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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
β‘ wild card.
well, that's not entirely true, or at least it wasn't about an hour ago when he'd stepped inside of it. because for all that takeshi kovacs can come off as fairly disinterested in most things, there's far more wonder in this man than his currently rented body might be able to really convey in those stern eyes. yet, the moment he slips past the curtain of that quack wizard's booth, he ends up somewhere that he thinks the elders could have lived on, a place where the songspire trees might have actually thrive and healthily populate.
his fingers trace gently over the glowing petals of overly saturated flora, gaze trailing over its abundant growth along a path could lead anywhere at all. for a time, kovacs gets caught up in simple study and observation; he isn't a science man, and much less a magical one, but there's a hunger in his chest for the kind of beauty only found in nature, the kind his future has done its part in further destroying.
the only problem is when, eventually, he gets lost. and kovacs doesn't do lost, not when he's had survival training for years under both ctac and the envoys, assuring he can make his way around with ease. unfortunately, whatever kind of forest this is doesn't fall under normal rules, which means every turn he presumes would make sense ultimately lands him going in circles.
eventually, he does manage to find the chapel, heaving a sigh that at least he's found some kind of landmark to take note of. heavy boots travel up the stone steps, pushing back the entrance door before giving it an almost playful knock with his knuckles. ] Anybody home?
uwu β‘
oh, she knows this isn't that kind of chapel. that if those that built this worshipped any kind of god at all, it's not any of the ones she knows. least of all the one her mother still speaks to, rubbing at wooden beads to close off the end of the day.
it's all symbolic anyway. she doubts any god powerful and omnipresent enough as the ones her mother's bibles claim to know would really care where she's praying, just so long as she is. though he would probably wonder, first, just where the hell she's been all these years. ]
Sorry, [ is what she winds up saying outloud first. honestly it's as good a start to a prayer as anything. but now that she's started, she wonders where she even means for this to go. would an apology, no matter how sincere, really undo a punishment like this? is this a punishment? maybe she ought to offer up a confession first, or so her vague memories of protocol would suggest.
she works her mouth open again, but the voice and words that come out aren't hers. half-turning, she has to squint past the streaks of light that flood the enclosed space (was it a chapel, or a tomb?), backlighting a larger figure who takes a step in. ]
I'll be done in a minute, [ she explains reflexively, even when just two seconds ago she'd all but decided to give up. ] Or β you can go first, if you'd like.
no subject
but the way the woman responds takes up an extra second for him to realize what she's talking about, before he actually recognizes the structure for what its original purpose might have been in a time where it had better thrived. ]
Yeah, I don't ... really do much of the God thing. Take up all the prayers you want. [ it might not be his calling, but everybody's got their thing. he remembers plenty of ortega's own conflicted feelings on religion despite how much she still believed in it despite everything. so even if he was hoping for someone a bit more useful to take care of this lost destination before, though what's another minute? besides, he's got the rest of the chapel to look over.
except a longer look at the woman further inside brings about a quick sense of familiarity, one that a mind like his doesn't take much to bring to memory. he steps further in, boots taking slow steps but almost loud as they move across the wood amongst the rest of the quiet. his head tilts, his own image likely becoming more decipherable as he moves further from the backdrop of light. ]
Gotta say, I'm usually pretty good at figuring things out, but finding Runaway Handkerchief Girl here? Not in my top predictions. Guess I'm off my game today.
no subject
spoilers: it did not. but she hadn't had to think about it until just this very moment, where she is reminded of how impudent she'd been hastily stuffing the lace-trimmed cloth into the man's pocket.
heat prickles at her neck, at the freckles dotting her cheeks. she does not, thankfully, explode into a full on blush but the threat of it is there, almost tauntingly so. ]
It's Marta, [ she winds up saying, voice not so much as clipped as it is gently pruned around what would be the sharper edges of flat out embarrassment. downright breezy, in a space steadily reclaiming its dead and stale air now that the heavy door has swung itself back shut. (marta has never had such game, and so doesn't think to take note of this one detail for the worrying thing it is.) ]
If you were expecting someone else, I'll make it quick.
