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draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
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πππππ, πππππ, πππππ β£ NOV TDM
NOVEMBER 2024 TDM: RENAISSANCE
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."
2 GIRLS 1 CUP
CONTENT WARNINGS: nudity, potential for nsfw.
Over the past few days, a bit of construction has taken place on the grounds of the Saltburnt estate, and while it's difficult to piece together what exactly is being built, it's clear to see: whatever it is, it's massive, taking up a huge percentage of the grounds with multiple included structures. On the outside it seems almost like a neighborhood is being sprung up βΒ new houses for people to live in, maybe? New shops, disconnected from the manor at large? All is revealed on opening day, when upon entry all are greeted with cheery hellos from jauntily clad persons shouting, "Huzzah!" and "Hail and well met!" For the more medieval and fantasy inclined among you, it might feel like stepping somewhere familiar and homey. To the rest, you know β you've just walked into a Ren Faire. Costumes are expected.
Not sure what to wear? Those born between SEPTEMBER to FEBRUARY are dubbed part of the Unseelie Court, which is associated with darkness and decay, generally dressed in deep, dark colors. Those born between MARCH to AUGUST are part of the Seelie Court, which is associated with stars and sky, in lighter, brighter colors.
On either side of the split path, you're assaulted by the scents, sights, and sounds of any ordinary Ren Faire. Vendors pawn off garlicky mushrooms and full turkey legs, or flower crowns and juggling sticks in exchange for a kiss, a secret, a lock of hair, or something of equal nonsensical value. Step inside a shop and see sellers offering crude jewelry and satchels of loose leaf tea, fudge sold by the ounce and porcelain ocarinas. Essentially, if it's kitschy and thematic, you can find it here, being sold to you by people in costume who refuse to break character.
Shopping not quite your style? Fear not! If you're lucky in your wanderings, your might spot the Unseelie Queen ALICENT HIGHTOWER or her counterpart and opposed Seelie Queen LAURALAE carried on palanquins towards the very back of the faire, where the real heart of the show takes place in a small stadium for entertainment purposes βΒ a tourney for distinguishing yourself as the best among your peers in the manor. Prior to the tourney, all characters are given a favor of some kind ( an embroidered handkerchief, ribbon, garland, or piece of jewelry ) to give to a person of their choosing, be they a competitor or not, to show their support. Strangely, this favor seems to link them through an empathetic, sensation-based bond, so they feel everything their chosen competitor experiences. Mutual favors result in a mutual bond.
The challenges are set: ARCHERY/KNIFE THROWING, SWORDFIGHTING/HAND-TO-HAND, and a BARD'S TOURNEY. In addition to the more ye olde flavor of competition, there are also challenges for COUPLE TENNIS, HORSE POLO, and CHESS. And, in true Saltburnt fashion, there is also a somewhat lewd display of voyeuristic NUDE WRESTLING, where the first person to have an orgasm loses. (You can sign up for these competitions HERE.) To every challenge there is dubbed a winner, who in the old Westerosi tradition gets to crown a chosen "maiden" with the title THE QUEEN OR KING OF LOVE AND BEAUTY and an extravagant wreath of flowers, their victory dedicated to the lucky lord or lady. These wreaths are both fashionable and functional β while wearing them, no one can resist following whatever queenly command your character gives. Additionally, winners will receive prizes courtesy of Saltburnt, all to be determined upon victory.
Whichever queen has the most winners at the end of the tourney is crowned HIGH QUEEN OF THE FAE. The Queen is paraded around and celebrated by all, and while tribute is not necessary, it certainly is appreciated!
Over the past few days, a bit of construction has taken place on the grounds of the Saltburnt estate, and while it's difficult to piece together what exactly is being built, it's clear to see: whatever it is, it's massive, taking up a huge percentage of the grounds with multiple included structures. On the outside it seems almost like a neighborhood is being sprung up βΒ new houses for people to live in, maybe? New shops, disconnected from the manor at large? All is revealed on opening day, when upon entry all are greeted with cheery hellos from jauntily clad persons shouting, "Huzzah!" and "Hail and well met!" For the more medieval and fantasy inclined among you, it might feel like stepping somewhere familiar and homey. To the rest, you know β you've just walked into a Ren Faire. Costumes are expected.
