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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
no subject
[ But more importantly, and with a slight, snittier shift in tone as he puts his hands on his hips: ] Besides, I mean you've been dreadfully late in arriving here at all β I've been here three months already.
[ Not that he really thinks any of them have any control over when they arrive β or when they leave, which is somehow an equally frightening prospect β but that's beside the point. ]
And how will you beg my forgiveness, hm?
no subject
I, well β you wouldnβt like my dedication, Iβm sure. [ self-flagellating a little, as always. ] I suppose the bracelet is a start? Are you β [ Hungry? on the tip of his tongue, curling around the half-uttered word. ] Well, I should think cake a little dry for your tastes. [ What with blood being inherently wet and allβ¦ ] I hadnβt noticed you were gone β [ Okay, even he knows this is going badly. ]
Perhaps a favour? [ voice ticking up at the end, hopeful of saying the right thing and garnering approval as a result. His weight shifts from leg to the other. ] Having a former archmage in your debtβs nothing to sniff at.
no subject
A favor, [ he agrees, feigning magnanimity.
He pauses, looking down at the bracelet he's still just holding in his hand β gold thread intertwined with a few glass beads β hesitating only a moment before holding it out to Gale. Is it partially a distraction, a way of attempting to ensure Gale doesn't think their circumstances through to their fullest extent? Maybe. ]
Here. Return it to me when we're square.
no subject
[ dryly, ] Generous of you. [ Regardless, he makes quick work of its little tie, even one-handed, slipping it over his wrist. a wizardβs dexterity isnβt as impressive as a rogueβs, but there are some transferable skills. ]
Though that does remind me, [ eyes flashing to meet Astarionβs as he tightens the fit. ] youβve not yet parted with your true favour, have you?
mental sleight of hand check succeeded
At any rate, the mention of his true favor gets a frown, as he skips past the idea of pretending he doesn't know what Gale is talking about (a useless endeavor, he's certain) or pretending he's already given it away (only an on-ramp to further questioning). ]
Why on earth would I do something like that? [ comes the answer, as Astarion does everything in his power not to let himself fiddle with the necklace he's wearing. ]
Have you?
no subject
A flicker of surprise, then, as Astarion slings the question back at him. ]
As a means of showing affection for another, I imagine β but I haven't, no. It seems a bold gesture, when I hardly know anyone apart from you.
[ not that he has much experience with corporeal forms of courting, outside academy dalliances. ]
You shouldn't, in any case. [ said simply, while adjusting his sleeve around his new debtor's bracelet. ] It's enchanted.
no subject
Of course it is, [ he hums, his lips pursing. He shouldn't be surprised that the house wouldn't let even such a small token go without some sort of mischief attached. ]
Everything in this damned place comes with a catch. [ A beat. ] βWhat sort of enchantment is it?
no subject
Broken wizard, broken clock, goes his working (hah) theory. He offers it to Astarion, tipping his open palm toward him. ]
Not necessarily a dangerous one. [ assuring, as always. His crooked mouth tugs higher on one side, encouraging. ]
Allow me to demonstrate. [ For an elf, Astarionβs rather out of touch with his magic. A side effect of the vampirism or his prickly personality. As such, itβs easier to show than tell. (And Gale so loves a show.) ] If you please.
[ A little more earnest there, well-aware heβs coaxing something of a stray cat to indulge his attentions. ]
no subject
You really couldn't just tell me?
[ Though he supposes that Gale's eagerness to go this far means that, whatever the spell is, it isn't particularly dangerous.
In the same voice that parents typically use to indulge their children (the stray cat circling the bowl that's been left out overnight): ] Go on, then.
no subject
With a final look at Astarionβs fine features, Gale conjures a flickering flame in the palm of one hand and holds his other above it, waiting for warmth to suffuse his flesh (and Astarionβs, by proxy). The academic in him canβt help but sneak a glance at his friend, watching to see if the same hand curls against the sudden heat, or if Astarion notices a broader affect. Like his burgeoning excitement, for instance, slipping through whatever pathway the favour creates. ]
[ before Astarion can ask (or worse, recoil), he clarifies, ]. Itβs a one way system β unless you deign to return a lowly mageβs affections, and gift your favour in turn.
[ He hasn't tested that theory, for want of a trusted partner, even in this. On his own, all he could gather was the essence of himself β the gossamer tether running from his person to the broken timepiece. Gale closes his hand on the weak flame, snuffing it out. ]
How very courtly.
no subject
He's grateful, at least, that this is how he's finding out what this whole affair's gimmick is, rather than more literal trial and error.
As the flame disappears, Astarion shakes his hand, as though to dispel that phantom heat. ]
You know, you did just tell me not to give it away.
[ A long beat, as his brain catches up with what Gale's said. His eyes faintly narrow. ]
Does the lowly mage truly wish for my favor?
no subject
I should be so lucky. [ deflection, easier than admitting any longing for companionship more broadly or in this situation, specifically. He had observed decidedly more romantic pairings exchanging favours on arrival β and thought about how heβd forsaken such small intimacies in favour of a higher calling, a peculiar ache inside him.
Gale musters a smile and gives a mock bow, all part of the courtly game. ]
Iβll consider myself honoured enough by your acceptance of mine, rather than beg more of you. [ and yet, he adds β ] Keep it, please.
