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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
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
They're definitely not users from the same origin, which isn't surprising to him ( ye olde wielder of root invocations built on pop culture, pig latin and Google Translate ), but it's magic that'll bind them like comrades-in-arms nonetheless. And that means this guy's got more background than Dresden could have hoped for in a stranger, which helps expedite some of his ideas from preliminary to "hit the gas".
His saunter slows, left hand reaching up on auto with cupped palm like he's going to give that balloon of light a bounce across the hall. Sue him, he's curious.
"Well, that'll sure make this conversation way easier," he says, pulling his hand back before he goes slapping someone else's power manifest around. For equity, he snaps his thumb across his middle finger and dances a flame across his palm β with his focus better than it has been in years he doesn't need to use spellword, and there's also a pervasive desire to show off a little.
He offers his other hand to Matt, scarred mouth crooking hard to one side: "Harry Dresden," Chicago coils between his teeth. "Wizard. Wanna' do some crazy magic shit with me and see what happens next?"
no subject
It's an essential element, and Matt's heard that a lot of practitioners have affinities for one of the big four over the others. Fire, air, water, earth. Still, he feels a little frisson of a possible kindred spirit.
"Matt Jamison." Nobody gets Harcourt for free. Matt looks up at Harry, attention caught by the scar at his lips. His own face bears a scar of its own: faint and thin, a hairline thing arcing across his left cheek, pulsing dimly with demonic residue. "Witch."
He takes his hand and shakes, brisk but pleased. He rarely gets to cast with another magic user, and it sure as hell hasn't happened here. As far as he knows, he's been the only one stuck in this manor for a long time. So he can't help beaming as he confirms:
"Let's."
no subject
Except. There's logistics to be handled, about what they can do and what they can't do β and Dresden knows there's a lot he can-can't, these days. Even in this strange manor house, existing like a Domain of Dread ( the decadent one, he thinks ) in the middle of a Nowhere, where none of them can leave β there's still a lot he can. Magic comes easy to his fingertips, power rich and laser-focused with the scent-feel of a cool basement during the humid city summers. The taste of frozen berries on the back of his teeth, the memory of Maeve's sharp laugh as he'd played her in chess again and again and again until he'd learned how to lie well ( that is, not lie at all; the way the Fae do ).
He's got magic and Winter still, which means whatever's keeping them is precise enough to contain a man who was the equivalent of an atomic bomb with a hyperpossessive godmom always prowling in his footsteps and a Queen he's beholden to until β well, death or escape. He's banking on escape.
"So," he says, having thought that all through in silent, objective patterns. "To be honest with you, magic in my place is a bit... it's got layers, like ogres. Witches are somewhere between the hedge with a little oompha, and New Age Wicca with tarot cards and jade wands and well-practiced mentalism.
I'm thinking based on this pretty thing," he gestures to Matt's light, friendly and disarming with his quick, tense smiles and general β well, he looks worse than he is. "You're not that type of witch. What sort of specialty you got, then?"
no subject
"Everybody wants a specialty," he muses. At the top of the stairs, he turns, leading Harry down the hall towards the suite he still technically shares with the literal Christian devil. "In the sense of like, there's only so many hours in the day, I guess I'm best at wards and abjurations. But the way I conceive of them, that covers a lot of ground."
This would be a great time to say I practice sex magic, except: would it? Anyway, Matt comes to the right door and nudges it open.
Matt's room looks like he's in the middle of moving in or out, the latter of which is the truth. His possessions, such as they are, have been thrown into a trunk: the clothes he wants to keep, an array of scribbled pages and occult paraphernalia. Chalk, candle stubs, silverware filched from breakfast. A number of living plants in pots, vases, jars, and one serving bowl. And near the top of the pile, half hidden by an aggressive mint plant, there's a golden, penis-shaped trophy declaring MATT JAMISON #1 NUISANCE.
Matt sidles past all of that and makes for the bathroom.
no subject
"I figure we gotta' start somewhere," he laughs, rubbing the back of his wrist below his nose sheepishly. "If you're a jack of all trades like me, that's even better. I just like knowing where I can fit in with you, and maybe we can get an idea of what we can do together." Magic, he means. Definitely magic!
Once he's in Matt's room, though, he gets nosy. Old habits die hard, and he'd always loved being a detective β one that was more than happy to take a proper gander at all the occult things in the witch's room. Maybe a ritualist-type, he's thinking. And that's good, that might mean that Matt's got a great head on his shoulders. Someone he can bounce ideas off of and get ideas back from, and Hells, it's been ages since he's been able to just sit and talk about his favorite thing.