Not sure what to wear? Those born between SEPTEMBER to FEBRUARY are dubbed part of the Unseelie Court, which is associated with darkness and decay, generally dressed in deep, dark colors. Those born between MARCH to AUGUST are part of the Seelie Court, which is associated with stars and sky, in lighter, brighter colors.
On either side of the split path, you're assaulted by the scents, sights, and sounds of any ordinary Ren Faire. Vendors pawn off garlicky mushrooms and full turkey legs, or flower crowns and juggling sticks in exchange for a kiss, a secret, a lock of hair, or something of equal nonsensical value. Step inside a shop and see sellers offering crude jewelry and satchels of loose leaf tea, fudge sold by the ounce and porcelain ocarinas. Essentially, if it's kitschy and thematic, you can find it here, being sold to you by people in costume who refuse to break character.
Shopping not quite your style? Fear not! If you're lucky in your wanderings, your might spot the Unseelie Queen ALICENT HIGHTOWER or her counterpart and opposed Seelie Queen LAURALAE carried on palanquins towards the very back of the faire, where the real heart of the show takes place in a small stadium for entertainment purposes βΒ a tourney for distinguishing yourself as the best among your peers in the manor. Prior to the tourney, all characters are given a favor of some kind ( an embroidered handkerchief, ribbon, garland, or piece of jewelry ) to give to a person of their choosing, be they a competitor or not, to show their support. Strangely, this favor seems to link them through an empathetic, sensation-based bond, so they feel everything their chosen competitor experiences. Mutual favors result in a mutual bond.
The challenges are set: ARCHERY/KNIFE THROWING, SWORDFIGHTING/HAND-TO-HAND, and a BARD'S TOURNEY. In addition to the more ye olde flavor of competition, there are also challenges for COUPLE TENNIS, HORSE POLO, and CHESS. And, in true Saltburnt fashion, there is also a somewhat lewd display of voyeuristic NUDE WRESTLING, where the first person to have an orgasm loses. (You can sign up for these competitions HERE.) To every challenge there is dubbed a winner, who in the old Westerosi tradition gets to crown a chosen "maiden" with the title THE QUEEN OR KING OF LOVE AND BEAUTY and an extravagant wreath of flowers, their victory dedicated to the lucky lord or lady. These wreaths are both fashionable and functional β while wearing them, no one can resist following whatever queenly command your character gives. Additionally, winners will receive prizes courtesy of Saltburnt, all to be determined upon victory.
Whichever queen has the most winners at the end of the tourney is crowned HIGH QUEEN OF THE FAE. The Queen is paraded around and celebrated by all, and while tribute is not necessary, it certainly is appreciated!
RING AROUND THE ROSEY
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential for nsfw.
The Ren Faire fixture runs adjacent to the tree line of the forest, which one can enter through a booth manned by THE GREAT WIZARD ARCHIBALD, who warns you to be prepared to enter the Realm of the Fae beyond his backdrop curtain, before handing you a flower and a pair of antlers (or a head piece from your fauna choice) for your journey to the beyond. Upon entering, you are greeted by a forest that bears no resemblance to the woods you've grown to expect in your time at the manor, everything more exaggeratedly lush than it had been even a day or so prior. Plump fruits with slightly glimmering skins grow fat on the vine, every leaf on every tree vibrant and healthy despite the changing of seasons, gone orange and red with the cold. Despite that, it's surprisingly balmy in the forest, everything illuminated by glimmering fairy lights and strung up lanterns. Flowers bloom under your feet, alongside perfect little red mushrooms, everything so idealistic it almost borders on discomfort.
Despite any reservations, there is a wild compulsion to everyone who enters the forest. The flower the wizard gave you is pungent enough to dizzy your head, leading you to the instinct of frolicking β or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering βΒ through the woods, to find some counterpart to your particular flower in a very innocent (or not so innocent) game of cat and mouse. Once you find them, a simple kiss will serve as enough to claim your prize and ease the compulsion. Unless, of course, you want to give a little more. It couldn't hurt, right?