[ Too earnest, with a pleading note in his voice. Carrying around the broken thing will only remind him of his own inadequacy. And itβs been freely given to one he trusts, besides. ]
I promise not to partake in anything more than wine, so youβll not be affected.
no subject
(Loneliness had been a kinder friend before. In this place, it is less a fact of life so much as it is an ever-looming shadow, his friendships the sole balm against the press of the house's apparent mission to turn every relationship into an intimate one.
Would he have given his favor away β to Gale, to Lauralae, to Matt, to anyone β in some other life?)
He dispels the thoughts with a haughty sort of sniff, tucking the time piece away into his jacket (an inner pocket, safe and sound), skating past his own thoughts as much as Gale's plaintive tone. ]
If you insist. But the moment you break your promise, I'm throwing it into the lake. [ A beat. A little less severely: ] I don't mind the wine. It's been a while since I've had a tipple, anyhow.
no subject
If Mystra taught him anything, itβs to take what heβs given. Had he heeded her, he wouldnβt be skipping merrily to his doom β and so he nods, papering over any lingering strangeness between them with humour. ]
A just punishment from the former magistrate. [ a snap of his fingers, as if to close the topic. ]
Shall we find the wine after you take to throwing knives, then?
[ assuming heβs competing and willing to tolerate Gale for an extended period of time. Both safer bets than the one he made with his favour. ]
no subject
[ The snap of Gale's fingers seems to snap Astarion out of his haze as well β he straightens up, once again the picture of poise. (Some part of him still isn't entirely willing to let Gale out of his sight.) His fingers absently travel over the front of his shirt, smoothing out any wrinkles he finds along the way. ]
Not that I doubt I could acquit myself well even under the influence, but β best not to risk injuring a bystander, hm?
[ Granted, he'd think it was funny, but even a couple of weeks removed from werewolf, it seems wise to avoid that particular brand of mischief β and he'd rather like to win, though that's neither here nor there. ]
So, after that, and after your turn in the bardic competition? Or would wine be an aid, in that instance?
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[ Agreement and amusement light his eyes, as he falls into step beside Astarion, so they might make their way through the faire β and this place β together. Itβs a tick closer than he would have dared before all this, an amiable knock of their shoulders starting them off in the direction of the arena. The knowledge that Astarion will keep his favour safe sticks in his mind. He canβt think of when he last gave something of himself to another.
Well, he can, but. You know. Tribute to the divine, misaligned affections, and so on. Unpleasant to dwell on, when this has been an otherwise reassuring encounter. ]
Perhaps a glass before I ascend the stage, for inspiration. [ Galeβs nerves tend to play out one-on-one, rather than before a crowd, but it couldnβt hurt. ] Some of my best ideas have unfurled with the aid of a Waterdhavian red. Though Tara would claim her curling in my lap had more to do with it.
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Oh, I should mention β the library here allows for requests for items and the like, but it's rather unlikely to fulfill requests to the tee, [ though he recognizes that this clarification will likely only encourage Gale to make his requests as specific as possible, ] and also notably will not allow for the transport of live creatures or weapons.
[ He's seen the bloody chute and he doesn't want to put Gale through recreating it while asking the library for a cat, less for Gale's sake than for the cat's. ]
I haven't yet cajoled it into cooperating properly, though I've admittedly only attempted as much once.
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On the subject of library and its magical mechanisms, he further brightens. For a prison, thereβs an awful lot to explore. ]
Likely for the best, given how some of the matches played out.
[ Some people seem a little violent, for his taste. ]
Whatever did you ask for? [ innocently, ] Another shirt plucked from the covers of Shadowheart and Wyllβs novellas?
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Gale's question gets a roll of his eyes (granted, one without any venom behind it) as well as a drawn-out pfff, though notably no further argument considering that it's something he likely would have asked for (if not in those exact words) if their closets were not already so well-stocked. ]
I asked for a simple perfumer's kit, [ he answers, feigning haughtiness, ] and what it saw fit to give me in return was ... an assortment of bath products. I've had to make do with what I can find around the house and grounds, instead. [ Which, granted, hasn't hindered him too much in the grand scheme, but is still more annoying to have to deal with than having most popular ingredients immediately at hand. ]
But I wonder what it would see fit to give me given those parameters. Doubtless something a little too revealing.
[ Does he briefly look down as if to imagine how he'd feel about an incredibly deep V, maybe. ]
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How lovely. [ to make something for the sake of it, pleasing to himself and others. A sincere observation, before Astarion carries on speaking, and Gale hums, considering. ]
Is it always soβ¦prurient in its approach? [ not-so-local man still has absolutely no idea what kind of place he woke up in, apparently. He rushed past the nude wrestling with averted eyes, after all. ]
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As tempting as it is to lie, to tell Gale to visit Otherworld and try all of the drinks (preferably at once), there's been enough harm done and damage caused in the last month that his sense of caution wins out. (And besides, he's always made a point out of the fact that he isn't a liar β he simply withholds the truth when it's proven convenient to him.) ]
I suppose it's to make it all the richer when it forces us to turn our knives on each other. If we all hated each other it'd be too easy.
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A dark β and not unfounded β thought. The all-powerful do so enjoy making entertainment of us mortals.
[ A glimmer of self-awareness, as he considers the implications that admission has on his relationship with Mystra, uncertainty in his features, there and gone. ]
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He's thought, more than once, that it might be nice to have that kind of power, himself. He's not as sure about it all, anymore. ]
At least, what's that old chestnut β misery loves company? It's preferable to being tortured alone.
[ He ought to know! π ]
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And so you confess your understandable gratitude for my suitably pathetic companionship.
[ What a pair they make, their party of two. ]