He barks a laugh when he spots the trophy, holding it up like he's just won an Oscar as he hovers in the doorway Matt vanished into β the bathroom just beyond. "I'm jealous. Nobody ever gave me a trophy for being a nuisance," it has to be because of Matt's smile. :) Also he's objectively cuter than Harry. He sets it aside with a dull 'thunk' of metal, and leans into the doorway β having to lean his head to one side just to fit under the topmost frame. "You want me to wait out here while you wash up?"
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He hears Harry laugh over the sound of the sink and turns back to face him. Matt's already shucked off his shirt, revealing a trio of tattoos on his very willowy frame: an emerald lotus on his heart; Hanuman the monkey god, curling around his right hip and disappearing below the waistband of his board shorts; and a severe anti-demonic ward over his left shoulder blade, all grays and blacks and ancient languages within a circle. No scar whatsoever in the spot where he was recently stabbed, though Harry has no reason to know that. Matt grins, a faint tinge of melancholy in his eyes.
"Receiving that trophy might be my proudest moment," he says. "Definitely my proudest one here." Taking up the soap, he starts to scrub at his hands and forearms.
"Uhh, and hang out wherever's comfortable," he adds, with a sympathetic grimace for Harry's stooped posture in the doorway. "I won't be long." He takes a look at himself in the mirror, noting that somehow, he's gotten paint spattered on his chest. Half to himself, he muses, "I should've been more worried about the colors."
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The way he avoids matching the guy's eye, his own slipping off to the side whenever they nearly lock on β tearing aside the faint tug-behind-the-navel sensation of sinking into someone's soul unstoppably fast.
"You seem like a nice guy," he says instead, tucking his arms around his frame as he leans from bottom corner of the doorway into the top one, still half-leaning as he fills the whole empty space. Broad-shouldered, slender waist, long legs and fingers. "And I'm sorry I harshed the groove you had going. The," he wiggles his fingers at the paint, "fun. It's just that β I know human psychedelics, and supernatural psychedelics, and I know at least seven alchemical mixtures that could go into stuff like that to really fuck you up."
He bites into the scar that tears through his face, bottom and top lip alike, working at the chasm of it while his brow furrows: "Figure establishing a baseline between us starts with being squeaky clean. Magic on magic, no other unknown influences. It's been a long time since I was around anyone else like us."
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Matt notes he says could go into stuff like that, rather than voicing a firm suspicion there is something in it. Still: "It's not a bad thing to keep in mind, unfortunately. There actually was something psychedelic in the ... well, there was this party where they handed out rainbow lipstick." In the mirror, Matt's eyebrows arch for scandal. "Just like your parents warned you about. Seemed like they produced altered mood, weird urges, sometimes hallucinations."
The easy set of his shoulders goes a little tense on that last part. For a moment, Matt focuses on cleaning up. Scrubbing soap into the paint-covered spots, washing with a damp hand towel. He smiles a bit when Harry says squeaky clean, and by the time he reaches the end of the thought, Matt's turned to face him. Half-sitting on the vanity, the mirror catching that stern ward on his back.
"Sorry to hear that." Matt's expression is softer now, warm with fellow-feeling. He tries to catch Harry's eye. "It's been a long time for me too."
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There's no way Dresden would ever trust people like the Balfours. Rich, out of touch, controlling people on a closed-loop estate that basically nobody could remember agreeing to visit, and weren't allowed to leave. He's wondering if it's a strip of Nevernever, locked up tight like someone's personal hunting ground; maybe it's just a warded human estate, and they're being kept as a social experiment by bored sociopathic warlocks.
Eventually, he realizes he's zoned out into those thoughts. His mind slipped away somewhere quiet and dark and thoughtful, while Matt's been finishing up with his impromptu bath. Slowly, he lifts his eyes up from the floor and fixes it into the reflection, on the ward Matt wears on his back; he thinks he could figure out what it's for, if he gets his hand on a book about it. Clearing his throat, he heaves off of the door's frame and heads into the bathroom properly, once more avoiding Matt's eye. This time obviously, openly. His voice no less easy, though, as he rocks forward and sets his hands on the vanity alongside Matt.