Wander further through the seemingly never ending woods, drawn on of the beauty of faerie, and find yourself at a somewhat rundown chapel surrounded by foliage, the roof and walls broken down with age, invaded by exploring plant life that crawls and vines through every crack and opening. While the stone altar of indeterminate denomination seems like it hasn't been seen for hundreds of years, let alone cleaned, there's the distinct impression you are walking on hallowed, sacred ground when you move to inspect it. Those clever among you might note different runes etched on what appears to be a wooden tabernacle on an ancient pillar at the back of the chapel. Looking into it, there's a word from an unknown language carved inside, complimented with a cheat sheet bit of yellowing paper which reads F. M. K., with further explanation: FRIENDS, MARRY, KINK.
What could it mean? Well. You and whoever you entered the chapel with, or whoever enters next, are stuck until further notice unless you complete one of the proffered options. FRIENDS, it's time you bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones and accept our faults moving forward, together, to the future. MARRY, let's seal our bonded union with the trees as our witness, in a church of our own making. KINK, if the altar can't be used for the former, it can certainly be used for the latter. Nothing vanilla will do βΒ kink up or shut up.
Once completed, you're free to leave and roam around the forest at your leisure. If you wander far enough you might hear a distant, organic sound whirring and clicking from the trees, but don't worry. Whatever is watching you probably doesn't bite.
The Ren Faire fixture runs adjacent to the tree line of the forest, which one can enter through a booth manned by THE GREAT WIZARD ARCHIBALD, who warns you to be prepared to enter the Realm of the Fae beyond his backdrop curtain, before handing you a flower and a pair of antlers (or a head piece from your fauna choice) for your journey to the beyond. Upon entering, you are greeted by a forest that bears no resemblance to the woods you've grown to expect in your time at the manor, everything more exaggeratedly lush than it had been even a day or so prior. Plump fruits with slightly glimmering skins grow fat on the vine, every leaf on every tree vibrant and healthy despite the changing of seasons, gone orange and red with the cold. Despite that, it's surprisingly balmy in the forest, everything illuminated by glimmering fairy lights and strung up lanterns. Flowers bloom under your feet, alongside perfect little red mushrooms, everything so idealistic it almost borders on discomfort.
Despite any reservations, there is a wild compulsion to everyone who enters the forest. The flower the wizard gave you is pungent enough to dizzy your head, leading you to the instinct of frolicking β or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering βΒ through the woods, to find some counterpart to your particular flower in a very innocent (or not so innocent) game of cat and mouse. Once you find them, a simple kiss will serve as enough to claim your prize and ease the compulsion. Unless, of course, you want to give a little more. It couldn't hurt, right?
Wander further through the seemingly never ending woods, drawn on of the beauty of faerie, and find yourself at a somewhat rundown chapel surrounded by foliage, the roof and walls broken down with age, invaded by exploring plant life that crawls and vines through every crack and opening. While the stone altar of indeterminate denomination seems like it hasn't been seen for hundreds of years, let alone cleaned, there's the distinct impression you are walking on hallowed, sacred ground when you move to inspect it. Those clever among you might note different runes etched on what appears to be a wooden tabernacle on an ancient pillar at the back of the chapel. Looking into it, there's a word from an unknown language carved inside, complimented with a cheat sheet bit of yellowing paper which reads F. M. K., with further explanation: FRIENDS, MARRY, KINK.
What could it mean? Well. You and whoever you entered the chapel with, or whoever enters next, are stuck until further notice unless you complete one of the proffered options. FRIENDS, it's time you bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones and accept our faults moving forward, together, to the future. MARRY, let's seal our bonded union with the trees as our witness, in a church of our own making. KINK, if the altar can't be used for the former, it can certainly be used for the latter. Nothing vanilla will do βΒ kink up or shut up.
Once completed, you're free to leave and roam around the forest at your leisure. If you wander far enough you might hear a distant, organic sound whirring and clicking from the trees, but don't worry. Whatever is watching you probably doesn't bite.
DIRECTORY
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( Aegon wanders around slowly, a gaudy looking chalice of mead in one hand as he tries to take in this event the manor has put on for them. Surely it's for him and the others from his family, the fact his mother has been deemed Queen of the Unseelie a confirmation if nothing else. Not that it stops the Targaryen from rolling his eyes occasionally when spotting Alicent; anyone else would have been called Usurper for such actions, but Aegon merely wonders to himself if Alicent isn't a bit too old to be a queen these days.
