πππππππππ ππππ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
Entry tags:
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
HARRY DRESDEN ( THE DRESDEN FILES ), NEW CHARACTER
β WELCOME TO SALTBURNT.
β ITSY BITSIE POTENTIAL CATASTROPHEENIE.
β FRUITS OF LABOR.
itsy bitsy
Matt's been spending a lot more time outside the water than in, as it happens. The lure of decorating people with spell configurations and/or poetry was too good to resist. So by the time the guy addresses him, his clothes, skin, and even hair are thoroughly spattered with paint.
Matt turns towards the voice, head tipping abruptly to take in a frame that's way taller than he expected. For a disorienting moment, he worries he's eaten or drunk something that's shrunk him somehow.
Just for a moment. Then he smiles, warm but puzzled.
"I like to make my own luck." It's an anodyne sentiment, but in his mouth it means I regularly cast good-luck spells. "What are you thinking of?"
MAGIC USERS UNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOD
Seeing this guy stroll up, all lit up in colors, makes his stomach do a flip.
"Well, how about first we get you cleaned up. Party's pretty much over," while he aims for casual, the raking of his dark eyes tells another tale. One that definitely thinks-knows that the paint was tampered with, and doesn't appreciate anyone being unduly influenced. Especially if they're going to talk about rite and ritual even in the hypothetical, he thinks. With the fireworks going off, he has to put a finger in one ear and raise his voice over a particularly aggressive peal of thunderous explosions: "We can talk during, sound good?"
no subject
"Fine by me," he says easily, once the fireworks die down. He thinks he caught a hint of something written in the sky--some urgent message or taunting sigil--but he can get eyes on the display from indoors. Matt starts to turn, crooking a finger towards Harry in suggestion to follow. "Fair warning, though, I don't clean up all that well."
He's leading them more or less towards the wing of the manor where all the bedrooms are--where Harry woke up recently, if Matt guesses correctly.
no subject
Following the glow-in-the-dark paint through the darkness is easy, and if he really had to, he could spark a light in the night and let it carry them forth. But, while he's pretty sure that the estate is aware of what he's capable of, not everyone else is; keeping a few things under wraps for the moment might be wise. Making himself seem harmless β or as harmless as he can appear, what with all his scarred glory and tall-dark-wolfish vibes looming around the estate β could pay off. It lets him observe, keep tabs. Do his job. And hey, if this is anything like anything: everyone's life could depend on it.
"Eh, that's fine. You looked a little cold, getting you into a warm spot and polishing you up might be some good foreplay for a conversation like this," he drawls it, lazy and casual. Whomever his neighbor is, he hasn't met them. If there's even anyone in the room next to his to begin with, he might have lucked out for the moment! Being lead to Matt's room means stepping into the soft lights of the manor house, though, and all Dresden's dangerous angles stick out like he's a wolf come to prowl for a victim.
" β sooo," except, he's a good guy in this. A real bona fide gentleman with a motormouth, is all, and he falls into line alongside Matt, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his Rugrats board shorts. Fucking weirdo. "What do you think about magic, hm?"
no subject
At the word magic, his amused, arched-brow look instantly falls away. He laughs, his eyes gone wide as dinner plates. And he says:
"Uh ..."
Matt looks left. Looks right. No one around but a prurient-looking portrait of an elderly gentleman, leering down from the landing ahead of them. His gaze returns to Harry. And with a quick indrawn breath, soft gasp of sound, to thee dispeller of the night-- a bauble of golden light appears before him. It lifts into the air above them like a luminous balloon, lighting the carpeted stairs.
"I think it's pretty cool," he concludes. Matt's a little breathless, cheeks slightly pink, but he's smiling.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw derogative language
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Handfasting
In the interim, she has yet to encounter any serious danger in this place. If no one's trying to eat her (which is a danger back home), then she can just focus on having fun while she's here. Fun is an enormously important priority, and she hasn't gotten nearly enough of it lately. (Who could have guessed that amoral devil gods don't provide adequate breaks and time off?)
