-bound binding of one of paul's books. casual vandalism of her heart begets casual vandalism of his things.
icily as she crosses her legs, semi-satisfied: ) Figure it out yourselves.
( the inherent accusation: you're good at that. do whatever you want. you've already made unilateral decisions without my input. alina says nothing to the effect, denying them the honor of even her anger. instead, the exact opposite of a team player, alina contorts her wrist to a sharp angle, clearly prepared to break it to wriggle it past the tight bindings, without their help. even if it makes her teeth grit, a little, feeling the rope abrade the still-healing knife-slice in her palm. )
no subject
( have a sister, they said. it'll be fun, they said.
his body yanks as alina slumps down, shoulder jolting in her direction, making him roll his eyes. someone between the three of them has to be the useful, not pissy one, and it's apparently going to be him βΒ which is fine, just fine, if it's what he can do for them. not that either is particularly responsive, their bad moods rankling in these close quarters, making paul twitchy. twitchy? it's fine. he takes deep breaths. tries to come at it from a different perspective beyond just wanting them all apart, so they can't hurt each other even more.
the conclusion: he does not know how to fix them being tied together. if it was mechanical in some way maybe, but this is some mystic thing outside of his wheelhouse, no logic to it, no sense. but they have another issue, one he can try to work on, one that makes a little more sense to him. in fact β if you're going to fit three things together, it makes sense if they have to break first. welcoming in new parts, adapting. the three of them are not going anywhere, and sooner they all get on the same page where that is concerned, the better.
reaching down, he catches alina's wrist where she's wiggling, giving it a squeeze. ) Don't. ( he says simply, bending down to press a kiss on her knuckles before letting her go.
instead, paul stands, gathering up his desecrated book and bringing it to his mouth, prying off alina's chewed gum with his teeth, and making it his now. so β that's some kind of start. the book thumps against his palm while he thinks, enough slack in his binding with alina to pace two steps in either direction, as long as she holds up her hand. right. )
Okay. ( he spins on his heels and faces them, inevitably halving down a bit while alina refuses to meet him halfway. he drops his book to the ground, forgotten. ) That's enough from you both. We're going to solve this, all of us, together. No maiming, no attitudes. I'll go first.
( alina wants parts of him that are just for her. sure, alia knows him inside and out, but there are things they haven't talked about β things she knows only from the water of life, things he's never mentioned to her. realizing he's about to share a secret, he suddenly looks distinctly uncomfortable kind of wishing they all just fell into a bitter silence instead. but, that's the coward's way. the two of them are worth the discomfort of sharing. he sits down on the floor in front of alina, exchanging looks with both of them. )
Yeah. So. ( he picks at the skin around his thumb, anxiously. ) The first man I ever killed was named Jamis. I prophesied my death in our duel dozens of times before then, but I went to it anyway, because my mother β our mother β needed me. I didn't want to kill him. I didn't like doing it. I had him in a killing blow half a dozen times before I realized I couldn't get out of it. He wouldn't yield and if I wouldn't kill him, I would die. So, I killed him. Stabbed him in the back and held him while he died. Part of me died too, hence my death that I saw. I looked into my mother's eyes and saw fear β not for me for once, but because of me. She was ... ( he trails off. lost. back to earth, ) Horrified. I was her monster. It shamed me.
But I still feel that knife in my dreams, sometimes. Crave it, I think. I dream of Jamis all the time, like he's some guiding light to the path I've foretold. Pointing the way. ( his fingers curl up into a fist. ) Since then, I wish he had killed me. Or stabbed me. I wish I had that pain, that release. When Feyd-Rautha stabbed me, I felt peace. ( he looks to alia, pointedly. in confirmation. ) I've never told you that. I thought it would hurt, to know your brother is weak. ( and to alina. ) I've never told you that, either. Because I only wanted you to see the best of me.
( he lifts the hand tied to alina's ragdoll arm β pokes at the knot. no give. he sighs, slightly embarrassed. ) Okay, sharing secrets doesn't work. You're up, Alia.
( paul spits the gum out and offers it to her. )
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But Paul is a raw nerve, standing and catching Alina's hand, kissing her knuckles, and Alia suddenly hates herself for her urges, hates that she hadn't thought to watch the wound, keep it clean and dry. Stilgar would've lectured her, ferociously, about how an open wound is death in the desert, how the sands will flood in and clog the blood, steal the moisture from inside out. They may not be in the desert, but it's Alina's hand split open, worried raw, it's Alina's blood clotted across the heart of her palm. And it's Paul who thinks to comfort her, still, despite being a walking wound himself. The two dearest people in the known and unknown universe, despite their recent savagery towards one another, and she can't seem to be of use to either.
