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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
HARROWHARK NONAGESIMUS »» the locked tomb »» new character
WELCOME TO SALTBURN
[ by the time harrow actually makes it to the dining room breakfast is a long-forgotten memory, and harrow is in a positively sour mood. she had reacted about as well as could be expected to waking up in a beautiful, comfortable bed β which is to say she'd haughtly demanded release of anyone that would give her the time of day, until she'd run through the loop of calling for a car that never arrived several times. she'd even considered absconding herself a few times, but glaring at the high boundary walls hadn't made them any smaller, and the tragic reality is that harrow's unused arm muscles wouldn't have gotten her even a foot off the ground before she'd have to give up.
( that isn't to say she didn't try, just that the efforts were embarrassing at best and painful at worst, and she'd rather forget that they ever happened at all )
she arrives in the dining room with thunderclouds above her head, a scowling figure in head-to-toe black clothes all a little too big or ill-fitting for her frame, and thin material tugged over her face to emulate a veil. it's not ideal, her fingers itch for paint to properly obfuscate her face and claim back some of the power that she feels when she's properly dressed, but it will do for now. there's a clack-clack of something that sounds like jewellery when she walks, rattling along with each step, but nothing is visible outside of the shrouds that she has scavenged for herself. what a joke of a figure she makes, a poor imitation of The Reverend Daughter of Drearburh, and nowhere close to Harrow the First. ]
What is this?
[ someone who has never ascribed to the ideal that you catch more honey with flies, harrow's tone is immediately pointed and irritable, as if even the offering of food being made is offensive to her. it all looks unfamiliar, which doesn't help her raised hackles, and besides the thought of eating right now is turning her stomach.
she shouldn't be here. she has pressing matters to attend, none of which involve this gaudy house or the unhelpful marshal or this strange food. she can't be here. she mustn't be here. ]
Water. Where can I get some?
FRUITS OF LABOUR
[ harrow would rather tear her own arm off at the shoulder than find herself attached to someone, which is why it must be some hilarious cosmic joke that a ribbon finds itself wound around her hand. pity the poor person attached to harrowhark, who still hasn't dropped her scowling demeanour, nor the black veiled attire she pulled together on arrival. it's nothing close to lyctor robes and barely would pass for an echoing of the traditional clothing of the ninth house, but she feels better looking at the world through a layer of material that separates her from everyone else.
not well enough, it seems. her hand is quite bound, and although she seriously contemplates the option of simply cutting off her hand, harrow squints at the other person caught in this predicament. anyone with the knowledge of necromancers or lyctors might find her intimidating, but here, lacking the context that gives her position weight, she just looks small and sad. ]
How attached are you to your arm?
[ might as well check, there could be an easy option out here. ]
WILDCARD
[[ usual deal - surprise me with stuff! for canon-familiar, harrow is vaguely HtN era at this stage. questions queries comments etc @
fruits of labour
Now allow her to stare for a moment. ]
Aren't you kinda young for dad jokes?
no subject
[ this is painfully apparent as the truth. everything about harrow reads as utterly humourless, from the fraught furrow of her brow to the dour downturn of her mouth. she doesn't spare much of a glance at the other person trapped in this predicament with her, save to briefly eye the limb in question. no, harrow is utterly focused on their joined hands, and the ribbon, and how she might get herself out of this as quickly and bloodlessly as possible. ]
You may be perfectly content to live with one arm. How would I know if I didn't ask?
no subject
How many people have you met that⦠actually, I don't wanna know.
[ Tugging at it again. ]
I can try something?
no subject
it's not great, actually this is right up there with her idea of a worst day ever, and she sucks her teeth until her whole face pinches with the effort of it. everything about her radiates irritation, annoyance, discomfort, and if it's a careful construct to mask a deeper layer of vulnerability, well there's no one here that knows her well enough to see it.
better to be the psycho bitch, god knows she's been one her whole life. a sharp inhale, and then she nods and gestures towards their joined hands with her free one. ]
Fine. Try away.
no subject
β¦ Well, not anymore. But it looks like she's fated to end up with the type anyway, more than a handful of assumptions shot right at someone she met minutes ago. Hell of an introduction, not least of all because of what she does next: cast a shadow over Harrow's face with an open hand, pulling it away as a black shape follows and materializes into a claw. She attaches it to her index finger, refining its shape to make it as sharp as possible. It may or may not be reminiscent of a spider's leg. ]
Don't mind me.