"That sounds nice. But first--" she lifts a finger to emphasize the critical importance of what they must secure before cuddling: "Snacks."
no subject
Probably emotional, and if not careful, grudge-forming.
Maybe he ought to be a little less casual about the whole situation β the Queen of Air and Darkness back home is definitely not the type to Let It Go if he ends up hitched to anyone without her say-so. Be a bit underhanded of him, though. Maybe she'd approve? Fae are weird like that. Anyways. The Fun Stuff.
"Oh, you are speaking my language," he declares with a grin, feeling the automatic shift of his hungry stomach as she brings it up. "Think we can get away with a kitchen raid, or will the Chef Gang rise up in protest?" Casually, he seizes her hand β a loose grip, 'cause dragging a lady around without permission just isn't his style, but he's just as energized by the idea of going ham on (a) cheese platter ( i hate this pun ) as she might be.
no subject
Depending on how much he can sense magic (it has been a decade or two since I read a dresden book), he may pick up on the aura that radiates off of her, dripping with magic. She's a fox demon, and a rather powerful one, though certainly not top-tier. Strong enough that most lesser demons have the sense not to pick a fight with her.
"If not, then we'll find a way to negotiate."
no subject
Surely, a fancy manor house like this one ought to have an abundance of food for all its guests. He wondered where all the supplies came from ( did someone do a grocery delivery every morning, or something? ), as a natural byproduct of his training, but really? He wanted to chow down on something. Anything would do, especially after all the running around for the end-of-summer bash he was doing. No pumpkin for him, but not for lack of trying!
He trots through the halls with her, aiming to sneak his way into the kitchens without alerting anyone in particular ( especially his fellow Chicagoans....... #yikes ), while glancing cautiously at those red claws that prick at his skin. He can feel the magic on her, that it's not quite human, but without turning on his Sight he won't know for sure what she is. Just to proceed cautiously. "What do you have a craving for, anyways? I'm thinking of that broccoli-cheddar and some sourdough if I can scrounge it up." He flattens himself to the wall just outside the kitchen doors, holding a finger to his mouth to signal they ought to be whispering. Just in case anyone's inside.
no subject
"What is ... 'cheddar'?" she whispers back, also not entirely clear on what kind of pastry is made from sour bread. So many things here have been new experiences, most of them the food--or perhaps just the noteworthy ones were the food. Sure, there's a 'television' and 'electricity', but do those really matter in comparison to chocolate? Pian Ran knows which one she'd choose to keep.
She knows perfectly well that she should go first, if she doesn't want them to get caught, as she's almost certainly the sneakier of the two of them, but that's not nearly as entertaining as serving him up for whatever potential opponents might lie in wait. He can go first.
β WELCOME
If Dresden is a scarecrow of a man, the question comes from his complete opposite. Maybe five feet tall, decently put-together despite the hour and the, you know, ever present hangover. And what looks like someone's borrowed robe - if the fact he has rolled it up to tanned elbows is any indication. Not a single Spider-Man in sight. He's even got one eyebrow arched up to a blonde hairline.
Oh, and pointy ears.
"I admit, I am unfamiliar with... an egg mcsandwich," he says, and the words are awkward in that accent of his. "But, I would rather hear about this waffle house of yours, my lanky friend."
help me, his icon
This wouldn't be the first nonhuman entity he's gotten introduced ( and potentially addicted to ) mortal food, considering the small army of Little Folk he's buying deep dish for on the reg. Waffle House is worth it, though. Soooooo worth it, ugh. All Star Special, wait for him, he'll be home soon. Dresden slops more celery juice all over the place, abruptly forgetting he's even got it in his hands in favor of gesticulating excitedly about the general size and shape of a plateful. A big ol' plateful
" β there's this one I sometimes go to out in West Beverly when I'm passing through, okay? Picture this. Fat stack of waffles, nice and golden. Latticed to perfection. Scoop of butter on the side. Syrup dispenser's so sticky you can barely slide the top open, but you know that means it's the good shit. Hash browns soggy on the bottom, cheese n' onion on top. Wet scrambled eggs β though, be honest, they're better a little browned. Floppy bacon. Buttered toast. Grits, oh Star's I'm hungry β"
He breaks his fast monologue ( ughhhhh ) with a groan, setting the health kick cup down on the nearby table so he can really get into it.