So Alia quiets, resting her chin on her free hand, wide-set eyes fixed on her brother, on the measured way he paces, his energy bright and sparking like a live wire. There's an irrepressible youthfulness to him, like this, and Alia thinks of what she had told Alina, of how she had brought this version of Paul to life, how she had brought him to Alia, specifically. She believes that still, that the unchangeable, brutal destiny of Muad'Dib had been altered by the small, bright-eyed, sharp-tongued girl currently tethered to them both -- a bemused irony, Alina and her connection to each, not seeing how irrevocable, how necessary they are.
Paul, though -- he speaks of Jamis and Alia's eyes widen slightly, thinking of the story she knows, told again and again as evidence of Muad'Dib's greatness, that an outer-worlder could come to Arrakis and defeat an accomplished Fedaykin. Jessica herself had never told the story in any tones but the most hushed, the most holy.] You didn't. [It comes quick, sharp (as a knife, as a needle, as the pinprick of kitten claws, the sharpest Alia can be with Paul).] You never shamed her. Or me. Or --
[Her breath catches and she snatches the gum, pops it in her mouth, chewing ferociously.] You martyr yourself because you think it's what you deserve, you create a world in which you can never be happy, ever, because you don't think you've earned it somehow. Jamis didn't need to stab you, Paul, you wound yourself for wanting. [A shuddery inhale, then a wrench of Alina's arm, shaking it like a doll, leaning forward to seek her eyes.] And you -- I can't even tell you what you do, whether you deny yourself happiness because you fear it or hate it or don't want it, because you told me once to stay out of your mind, your thoughts and I have, for you, when I refused for galaxies and gods and the living and dead, I have. So -- so I don't even know what your deal is, Alina.
[A pause, a moment of heavy breathing, heat and frustration springing to scorch the back of Alia's neck, to push tears to her eyes, becoming less the strange, elusive, fanciful saint and more the angry, hurt, sad girl, tied to people she loves, people she hates, people who make and unmake her. Then she tugs at the knot and sighs, flops full-body back onto the mattress.] Blatant critique is a "no" too. I think the only option remaining is blood sacrifice. [A pause, a pop of the gum, getting stale and stiff from overuse.] Or an orgy.
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she doesn't mind it, really, being made into the vessel she's always been. that's always been her role, despite what alia's little-girl anger wants to say about it. there's no space for happiness inside of her ribcage when it's meant to be hollowed out and filled with someone else's dreams, someone else's rage, someone else's hopes and ambitions and needs. it should probably anger her instead, she thinks, but it's almost — relieving, to feel something after walking around half-dead for days, even if the echo of emotion isn't hers. she blows out a long breath, concaving with it, and presses her kneading fingers into the socket of her arm, restoring bloodflow, ignoring the little thought in the back of her head.
if paul is a monster for one death, what would the two of them consider her? )
You're wrong. ( simple, clipped, edged with a bite of bitterness. because alia had claimed she wouldn't go hunting for more. that she could be satisfied with not knowing, and alina had tried to believe her. as it turns out: alia is as much a liar as paul. like brother, like sister. ) I'm not going to thank you for doing the bare minimum to treat me like a person, Alia. And I'm not going to defend myself to either of you. You would just take each other's sides, anyway.
( she sags back against the lip of the bed, head arched back to stare resignedly at the ceiling. alina is the outlier here, after all, keeping track of every little way they defer to each other first. how she's the footnote to paul's confession, the addendum to alia's criticism, considered last. how she has to share even those private intimacies, here, too. she closes her eyes for a frustrated moment, then moves to sidle her fingertips beneath the binding on paul's wrist, finding — no, not even the burn from her summoning can make it budge.
for a second, alina's expression wrinkles into ugly crumples, like she's on the verge of crying at the hopelessness of it all. then: nothing, just a shaky breath of exhale. )
I'm not doing that. ( to alia. orgy, vetoed. ) Or cutting anything off. ( to paul, pointedly. his need for pain, vetoed. ) It's ... we've the same wedding rituals, back in Ravka. Grisha marry into their own traditions, with their own vows. The ribbon is just a symbol for tying their souls together, in front of the Making at the Heart of the World. Maybe —
( she chews on the inside of her cheek, begrudging. it hurts to even consider playacting, a cruel form of torturing herself with something sacred, something she won't have. after a breath, she lets it out in a rush, pre-emptively defensive, to the both of them: )
I don't want to be married to you any more than you want to be married to me. But maybe if we pretend to go through with the charade, it'll come loose.