[ Now, to fail at cutting through the ribbon. ]
Uhm. Just give meβjust need a second.
no subject
only it doesn't cut, and harrow watches a moment longer in silence before she raises her eyes to contemplate the face of her bound stranger, a cool impassiveness that almost teeters over into sneering judgment. almost. she'd never show her cards so completely, not even to be smug. ]
What exactly, am I not minding? It doesn't look like anything's happening at all.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
welcome to saltburn
The man who lowers himself down into the chair beside Harrow -- unfortunately the only empty one in the room -- is fairly unremarkable except for being older, unshaven, and wearing a Spice Girls '99 tour t-shirt. And the fact that he's carrying a cane and wearing a ring on his wedding finger made from the bones of the Emperor Undying, and whose body is inscribed deeply with said Emperor's necromantic fingerprints. There's some particularly fine work going on in the liver area. ]
So you're not gonna eat that? [ Don't mind him, he's just going to borrow some carbs. ]
https://y.yarn.co/f74eb6fd-833f-4667-8fc0-fe0d08a0dc1c_text.gif
she has half a mind to ignore the man who has seen fit to attempt conversation, she even goes as far as to nudge the plate in front of her across, but then several details become apparent to her all at once. namely the ring, and the utter absence of trace to it that could only mean lyctorhood. and then (because of course she was going to delve deeper after that), the signature weaved all through him.
what a strange man. ]
Please, my pleasure. [ as much as she hates it, harrow is very good at swallowing bitterness in order to snip out platitudes -- it's by no means an approximation of friendliness, she's never got that one down, but she's at least worked her way back from actively hostile. she would even try a tight smile, but the gesture would be lost behind the veil anyway, so she doesn't matter. she does, however, take an awful long look at that ring.
fascinating. ]
Who are you, exactly?
literally
James Bond, international Man of Mystery. And I'm guessing you either have a very gnarly skin condition or you think wearing black and listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees is going to make up for daddy not loving you enough.
no subject
[ she's very dry and deadpan in a way that makes it nearly impossible to discern what is supposed to be sarcasm and what is supposed to be a genuine response, and this is harrow at her friendliest. she doesn't mind the food stealing though, a surprise considering everything tends to irritate her, but she's not interested in food right now, and people who are eating tend to leave themselves vulnerable.
not that she needs this man vulnerable, just...chatty. some might offer a hand at introductions, harrow just inclines her head a fraction. ]
I am Harrowhark Nonagesimus. [ the heir to the ninth house, reverend daughter of drearburh -- except that isn't right. she isn't, not anymore. she isn't the lady daughter, isn't even nonagesimus. she isn't anything except- ] Harrow the First. Where did you get your ring?
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Mithraeum.
[ Ignore that non sequitur, Harrow. House is breezing right past it. He finishes pouring his coffee and reaches for another strip of fried bread. ]
God gave it to me.
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what. a. strange. man. ]
James. [ because she didn't get your stupid reference, actually, and sees no reason not to believe that it's a perfectly reasonable (if a little silly) name. she's actually leaning in now, interested, but there's a harder clip to her tone. harrow doesn't like revealing all her cards, nor does she like being in the dark. two things that it very much feels like are happening right now. ] Are you telling me He's here?
[ because if so, well maybe the situation is all slightly more concerning than it was moments before. ]
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wildcard
Despite the best assurances of people much more at home in the multiverse than he is, John mourned the nine houses about fifteen full months ago, when he woke up somewhere with no connection to Alecto or Dominicus. At least here he's a bit more in the seat of his power, even if it flickers like a bulb with a faulty connection or a phone with low bars, but he's long accepted that whatever universe he in particular abandoned, the death toll without him is high.
That's all right. He's a big fan of new beginnings, and this has been just the beginningest. He got a bit married, he decided to embrace polytheism rather than get pissy about not being the only god, he put stupid little apps on his iPhone 1. He even has new clothes (still black, still ordinary, simply less worn). Humble worldweariness is out, hedonism is in. Frankly, he's having a good time β and to John Gaius, Lord of the Sharpened Etc, what else matters?
Well, a few things. A very few. One of that number being now before him. He sensed her several corridors and staircases before he found her, his fifth most shameful mistake, his most devoted former disciple, comfortingly greasepainted even here. Perhaps she'll start a fashion trend, John would find that very funny. ]
Harrowhark. Hi.
[ Warm, ordinary, smiling. Your boss back from vacation, not yet ready to talk about the emails he's been ignoring. He still dreams of her a bit more than he should, but they're just dreams now, rather than River bubble Walk With Me.
He gives her a moment, but he's hoping his own calm will inspire her to keep hers. ]
(ββΏβ βΏ)
( privately, earlier, she'd spent a good chunk of time thinking that this was just a complex hallucination, that she was somewhere on the ship still, maybe fitting somewhere as her useless mind conjured up images to keep it occupied, but...well it's a little dull, for harrow's imagination. nothing has really tried to kill her at all. )
but without any more pressing task to do, all there really is for her is stomping miserably around the grounds, trying to figure out 'what' and 'how' and 'why' and 'where' ineffectively, and mostly just becoming a good impression of a haunting spectre, what with all the black and the paint and the silence.
it is maybe a little overdramatic, how quickly relief sags in her shoulders when she hears him. for all the world is vastly more complicated, He is here, and harrow is probably better for it. their world certainly isn't, but well--one problem at a time. ]
Teacher. [ it is, if anything, a cowardly response. finally, here is someone who will solve this. finally, here is someone who will tell me what to do. her head bows quickly, reverently, though harrow spares him the embarrassment of dropping to her knees and stays on her feet for now. ] Where are we?