"Waffle House, man. It's for people who just want the first meal of the day to be held in a building absolutely laden with yellowing neon lights and plastic booth seats that stick to your skin even when you're in full pants and every local paramedic's trying to get strung out on the weakest coffee known to man. It's the best.
The egg sandwiches are actually Egg McMuffins and they're from Maccas β hey, you wanna sit down before we get deep in the paint about this?"
that icon is how he looks from Mt. Dresden
Well, okay, maybe less fascinating than watching the man speak in general. On the other hand, there are so many words being said that have absolutely no meaning to Zevran, fresh out of Ferelden. But whatever waffles are, they sound very good. If they're anything like the redwood of a man is describing, anyway.
(If Dresden is a tree, consider Zevran a squirrel, he thinks to himself, privately, for later.)
He's folded his arms, but somehow props a chin up on his hand. "I cannot pretend that I understand half of this," he admits, though he's grinning. "But your description makes it sound as if I am missing a place of legendary repute."
Or a place a certain smelly little dwarf man would haunt. Sometimes they're the same, though, shockingly.
That grin doesn't fade even slightly. "Why, I thought you would never ask. Maybe... we can find something to drink as well. As yours seems to have found a new home in your pants."
no subject
Sometimes, one is better than the other.
He takes a look down his front, tugging his shirt hem back so that he can see the green stain that's blobbed its way down the front of his sweatpants, grimacing as he puts his glass of health tonic aside. "Ah, Stars. That's what I get for holding anything while I'm talkin'," he grumbles, reaching for a fancy serviette off of one the place settings on the table. "You wanna pick us out some seats and drinks? Least I could do for saddling you with a slob for company."
no subject
A Chicago accent is new and interesting from where he sits. Or stands, rather. It doesn't exist in Thedas (as far as we know). Not to mention, letting people ramble and talk is often a good way for information to slip. For them to reveal things about themselves. When you're in a weird situation... this seems like the best option.
"Ah. Not to worry. I have seen worse than juice spilled on many a set of pants." And from someone who camped in the wilderness with a giant dog, that's saying something. "Dry yourself, my friend, I shall find us a proper vantage."
A set of seats with a decent view of the room, a nice corner. He'll saunter over in that direction. Safe corner - no one can sneak up on you in a corner.
ceremony.
"Hey!" he says, looking to the guy who is incinerating the table: the people, the food. Who looks back at him with unjustified loathing, that absolutely doesn't stop Daniel from saying, "Knock it the fuck off, pal!" His fangs have dropped, thick and strange in his mouth still. There's still some food in his hand - he was kind of enjoying the return to prepared dishes tasting how they should.
rubs my hands together like a fly
Dresden bares his own teeth through a half-snarl, half-coo of brackish laughter; all dark and cold and eager to tussle. He drags some fire back to his fingers, tugging it off the table β ta da! β like a sheet trick, leaving the singed wood and crisped bodies to immolate on their own time.
He makes a few kissy noises, like calling to a dog. "C'mon now! Be a good fangface, put dinner down and walk. Everyone's done eating," bodies or not, real or hallucination, he's gonna treat what's in the table like they're legit people. That means protecting their ruined corpses from anything opportunistic gnawing on them.
(Looking at Homelander's toplevel over yonder, too. yo dude...... )
welcome.
"Sure, I put lowbrow shit on the menu just for assholes like you," Carmy says, also in a Chicago accent. Shocking lack of heat given he just called Harry an asshole. But like, for real? Waffle House? Fuck. The hand becomes a forearm and he leans down, tattooed hand tapping the menu. "If the fucking perfect replica McMuffin doesn't get your dick hard, the Sydney is pretty good."
no subject
His legs are stretched out under the table. Pool noodles in nondescript sweats.