Everything else is watched with nothing more than a slightly bored expression. None of it holds his interest too much for the sheer fact that none of it is dedicated to him. No-one knows who Aegon is for the most part or even his status. It's strange, off-putting and Aegon somewhat revels in the newfound ability to shirk his duties. Which is precisely what he intends to do, finishing his drink and immediately moving to get another. At some point he'll manage to do something and join in on the polo event, but for now Aegon simply lounges against a stall, ignoring the slight protests from the owner of it as he looks for any familiar faces. )
No jousting? I've seen better barfights than this. What's an Unseelie meant to be anyway? ( It isn't a house he's heard of before and obviously inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But it's something his mother has been roped into and if anything, Aegon wants to understand if it's even something to be bothered about or not. He's not exactly the most interested in history, but with how things had been back home before arriving here Aegon has to wonder if a new house on the horizon is going to be a problem, or an ally. Or, he supposes, a big fat nothing. Always an option and sometimes welcome too. )
forest times.
( Soon enough Aegon makes his way over to a booth that looks somewhat intriguing, finding himself at the mercy of some guy claiming things about the realm of fae. There's hardly time or effort to protest the flower and the headband he's presented with, the good few rounds of mead having done their job well enough to kill off any cares.
A few steps in and Aegon pauses, looking around with a stunned expression he isn't quick enough to hide. This place looks bigger than expected, more lush and verdant. It's impressive enough that he absently places the white fox ear headband on his head, glancing at the dandelion he's been given and shrugging. He's pretty sure it's a fucking weed but whatever right? A place like this has to be hiding something and soon enough the Targaryen is wandering around with barely a care in the world, only a sudden urge to find a flower that goes with his own. After a while he simply flops to the ground, rolling on to his back to watch the canopy of the trees swaying in the breeze. Fuck it, the other flower can come find him instead. Why should he spend all his time looking around when someone else ought to be doing the same thing?
Thirty minutes is all it takes for Aegon to finally move again should no-one stumble across him, and it doesn't take long before he's looking around the chapel with mild disinterest. They're not his favourite places to be in when there's normally a tavern nearby but right now beggars can't be choosers and Aegon squints slightly at the clue he's somehow managed to get his hands on. )
F M K? ( A small sigh. ) Why bother shortening it if you're going to put the explanation right there?
fair!
[ Tim's been designated a Seelie on account of his summer birthday, but he is far more interested in what the Unseelies are doing, as lovers and friends and sistermoms alike have all ended up on the other side - and really, he doesn't care about the teams so much as the relief of finally having a party where, at least for now, there will be no murders or monsters, only friendly games. His eyes are watchful as Alicent and the queenly entourage pass them, as they should be, given the threats he's already protected her from, both real and imagined.
It's because of that closeness that he has an inkling as to who Aegon might be. Not specifically, but he's heard enough about the family, gotten close to Aemond and met even more of the Targaryens, enough to know that he shares their coloring and coincidences are rare around here. He smiles, one of his first real ones since the werewolf game. ]
Tim Laughlin. I think I've been sorted wrong.
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( Aegon scoffs audibly at that, unaware that his own motif is a creature many would consider to be mythical at best. The criticism fades quickly enough, the drink in hand more interesting than the Unseelie meaning and eventually Aegon glances over at Tim, aware the other is still talking.
No your grace, no bow of the head of any sort. Most would be carted away for the audacity, for daring to speak without accolades to the king. The novelty will eventually wear off but for now the Targaryen simply tilts his head with a small smile as he gives Tim another curious look, completely unaware that the other knows more than he appears to. )
What has sorted you wrong, Tim Laughlin?
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[ Vampires, werewolves, dragons, witches and wizards, the list goes on and on, but it wouldn't be polite to unfurl a full list of The Horrors onto someone who's just arrived. Tim sips at the drink in his hand, some sort of ale, and tips his head back towards the procession. ]
The Queen, Alicent, is a close friend of mine. We've been aligned in the rest of this manor's stupid schemes, but they've put me on the other team now.