Rocking back on his heels, he drops his head between his shoulders and chuckles: " - what were you saying about the colors, anyways? They didn't look good on you?"
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All of a sudden, Harry's a one-man marching band of mixed signals. Coming closer, but averting his gaze, also placing his hands beside Matt on the counter. There could be a lot of reasons for any of these gestures, so Matt swallows his disappointment at what feels like a moment of missed connection and focuses back on the matter at hand.
"Uh--" A quick smile. "I pretty much said everything that mattered about the colors. How did you want to get started with this?" He gestures between them with a flick of his fingers. "Now that I'm squeaky. Basically ritually cleansed."
As he says this last part, Matt reaches back to the sink, which is still running, and scoops one last palmful of water. He lets it spill over the crown of his head, huffing and blinking to get the droplets out of his eyes.
"'Here grant to us a share of dew, like mothers in their longing love.'"
Only then does he kill the tap.
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"How many chances do you usually give people? I'm usually a one-and-done kinda' guy," and he'd like to know, in case he fucks up and needs to do a lot of redeeming and begging to get back into Matt's good graces. He'd hate to fuck up, though. Unless it's deserved; Harry's kind of out of that stage where he feels the need to burn every bridge just to keep people from following him into danger.
He reaches for the towel after he's done, wiping his hands clean with the same methodical swipe of his palms and the twist of his fingers. Balancing one hip against the damp counter ( he left a mess of water, naturally ), he keeps his eyes down as he riffs: "I figure we could talk, first. No need to dive into the rites without knowing one another better and what sort of resources we need to pair up. Or what we're aiming to look into."
Basically, he's ready to talk like they're scientists readying an experiment. But also meeting on a blind date. " β we got All Hallows' Eve coming up, maybe could scheme to do something crazy then. It's good for big whammies, and I got power to spare on that day."
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"I don't know if I have a limit, per se," he muses. "Not a numerical limit. But if something's bad enough, I try to call it quits the first time."
And the Balfours, with their hideous transfigurations, have tripped his no-forgiveness wire.
"The way you were talking outside, I thought you had something specific in mind," Matt adds, amused. "We can talk. I have a couple things going for people around here, but in the name of privacy I wouldn't wanna share too many details without asking them." His fingertips strike up an absent drum against the edge of the tub. "I can say I haven't noticed much seasonal difference in terms of my abilities. In my experience, if I can generate the energy, either by sacrifice or with a partner ... then it's kind of all good. But I can pencil you in for late October if you'd like."
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He turns a little further into Matt's space, and maybe he's coming onto him, maybe he's just used to throwing himself around to make a point. " β second thing you'll learn, is that I play that big game, too. I want to figure out the nature of this place. If that means looking into every Balfour, I'll do it. But, if they're just the curtains for Oz the Great n' Terrible? That's something I want to know, too."
He has a few specific things in mind, but why broach them when Matt's been here longer? He says as much, with a sarcastic curl to his mouth and a respectful: "But, you're the senior on board. Had it been someone without magic, yeah β I'd take the lead." He would, too; he's just a little older, a little wiser about going in guns blazing. Winter's tempered him, soothed that endless wildfire inside of him and made him consider his actions before he just went off on them.
Though. He does dip his head and let a slow smile cross his mouth: "'Energy with a partner', hm? You can say sex magic. Winter does a lot of that."
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His amusement doesn't dim entirely as Harry edges into his space, but it changes. Harry only seems taller when Matt's seated on the rim of the bathtub. Matt inhales, afloat on the gravitational tide that swells within him whenever bodies shift closer to each other. His chin lifts, spine stretching like there's a golden string pulling at the crown of his head.
"That's what I want too," he says. "I don't see how we get out of here without figuring this place out at least a little bit. So yeah, I'm more of a ... horizontal planner, magically speaking ... but we're definitely on the same page there."
At that last remark, however, that slow smile, Matt's eyes shoot wide like he's a slightly damp dog who's suddenly caught a car.
"Ah ..." A sheepish smile breaks over his face. He laughs again. "I haven't had anybody guess before. Um. Sex magic, yeah. It's not the only way I cast, but it's probably the most powerful."