"Oh, buddy β to anyone else you'd be singing hymns to the Pope, but I'm afraid you're talking to a King here." That crooked grin spreads across his face, tugging at the long scar through chin, lip and raking up through his temple as he does his best to simper and play pretend like he's just as fancy as any Balfour at the table; "A Burger King, at that. Maccas doesn't know how to touch me the right way. That Sydney might, though."
A huge pause, after his mouth runs away from him and he finally takes in the chef whites. The general, uh. Sweaty chic of a guy who's been in the kitchen. And he adds, smile creasing sheepishly: " β you're the guy cooking, huh?" Whoops.
no subject
If Harry was a cute girl, Carmy might offer to make him a Whopper. He's not, he's a disgustingly tall asshole, so instead he gets scorn. "I'm also not waitstaff, so make a fuckin' decision and tell someone else. I guarantee even the fancy shit will make you cream yourself." He has put so much effort into training his staff to make sure everything that hits the table is god-tier, except for the McMuffin, intentionally. "And hey," he adds, "Guess what, we're all stuck here, so you've got enough breakfasts in your future to try new things."
no subject
The chair screeches painfully across the floor, like Harry's shoving his weight down on purpose to make as simple an act as pushing one's chair back from the edge an obnoxious event. It's a fifty-fifty shot that he is, honestly. Table manners aren't his pleasure, even after an approximate year-and-change of Fae galas, dinners and quasi-political events. Swinging a leg out from under the table, he's better able to take the whole of Carmy into account.
"Look, I don't know what a ramekin is, let alone poffertjes, but it all sounds delicious. You're just gonna have to hold my hand for a bit while I class myself up." Compliment to you, buddy. This scruffy ruffian might have none of that aforementioned, but credit goes where credit is due and a guy busting his ass on meals for people who aren't paying for them? That's cool. A little uncomfortable for Harry, but it's cool. "Hey, where are you from anyways?"
potential catastrophe
It comes immediately, before Saxsice has even completely swallowed her latest drink β sheβs somewhere in the double digits now, but the booze burns off just as reliably here as at home. Which isβ¦sort of reassuring? Maybe? Who knows, sheβs really over this shit.
Lounging on the grass, cut-offs and tied-up shirt like a bad Daisy Duke cosplay, she tilts her head back and looks up and up and up at the stranger with a thoughtful squint. His scent is β well, itβs fine, itβs just fine, no glaring red flags that would make Saxsice want to skedaddle. And heβs right, this place goes real fast from cool to boring.
Still, before she goes through the effort of standing: βWas the guy you punched like, god? Or the sun or somethinβ? Cause youβre built like a brick shithouse, my guy, and I can definitely believe you punched god. And I dunno if Iβm up for that, my bodyβs like 95% jello shots right now. But!β One finger held up for emphasis. βIf it isnβt god, Iβm definitely down.β
no subject
Like getting into a contest of wills and fists with the primordial guardian of the ancient island SuperMax he now inhabited was just guys being dudes. Yeah, Harry. Bro code.
"I am devastated that you've been in the jello shots without sharing, though. Here," and he steps forward, offering one broad-palmed hand to her without hesitation. Being helpful like that's just what he does. "But, maybe if you and I fetch a few more, we can hash out a plan to figure out whether or not it's magic wards or like, katabatic winds keeping us from straying far from the manor."
no subject
The offered hand gets a callused, firm handshake, and a grin that shows a mouthful of too-sharp teeth. βIβm terrible at sharinβ, been kicked outta every preschool on the Pacific coast for it. But Iβll make an exception for magic fuckery, every time.β
A little more seriously, squaring her shoulders: βI canβt smell any wards, but they might have some weird British shit insteadβa anything Iβve seen before. If itβs something with an ass, I can kick it. If itβs corporeal, I can bite it. Otherβn that, Iβll need you to step in, boss, yeah?β Saxsiceβs sharp grin turns a touch sheepish. βNever paid much attention to fightinβ shit I canβt touch β probably coulda used that here, but if beggers were horses nβ all that.β