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faire times
Unseelie are dark faeries, specifically those native to Scotland, I think.
[Look at that, some of those NYUMA courses are paying off. He didn't sleep through all of them after all.]
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Not that it changes the fact he's been allegedly placed in one, but then Aegon knows if he doesn't acknowledge it then it may as well not be happening. )
Faeries are not real, and I have never heard of this Scot Land. ( The blond gives the worlds smallest shrug before taking another drink of his mead, looking over to the person who dared speak without preamble. )
What is it you look to buy here? There is naught here but blocks of clay.
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That's just what they want you to think.
[He's kidding. Partially. Maybe.
He raises his eyebrows at the question about what he's buying, though.]
It's not clay. It's fudge. Chocolate.
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faire times.
You have been to many barfights, my lord? [ for he must be, with his bearing and attitude. ] Will you not join the games?
jon!!! β₯
( Aegon's nose wrinkles a little as he says it, as if his entire life has been robbed of any joy those could-have-been barfights would bring. Alas. Aegon shifts his weight slightly, pointedly ignoring the exasperated sigh from the stall owner as he fixes Jon with a curious look.
Jon is the only person so far to use any form of title and it hasn't slipped his notice. )
I believe the words you seek are your grace. And no, they are mere mockeries of how they should be held. ( It's the most long-winded way of saying he can't be bothered, and the truth of it is that Aegon is feeling conflicted over how said games are not for him, but for his mother. )
aegon party time, hello! β₯
[ jon's disbelief is clear in his voice. the young lord cannot be any older than himself; is he consort to the seelie queen? the unseelie queen herself seems old enough to be his mother, and jon presumes the queens have inherited the crowns since the tourney is held in honour of their courts.
he inclines his head toward the young lord, questioning. ]
Why are you not stood by your wife, then, Your Grace? I don't see any of your guard nearby, it cannot be safe for you to simply wander.
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taking jon from 8.01, for context!
i love it
i'm so sorry for how late this is, no pressure getting me back
faire times;
If he has not yet come to an understanding of what has made them all but prisoners, she thinks to herself, he will soon have that realization for himself, even if it comes at a cost, as it has for many of them.
There's no point in trying to make a quick exit to avoid him; he'll see her as soon as he turns, so once he does, Rhaenyra makes a point of acknowledging him directly, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, her hands lightly clasped in front of her to affect a calm but assured demeanor. Here, before all others, she has even less reason to diminish herself before him. ]
Brother. [ Not Usurper, as she would be fully justified in uttering, but the tone of her voice brooks no confusion either. This is not a warm welcome between those who share blood. ]
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Such things never last and he spies the familiar blonde figure making their way over, notices the defiance that the simple lift of her chin announces. This would never be an easy or forgiving meeting, even if part of Aegon feels weary that the potential good times at this faire were about to be cut short.
Brother. Aegon's lips thin upon hearing that word. He can remember the times when their family had gotten along, before Viserys had moved on to the next journey. Dinners with familial squabbles, petty bickering and good laughs. Ganging up with his cousins to torment Aemond some, and then some more. The memories come easily enough and just as swiftly comes another one, a funeral parade through the town, a young life cut short too early. Some would call Aegon a hypocrite all things considered, but in his mind the death of his son and that of Rhaenyra's were wholly different things.
Aegon clicks his tongue, pointedly looking away, not wishing to meet his sister's gaze head on any longer as he squares his shoulders. Things already feel complicated and uncomfortable and barely a word has been spoken between them. )
Rhaenyra. ( No familial term, just a name, a brief acknowledgement only by virtue of an alleged truce that Alicent has spoken of. )
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She is the only lawful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and her perspective in that will not shift regardless of the fact that they happen to be in a vastly different realm. While she had previously asserted that she has no intention of bringing their war to the Balfours' threshold, plunging them into a battle the likes of which they have no personal investment, she does not wholly trust that Aegon will not fall prey to rasher decision-making.
Once, he had been small enough for her to balance on her knee, a squalling infant whose weight she had only borne a handful of times in memory β he had rarely strayed far from Alicent's hold, and tensions between them had only deepened in those early years following Viserys taking her as his wife.