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Matt looks a little shamed by the association of even part of his magical root being entrenched in sexual energies, and where Harry knows once he would have judged him for it ( judged hard, he knows; he knows he would have wrinkled his nose and scoffed at the idea of sourcing one's spells off of sex and thought Matt a whore β ). Not now. Not like this, with a warm ember in his belly and a quiet camaraderie building between them. Not with a Fae-year spent in Winter, learning that they stave off the cold in many creative ways beyond cuddling in front of the fire. That even the faeries of a bitterly cold realm adorn themselves in firelight and warmth, the way that the faeries of tepid summer hold ice on their tongues until it melts down their throats.
He means it, when he continues: "I wouldn't say it's a root I have great connections with, but I think β considering the vibes of this place β you probably have the best root to draw from." Which is just practical thinking. The manor, in what little time he's spent poking around, has the vibe of a White Court vampire: all hot, sensual energy and hedonism that something or someone might be farming. "Like I said before: where I'm from, wizards are the heavyweight champions. We have some core powers we share, but we all vary in terms of application. I'm real good with combat magic, but my specialty's actually sympathetic magic."
Which, jives pretty well with Matt's style, if one thinks about it.
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(He's not ashamed of sex magic, he'd say. Just hesitant about how other people will react, trained by a decade of secrecy. If he dug a little deeper, he might have more feelings to unpack about it, about magic in general.)
"I like sympathetic magic a lot," he says now, brightening. "I mean, in some ways it feels like the magic to me, in the sense of ... so many of the spell configurations I make are conceived as like, metaphors for the world and the effect I want to have."
It does jive with his style. The embodied world, the up close and personal. But Matt's curious about the other specialty Harry's named. His eyebrows arch, as he stretches one leg to nudge Harry's calf playfully with his bare foot.
"You end up in a lot of combat?"
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"I think I might have an idea, about what we could work on together, then," he says, leaning forward from his spot so that he can crane-and-fold himself like origami. One leg hikes up on the side of the tub, close to Matt, and he brings his mouth down near to the other man as though trying to keep a secret between them; a dark, narrow figure like a crack in the wall one might try to look through. Collections of energy and the methodical precision of a pair of ritualists might just create something spicy. But, first. There's a question that takes him back a moment.
Combat. Accompanied by the friendly nudge of a foot.
Harry reaches up, unwaveringly touching the edge of the brutal scar that cleaves through the right side of his face. His fingers spread along it, pressing it across his cheekbone and the fine lines that've been spreading out from the corners of his mouth for years now. Aging faster than he ought to, but slower than he ever will as a wizard. He taps one finger to it, to give Matt the answer he needs. Then says, quietly: "Yeah, enough of it, I'd say. And plenty more to come."
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It's his own question that diverts things, of course. Matt's eyes follow the arc of Harry's fingers as they lift, and for the first time, he lets himself really look at the scar on Harry's face rather than simply landing on it. Like the scar across his own left cheek, it's obviously not the kind of injury you get by accident. Its shape alone speaks of cruelty and conflict, survival hard won. Always aching to soothe other people's hurts, Matt wants to touch; his fingers twitch briefly on the lip of the tub before he can arrest the movement.
"I'm sorry to hear that." Rote language, but Matt's voice is soft and solemn. "I hope more doesn't come for a while yet, at least. But, uh ..." A quirk of a smile. "Sorry, you were saying you had an idea?"
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He melts after he says it, the tension in his shoulders dripping away. The slouch he stands in habitual, because his head always lolls a little to one side and his shoulders hold close to his ears; elbows tucked against his sides, feet together. Like he tries not to take up space.
" β oh, so my idea. Yeah. I used to have a scale model of Chicago in my basement, centered on Burnham Harbor and spanning two miles in every direction. I had that thing thaumaturgically linked to every tree, building, ley line and lamppost." Harry crooks his finger, summoning Matt to draw closer as he whispers: "Wanna' build one of the house and grounds with me?"
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Then Harry droops, and Matt exhales like a string between them has gone slack. With the edges of his awareness, he marks Harry's folded posture, the tightness in the shoulders and closely held elbows and knees. Matt's always fascinated by the physical particulars that set people apart--their scars and dyed hair, their familiar gestures and little tells. Harry seems so bound up in his invisible bubble, a magician in a straitjacket, that Matt can't help wanting to see him unfurl a little.
Then Harry launches into his pitch, and Matt's eyes brighten for scale model of Chicago. By the time he hits thaumaturgically linked, his face is practically luminous. Matt sways in for that crooking finger like it's a physical tug, forgetting to politely soften his eye contact as he answers in a hushed, buoyant tone, "Yes. Absolutely."
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