[ turning back on her heel, she scrambles for whatever it was that'd kept her grounded seconds ago, but remembers with a pang it'd been nothing more than a shot in the dark attempt to reach out to ears that might not even know to listen for her. least of all here, wherever the hell here is. and so, she flounders, perhaps obviously so. ]
no subject
Don't rush on my account. [ his voice remains as casually deep as what it had started with, but there's an evident subtle tease in it, sprung on by the squint-to-see smirk that appears on his face when he gathers that she's not trying to linger on the details of whatever had transpired between them in those fleeting seconds earlier in the day (the whatever being so quick an exchange, it really could hardly be called anything at all).
but if that's meant to suggest he'll leave her to her privacy, it doesn't match with the way he only seems to step further in, his eyes only peering away from the back of her head to briefly study the decaying architecture of the chapel itself. ]
Not even gonna ask my name? Got your token, so I figured, you know β maybe you're a fan. Hate to say it, but I still did kinda shit in the games. Seemed rigged, anyway. But the handkerchief? Nice touch.
no subject
it's simply his misfortune he should find her so at odds (again), that she forgets to put her best foot forward (again). ]
If I was a fan, wouldn't I already know your name?
[ she doesn't look at him, half-afraid the blush would fully activate if she did, but that doesn't mean she isn't keenly aware of his presence just behind her. maybe, if he were paying attention, he'd see how her shoulders lower a fraction, hearing her mother's sharp, reprimanding words, Β‘Marta, miras tus modales! Β‘Que hay un joven hermoso aqui! ]
I'm sorry you didn't win anything.
[ truthfully, it had only occured to her sometime after that that's what the token was intended for. luck, isn't it? or something to that effect. maybe if she'd given it to him more earnestly, he'd have had a fighting chance. though she gets the feeling he wouldn't have cared either way.
slowly, she shifts on her feet, as if to allow him room in his wandering to approach the altar if he wanted. the chapel is so small, there really isn't that much room for two people to stand side-by-side without being forced to be too close for polite company. ]
What is your name?
no subject
but it's hard to ignore the familiarity when she had been the one who'd run up to him in the first place. kovacs can mostly make a guess on what had actually happened, the way she so clearly had intended to run into him when she nearly stumbled in front of him, the seemingly afterthought of having that handkerchief shoved in his hands. whatever the reason, he's pretty sure he wasn't a purposeful target.
still, there's some amusing humor in crossing paths with her again, in a situation like this of all places. he might as well entertain it while he figures out his path out of it. ]
Yeah, really lost out on that fancy plaque with my name on it and a coupon for a free massage. [ as if he even knows what the prizes were meant to be. ] I'll survive.
[ with all his teasing, his attention doesn't actually solely linger on her once he moves in closer behind her, his eyes catching on the stone altar itself now that it's clearer within his vision, carrying an age to it that does seep away at his rising interest. ]
Takeshi Kovacs. [ he answers, almost distracted now, as his steps slow to a stop just shy of being directly behind her, though his gaze remains past her at the altar's structure, locked now upon the unique runes there, its history locking his curiosity. ] What is this place?
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[ it feels rude to look back now, especially when he is all but right behind her. neither of the names are anything she would have expected from someone who looks like him, which is an awful thing to think about and she feels suitably ashamed for it the second she does. the syllables and consonants tumble a little clumsily on her tongue, accent wrapping them in a slightly different coloring, and she has to repeat both names once more just to get a proper feel for them. she hasn't met too many people here yet, but of the ones she has there are names that immediately stick out to her in their novelty. takeshi kovacs feels like it will be one of them. ]
It's a chapel, [ she answers, after a while. at her sides her hands itch to do something β reach up, palms together, or rub at some beads. quite ironically, she wishes she still had that handkerchief to fidget with. she half-wonders if he'd give it back to her if she asked. (would he still even have it at all?) ]
I don't know who or what for. I only came in here because I was lost, and it looked like it was about to rain.
[ maybe that makes her look a little foolish. some lost little lamb, desperate to find its shepherd in someone else's home. ]
What do you do, [ she finds herself asking, ] if you don't do the God thing?