What had they all lost, though, as a result of political scheming from those who wanted to advance their own houses? Now that she is old enough to grasp a fuller understanding of it, she places more blame on Otto Hightower's shoulders than with his descendants.
Although Aegon might be avoiding her glance, Rhaenyra's gaze remains unwavering β she has no reason to look away, nothing she is hiding from. ]
I did not know you had arrived.
forest times
It's a strange place, this forest though. She wears the fox ears on the band that just stick out of her silver hair. The flowers grow as she steps, and she knows this land is filled with some sort of magic-- to be trusted or not, she keeps a vigilant eye out. Which has her come to a clearing where a man is just casually lying on the forest floor. She stops sharply, raising a brow. His features nearly mirror her own, and she surmises that another Targaryen, one of her ancestors has found his place here.]
Welcome, stranger. Though I think I may call you kin? [Hands together, she peers over him with a quizzical grin, attempting to be amiable. She does have the flower the vendor had given her, making her not entirely so cynical of this place.]
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If Aegon had been wholly sober it would have been considered a helpful quiet but the reality of it all boiled down to a Targaryen king who just couldn't be bothered in the moment. )
Hm? ( Aegon cranes his neck to look over at who's talking, eyebrows raising as the outfit is the first thing that catches his eye. Blond hair, pale skin and already asking about being kin. If this newcomer wasn't a Targaryen of some kind Aegon would eat his crown. ) Not many would deign call me kin unless they knew better. Who are you to claim it?
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I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Rightful Heir of the Iron Throne, Rightful Queen of the Andals and the Firstmen, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and the Breaker of Chains.
[A pause as she steps back.] It is not a name you would know though, for I believe you, like all those who find themselves here, are far before me. My forebears and their kin during the time of the Dance as we now call it.
[Which does truly make her wonder who is so casually laying on the floor of the forest. Could it be one of Rhaenyra's other sons. She's been told they are just babes, but would that matter when Rhaenyra and Daemon are her predecessors. Does time truly matter like that? Or is he one of the two other sons from the Dowager Queen and King Viserys I?
How strange to consider which side he may be on-- Green or Black. What little importance it truly has in the end. Still it is her living history, and she's just as intrigued as meeting Aemond and Daemon, knowing somewhere there was once a little boy carrying his little sister on his back, retelling a tale involving the person right in front of her.]
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π² forest times.
[ caroline shakes a leaf off her headband, reaches up to adjust the deer antlers as she steps back inside the chapel. no one was here when she first arrived so she ducked out to have a snack (rip bunny) and the chapel let her, but she returns now to find a visitor and when she attempts to back out she knows she's stuck.
damn it.
her black dress marks her as part of his mother's court though she looks like sunshine itself, all golden curls and easy smile, that she wouldn't actually suit the unseelie court. ]
We're not friends so I think we're stuck with the other two options.
sorry this is late!
( Seriously, there's always someone getting married, killed or fucked in Westeros and Aegon idly wonders why someone would bother changing it to "Friends, Marry, Kink". Only one of those could be definitively defined and there's a small laugh at the way Caroline points out they're not friends.
Pale eyes look back over at Caroline, taking in blonde hair a few shades warmer than his own, a dark dress that conveys a court at the very least. )
And I am married. It would stand to reason the last would be the offer, though that too would cause scandal. ( Aegon folds his arms, not at all bothered by how the fox ears sit so haphazardly on his head. Normally he wouldn't give a shit about scandal, but angering his mother in this place so quickly would only be detrimental. ) Why are we not friends, then?
time is a construct
[ throw a rock and you'll hit someone from this family, good lord. she doesn't offer that the house seems to want to push people toward a very specific kind of intimacy, because he's married and caroline isn't a homewrecker. she has terrible luck with boys but she tries not to kneecap herself by going after guys who already have a girlfriend.
emotionally unavailable is her type, not relationship-unavailable. ]
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faire times
even if he hadn't been engaged in his very own real sisterwives of westeros nightly gossip from tim - he'd recognize the markings of a spoiled child anywhere. the casual ownership aegon takes of the stall, blocking off the potential shopkeep's vantage point and any hopes for business, the easy laze in getting more to drink, and the absence at alicent's side, despite her queen for the day business even if hawk knows she's more than just a passing title. one would think that freedom from war and brimstone and everything else they've had to contend with back home would be a relief - but aegon appears to be wholly unimpressed despite his recent arrival.
it's funny the way it reminds him of a few of the snooty, spoiled private school rich kids he used to rub shoulders with before he'd gotten the boot to jesuit high school for a doomed semester. but there's no mistaking the family he belongs to, from the clearly non-costumed attire that looks more authentic than anything else here, and of course - the hair.
hawk has a goblet of his own, a simple silver chalice in his hand as he casually eyes a few of the displays and wanders over cautiously in his own provided outfit to fit the theme for a day.]