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but he did experience love for a time. didn't he? it's a collective of things β being here, outside of the world and time he knows, rooted in spot, usul to his name. it's that alina has permitted him in the months since arriving to feel anything but the crushing weight of thousands of lives on his shoulders β to live selfishly, wholly, for the two girls in front of him now. it doesn't feel wrong, even knowing the burn of alina's anger and hurt as he does now. he couldn't reject either of them, it isn't in him. it's that despite the distance between all three of them now, paul would still choose the unknown with them here than the prophesied future at home. )
But I do want to marry you. ( he looks a little offended alina might think otherwise. and then, he looks thoughtful. ) But ... I do want to marry you.
( having his soul knotted up with alina's doesn't sound bad at all. and more to the point: he doesn't want to marry alia. she's his sister, his captive, his like mind when it comes to rejection of the bene gesserit sisterhood's tactics. he doesn't need to marry her to prove he loves her β it's written in the genetic code of her veins, woven bloodlines like the tapestry of an old family history.
alina? alina needs proof. alina needs constant reassurance, constant work, but paul loves the work and finally feels an independent sparkle of hope taking root in him, back where it belongs. he catches her fingers in his, turning her hand over until it's palm side up. he lifts his opposite hand, to show off his chunky ring. )
I know I've broken your trust. I'm sorry for that, and I'll work hard to fix what I've broken. But you still have mine β wholly, entirely. ( he looks up at alia briefly, because it seems like the kind of thing he should get her okay on. isn't he tossing out the future she knows carelessly, by having this with alina? but, no. he is muad'dib. it has to be his choice. he thumbs off his signet ring, a ring that's been on his finger since the day he stood before the fremen and promised them their green land, a ring that still bears the imprint of the padishah emperor's kiss, and puts it in alina's palm. ) This was our father's ring. Given to him by my grandfather, given to him by my great grandfather. The Atreides House has been a powerhouse family since the Butlerian Jihad, and this ring is almost as old. ( he curls alina's fingers around it, too big for her to wear. ) It's all I have of him. I'd be honored if you protected it, as a symbol of my love for you, of my intention to marry you. ( he leans in, politely kisses the corner of her eye. ) I'll become Paul Muad'dib Starkov, if it pleases you, my wife.
( he loves his father and his father's name, but leto was the kind of father people only ever dream of having β he always saw him as paul first, and his heir second. losing the last name isn't a hard thing to do. in fact, it's freeing, like anxiety inducing responsibility is only a no, i don't think so away. )
We have our own customs. ( his gaze lifts to alia again. nodding. ) Do you want to embarrass me and tell Alina what the blue ribbon I put in her hair means?
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Thereβs the urge to say something sharp, something biting about weddings β thinking of Alina and her speaking of them, of the assurance that Paul would never let you marry someone you didnβt love, of the engagement that looms in the background like the dark ghosts in her (biting, cruel, ferocious, lovely) girlβs mind. Everything is haunted, every act of theirs echoed through myriad worlds β Paul weds Irulan and leaves her cold and untouched in a stark, sterile marriage bed, Paul loves Chani and loses her in the birth of two children he scarcely holds, scarcely touches, Alina is engaged and haunted and wounded by faceless, nameless forces that Alia hates and hates and hates, Alina hisses and claws like a forest creature backed into a trap, guarding old hurts that have scabbed, but not healed.
And Alia is there too, the afterthought, the unplanned-for daughter, the daughter Paul should have been, the child Leto hadnβt longed for, hadnβt dreamed of. The sight of their fatherβs ring stills something in her, sliding her arm off the bed so it doesnβt yank at Alinaβs, holding it out straight, palm-up, like an offering. She watches the ring glint in the light, the heavy seal, the weight of history resting in Paulβs palm, and then offered out, with the near-innocence of youth, with the bone-deep understanding that Leto wouldβve still been proud, still been delighted by his son if he knew where the ring would end up. In Alinaβs hand, sealing another vow, another path, the ribbon-spool of the life Alia knows disappearing like sand in the wind.
And it feels β like a loss, like a wound, like something poisonous and insidious and inescapable being burned out, and Aliaβs throat is tight and her eyes are bright and all she can think is good, good, good, refuse it, deny it, tell destiny to go fuck itself because you can be happy, you can tear happiness from death and misery and hold it tight in your hand. She meets Paulβs eyes for an instant, her own aching and teary and relieved and β envious, maybe, wishing this path for the brother she knows, blinded and wandering and lost in the desert.
Envious, also, for herself, not a girl, not a person, not a bride or a wife, a question mark without Arrakis and her temple and her fate to hold her. She doesnβt want to be Paulβs wife β never has, not wishing to mold herself to the image of Irulan, bitter and silent and cold and poisonous. She thinks of Duncan at Paulβs side, of Halleck, of Stilgar, the line of men loyal and loving and living solely for him. She thinks of Feyd, his echo, his mirror, and wonders β which is her fate? If she is not wife, not brother-in-arms, not enemy, not knife, who is she? His sister. His twin, his burden, his anchor to Arrakis and all the wretched wonder it holds.