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England, about forty years pre-Rez.
[ Rueful, aware that he's already speaking in impossibilities. ]
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still. she doesn't smile because harrow never would, but she thinks that maybe if she were the type to, she might be doing it now. ]
How are we back here? I thought- [ a frown, which is much more becoming of harrowhark, furrows her brow, and her eyes dart minutely at their surroundings. ] Did you bring me here?
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Nah, I wouldn't do that to you.
[ Like, the brief consolidation of his power wouldn't be worth the consequences when she starts to find out what "here" is like. Spoilers: it's not sensory friendly. ]
This manor is sort of like if Third House got to design its own dream bubble.
[ Gore and glitz in equal measure, and plenty of sexy parties. Not the kind of place John would pick either, but to him it's definitely a leg up from the last place which was more like if Eighth House got to design its own dream bubble, complete with outer planet austerity and a real lack of hot showers. ]
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keke fruits
that he senses magic off of. not exactly his kind of magic, but magic, nonetheless. it feels similar to his in a way, a rumble of murky energy acting as a waterfall around her. he wonders if she recognizes him the way he recognizes her. his tone implies that amputation is not an option that is ever going to happen, thanks you.]
Attached enough.
[what does she expect? he sighs, running his free hand over his face. tired, he's tired. he doesn't even try his hand at the ribbon because he knows nothing he does will work. he's only gotten out of one binding, and that was through means that he knows she won't appreciate hearing.]
Do you know about handfasting?
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I am aware, yes.
[ she's aware in a cold, clinical way, the sort of way that someone might be aware of primitive rituals of a long-extinct culture, but harrow understands the point and the implication well enough.
she also has her suspicions about how the bonds are expected to be broken, but well. regrowing a hand may well be worth avoiding that, probably. ]
If we are going to be stuck here a while I'd rather sit.
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he eyes her carefully, jaw tense.]
Lead the way. Unless you want to sit down here.
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harrow takes them off to a space far enough away from anyone else that she can't overhear conversations β which more importantly, means she can't be overheard in like. she doesn't want to discuss this situation that they've found themselves in where they can be caught by prying eyes or prying ears, not when all she wants is to shrivel herself up into a cocoon of bone and wilfully ignore the problem away.
but, regrettably, she has to admit that this isn't the fault of the person she's attached to, that he's just as trapped as her. ]
What...is your name?
[ shes trying, honest. ]
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he feels bad that she's stuck to him. once they've settled and he's sitting down beside her, he's able to get a better look at her, even behind the veil. he's looking at her as a whole, tracing the outline of her body with his eyes.]
August.
[he holds out his free hand to shake hers, half expecting her not to take it.]
What's your name?
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fruits of labour
the girl beside him is β to danny's knowledge β a stranger, his miniature shadow in all black barely tall enough to clear his shoulder, staring sulkily at their bound wrists. if looks could kill or set shit on fire, they'd either be free by now or she'd be lugging around an oversized corpse, burnt to a well-done crisp.
danny gives her a second, on the off-chance she really can set shit on fire with a brimstone glare. no such luck. he pulls forward, his little shadow lagging behind him like a glitchy tv screen, tugged in line by the ribbon around their wrists pulling taut. on a small table, danny lays out their hands side-by-side, pinky kissing pinky, and with his free hand unstraps a bone white knife from a beat-up leather holster on his thigh. god's knife, god's hand. god's little blood bag here to spill blood, even if it's his own, especially if it's his own.
the knife's toothy, jagged blade dents into the junction between his wrist and the top of his hand, curved kitten claw hugging his tattooed skin above the ribbon, like it was made to take hands.
danny looks at her sideways and smiles. )
You wanna do the honors, or should I?
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if there's any hesitation when she sees the knife, harrow thinks that she manages to have the good sense to hide it. any surprise, or curiosity, or any other annoying inquisitive response is quickly squashed back into her typical default surliness, a scowl for good measure, because he's smiling and that-for some reason-annoys harrow almost as much as the ribbon looped around their bound hands. ]
I am more than capable.
[ debatable, actually, she's only really done this once before. but that's not the point. she holds her hand out, palm up expectantly, and tries not to wonder if her skin will crawl when it's given over. if, she should say. there's always the chance that this is a particularly effective game of chicken.
well. harrow certainly doesn't intend to be the one to blink first. ]
You should find something to bite down on. I'm told screams don't add much to a party atmosphere.