[ she might have fallen off in keeping up with the practices, but she never fully lost her faith. it's too ingrained, and become too much of a comfort especially when everything else feels out of her control. don't worry, her mama would say, pray about it.
harlan wasn't a particularly religious man, not were any of his children, though during the holidays they all liked to play dress up and show face at the local church. he was spiritual, in the sense that he didn't fear death but still worried enough about his soul that he tried to do what right he could.
what of takeshi kovacs? someone who is just as lost and confused as her? what does a man without the comfort of a prayer, false or not, do when the answers won't come? ]
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her curiosity isn't limited there as she poses her question about god, the way it's slipped like casual conversation prompting him to ease out a breathy chuckle as he keeps his perceptive gaze around the altar's space. ]
I take care of things myself. [ no higher being is going to do that for him, especially since men have been making their efforts to take their place as gods these days.
as if on cue with his statement, he turns his body to squeeze in by her, ducking down to level his eyes with the etching of old runes, raising his fingers to trace calloused tips over carved wood until they trail to the small knob of the tabernacle. he keeps his hand there for a moment, both listening to the silence of the chapel and debating his next step. if he's ever been warned about the possibility of cursed objects, kovacs would barely heed it as he pulls it open and gives his full attention to observing what's inside. ]
You said you were lost? [ he asks without turning around, reaching his hand inside. he'd been lost too, or so he had been left to believe. but when he pulls his arm back, bringing with him a sheet of paper with scribbled words in clear english, he reconsiders. ] Pretty sure we were meant to find this place.
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[ still no laugh, but a huff of a shadow of one. maybe even a scoff. she drags her attention away from his face to the paper in his hands, but she's already talking. ]
Men who like to take care of things themselves don't usually talk about fa—
[ her voice clips, eyes landing on the words that are instantly, unexpectedly recognizable. she quiets, eyes flitting across the lines again, and then again, and then her lips purse into a line inherent to every cabrera woman she's ever known. a rough sigh, barely contained. ]
I'm so tired of this place.
[ this place not reserved just for the chapel, of course, but it's as good as any to start. she pivots on a heel and now it's her turn to squeeze past him, stomping off towards the door. suddenly prayers are the last thing she wants to entertain, especially in a space that has done nothing but laugh at her every chance it's gotten.
her hand lands on the knob, but it jiggles uselessly under her grip. dust shudders off the wood when she gives it a firmer attempt, but budge is all it does. she turns back around, and it's only because of her growing frustration that her sharp gaze lands so accusingly on him. ]
It's stuck.
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no doubt she also reads what he does, something about friends, marry, kink, with an elaborated follow-up explanation that sounds more like a party game than an actual practice in a traditional looking chapel of the old age like this one. ]
If fate's some rich asshole with a kidnapping fetish, then β yeah, probably.
[ he watches her as she moves past him though doesn't entirely follow his gaze once she's past him, lingering back on the runes of the tabernacle, absentmindedly wondering if they actually bear any connection with the words written in english in his hand. likely, it's what it always is β old traditions twisted by those with little care for upholding anything besides their own power and entertainment. he might not be religious but he does believe there's something sacred in history.
it's when she speaks up again that he finally turns his body back towards her at the door, brow knitting despite the lack of surprise in what she tells him. he exhales a steady breath, as he makes his way down the aisle to meet her there, until he can get his own hand on the knob to give it an even stronger tug, putting his strength into it to no avail.
once again, his eyes linger into staying at it as he did the runes, pensively. ] I didn't even close it.
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No, [ marta's voice is grim, resighned. ] It shut behind you.
[ whether by someone else's hand, by the winds of the storm she'd been trying to avoid, or some secret, third option that feels less and less ludicrous the more time she spends here. with a sigh of frustration she stomps back over towards the altar, seemingly alright with eschewing reverence now that the more devious undertones of the chapel's use has come to light. she plops herself down right there at the top of the short steps, propping her elbows onto her knees to cradle the sides of her face with her hands. her gaze falls on the shut door, and the man still studying it, with barely concealed contempt.
the unspoken question of what now? hangs heavy in the small space of the chapel, but marta doesn't want to be the first to voice it. there are no windows to try and smash and crawl out of, and somehow she doubts even a man of kovacs' bulk can bring down a door that heavy.
there is, of course, that innocuous piece of paper, but she's actually trying very hard not to think of it as an option. ]