The thoughts slip away in wake of Paulβs question, and when Alia smiles, itβs soft, reminiscent, eyes faraway, dreamy. She thinks of the blue ribbon, thinks of Alina's blue nightgown she wore that night, weeks before, when they'd curled up and slept like two peas, two puppies, two chambers of a heart.] Itβs a nezhoni scarf β the color, itβs the same. Thereβs no blue in the desert, except for the Water of Life and the eyes of those who imbibe spice, and itβs only worn when a Fremen woman has promised herself to another. She wears it of her own accord, so her love can see her amongst the sands. [Her voice is soft, lilting, reaching out her free hand to tug gently at one of Alinaβs curls.] Itβs sacred, the color. Marriages are for convenience, for safety, for tradition, but the nezhoni is a choice. It says I will be seen, by you, for you.
[A little huffy sigh and Alia drops her hand, rests her chin on her outstretched arm instead.] I used to receive so many questions about marriage and coupling during my rites. βWill he love me, will he be true, will he strayβ. I wanted to tell them all, βdoes it matter? You will hurt each other, more than anyone else in the known and unknown galaxies, and you will still choose this path regardlessβ. [It's spoken like a benediction -- Alia had officiated weddings, her acolytes wishing their goddess to bless their union, and she had told them similar things, when she felt like being honest. She waves her free hand over the binding between Alina and Paul, feeling nostalgic, thinking of yellow and green robes, of Atreides silks. It isn't lost on her that Paul is trading their family name, surrendering Caladan and Leto into Alina's cut-open palm -- and yet, it doesn't ache as deeply as she might've thought. "Atreides" brings as many burdens as "Bene Gesserit" does. Let Paul choose anew. Let him burn the old world in the knelt-down quiet of this world, this room, this girl.]
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her throat becomes water-clogged with helpless moisture just imagining it. alina clears her throat, dislodging a lumpy build-up of tears. briefly, eyes slowly flicker over alia, understanding, wondering — if she's thinking of that night, too. of her blue in alina's bed, the color of life, the color of water, that alina had unknowingly chosen for her to wear. curiously, her own fingers travel up to the dark pigtails in her hair, fingering the silky bows of the ribbons there, like she can confirm it's true — hidden, cryptic messages hidden between the lines of book pages.
her throat bobs, hand dropping back into her lap, fingertips brushing along the edges of paul's. )
That's not the kind of marriage I want. And I don't believe you want that for us, either. ( a brittleness to her voice, a thousand emotions slicing her throat like swallowing jagged glass, when her stare locks to alia's — her bitter, poisoned alia, looking down on any union of love like a death sentence. alia, who would still make a finer wife to paul than alina would, in spite of it. ) I don't want to be with someone who knows how to hurt me better than they know how to love me.
( even if she wonders, sometimes, if that's the only kind of marriage there is. if this is what she is, what she deserves — a love that cannibalizes, a love with victors and defeats, a love that twists the knife. she heaves a breath, unfolding the five-points of her fingers to peer down at the ring tucked there, its hawk wings nesting in her hand. too big for her in size and symbolism both. she traces a finger, delicate, over its carved corners, then draws her hand back as if afraid she'll ruin it. clumsy alina starkov, who kills and destroys everything she touches, who will one day put a knife through the first boy she ever loved, the first boy who had vowed to marry her one day. )
You're giving this to the wrong person, ( she whispers miserably, a pointed, lingering stare on alia before her round, dewy eyes find paul. ) Your family would never want me to have something so important. It means something to be an Atreides, Paul. It doesn't mean anything to be a Starkov.
( a fist squeezes around her heart, chest spasming. you would yourself for wanting, alia had said of paul. alina wonders if that's true of her, too — if it's possible to lose herself, with how she aches for the chance to be accepted as one of their own. and if not accepted as one of their own, then — to have the comfort of no longer sitting solitary on the starkov branch, with paul to join her, clinging to one of the only pieces of her family she has left. her father's name. her mother's eyes. )
I'm not Fremen, or Atreides, or special. ( she blinks, ignoring the splash of wet she feels speckle her cheek as she claws uselessly at the collar locked to her throat, futilely knowing there's no piece of it to break free to gift him. nothing that he would want, tainted as it is, anyway. her chin wobbles, forlorn — even as her fingers clutch tighter to the ring, wanting nothing more than to keep it for herself. selfish, always selfish. ) I'm no one, with nothing to give you. How could you want that?