You just missed all the murders. [said absently, an easy and conversational like he's commenting on late rain and an every day occurrence. which after the last month: it pretty much was.]
But if you're not happy with the accommodations...nothing is stopping you from picking a bar fight either.
[he shrugs, taking a sip of his whiskey before dropping the unfair knowledge he has.]
Aemond's brother, right? The Dowager - well, Unseelie, too - Queen's eldest? Someone said something about fairies and that's right about when they lost me.
[those are not the kind of fairies he pays attention to.]
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A family that had, somehow, called some kind of a truce if his mother is to be believed. How nice for them. It's difficult to enjoy festivities knowing that the other half of his family could be around, waiting for the right moment to be weapons grade assholes. )
I shall count my blessings later that I missed them upon arriving here. ( Murders? Aegon wishes; he's already heard that death doesn't stick in this unusual place, news courtesy of his brother. He does suppose, with a conceding tilt of the head, that a bar fight could be started at any time. All it takes is a well placed spilled drink or thrown chair to kick the night off. )
If you have been talking with my brother then you would know my name is Aegon, seeing as "Your Grace" means nothing here. ( He shrugs, a small, indifferent motion as the blond takes a drink from his chalice, pale eyes giving Hawk's outfit a once over. This place and its idea of fashion left little to be desired. ) Why would anyone give a fuck about fairies enough to have a house based upon them?
cw: mention of suicide
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faire
she's wary, but she steps forward, hands clasped before her, red hair spilling down over her shoulders. she wears the dark colours of the unseelie, and incidentally also the dark colours of sansa stark. to her great pleasure, she has found among the costumes a cloak lined with fur that might be passable, and with that, winterfell feels just a shade closer than before. ]
I have seen worse jousts, [ she says, with a bare glance at the games. ] I suspect they mean to make fun of us. But if they will make a game of that rather than murdering us as they did last month, I'll accept it.
You are another Targaryen, are you not? I've met others of your family here. I'm Sansa Stark, Queen of the North. Not that it matters very much in this place.
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( Aegon takes another sip of his drink before finally turning to meet who has spoken up, eyes drawn immediately to a shock of red hair and an outfit that is a little more authentic than the rest. There's little surprise to know that his family name is known when the others have already established themselves, but the mention of Stark has his eyebrows raising.
The mention of Queen gets an audible scoff. )
Then you mustn't be from my own lands. There is no Queen of the North, only Cregan Stark and his wall.
( Still, Sansa has introduced herself and never let it be said Aegon will pass up the opportunity to return it in kind. That and he can't deny a curiosity to see if this Queen of the North is from his world or not. A second fake Queen so soon? )
Aegon Targaryen. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
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forest times.
that should not be a surprise.
he takes a deep breath, turning to look at Aegon. he's unsure what he expects to find, but there are no burns that he can easily see. his one-time friend and favorite uncle looks as he did ever. it almost feels like a distant dream, like he has walked into the past instead of being trapped in a space with the Usurper to his mother's throne.
Jace sighs, reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose. he has not read what the chapel requires of them when he speaks: ) Little of this place makes sense. To question it is a fool's errand, uncle, and the faster we do whatever it requires the easier it will be.
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And then ascension, usurpers and claims rightly (or not so rightly) acted upon. It seemed that the small hope of a family-free time in this place will not come to pass and Aegon sighs, not caring if Jace hears it or not. )
So swiftly you fall in line with this places whims. ( Aegon will soon learn that doing what the place asks for is the quickest way to get through it, and he studies the paper again before giving a bark of laughter. ) And with such options as friend, marry, and kink? I doubt you know what that last word means.