𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒 ▣ NOV TDM

[saltburnmods]

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 — 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 « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» 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 isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.

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 — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t 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

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐘: 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.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐊𝐀: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
𝐎𝐄𝐔𝐅𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
𝐄𝐆𝐆 𝐌𝐂𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐇: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.

THE SWEETS

❖ momofuku's "cereal milk" ❖
❖ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss ❖
❖ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping ❖
❖ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling ❖
❖ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection ❖

If you want to leave, you’ll 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 he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — 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, it’s 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering — 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 — 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

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

[nishtha]

[ The suncatcher is in the shape of a rose, stained glass and a cunningly wrought stem, dripping red leaves that hang beneath it on thin chains like drops of blood. Armand had been touching them with his fingernails to set them gently spinning when a warm voice spoke up beside him, a generous offer in a strange accent he's only heard from one other person.

He catches the wink, as intrigued by it as the skim of thoughts from the top of the man's mind, all self-assured pleasure and a genuine desire to do something kind for another person.

The magic earns a gasp and applause from the stall keeper. Armand's eyebrows have inched upwards, fascinated. He could have performed the trick himself, but not with so much showmanship -- Armand is reminded, a little, of Santiago. This man would have had a fine career on the Paris stage. Armand allows himself to imagine the costume, the lighting.

He smiles at the magician as the stallholder takes down their purchases and wraps them in paper. ]

Thank you. I will think of you when I put it up in my rooms. [ His orange eyes are thoughtful; he doesn't blink as he studies Gale. ] Do the objects need to be broken for you to work your gifts upon them?

[corporeity]

[ It’s a lovely thing to say, really — I will think of you — and Gale tucks it away, to be saved for a rainy day. He beams back at Armand, altogether pleased by the warm reception from him and the vendor both. The effusive man receives a half-bow and extra flourish of his hands, more magician-like than he’d ever admit.

At the back of his mind, he notes the phrasing gift. This man is not of his world, then, where magic can be taught to anyone with the interest and wherewithal to learn it. ]

Not at all. [ an easy answer. ] A mending cantrip’s schoolboy fodder, and I much prefer evocation and illusion to transmutation, besides — though I dabble in every school of magic.

[ Another smile at the vendor, as he takes his gift-bagged ornament. A soon-to-be improvement on his uncluttered room, desperately in need of books and tokens and warmth. Wry, then — ] Such is the way of the damnably curious.

[nishtha]

[ There's no hint of a lie in the man's thoughts or manners; he's as casual about the discussion of magic as he is about picking up his new purchase. Armand takes his own gift, folding long fingers around the package, but he keeps his attention on the magician. ]

Curiosity is the fount of discovery. Were we not curious, we would have nothing.

[ He gestures with a wave of his hand, an inviting glance, a suggestion that they move away from the stall and continue their conversation walking through the rest of the fair. ]

That was a.. mending cantrip, then? [ Armand says the words carefully. ]

[corporeity]

[ Armand simplifies and echoes his own ethos. Curiosity may have damned him — but it may yet save him, too, and all his friends. He would never have reached such miraculous heights without it, to be sure. The sentiment immediately endears him to his new companion.

As such, he nods and falls into step beside Armand, entirely agreeable. A low chuckle, then. ]

Well, a modified one for the troublemaking wizard, but yes.

[ Ordinarily, mend fixes a singular break or tear. Hardly a worthwhile spell for one as prone to havoc as Gale. ]

An apprentice learns their cantrips first, as a child learns their letters. The foundation required for any attempt at poetry.

[ Woven with magic, with words, it’s all the same to Gale. ]

[nishtha]

[ It makes sense to Armand. If magic is like poetry -- and Gale isn't the only magic-user to make that connection -- it stands to reason that learning to use it is as complicated as learning forms and grammar. He tucks his new decoration into his coat pocket and pauses, looking at his own hand, wondering briefly if an undead body can possess magic as well as the Dark Gift, or if they would be in conflict, whether he'd find himself pulled apart by the forces within.

A young woman steps into their path, ready to offer them some flowers for purchase, but thinking about her itchy skirt and the fact that she would rather be watching the tournament. Idly, Armand takes the thought in her mind and pushes on it, turning her away from them and back into the crowd. ]

Then you must be well beyond simple rhymes. Why not use something more impressive? Something that could break apart these walls we find ourselves trapped in? [ He waves his hand at the grounds and the bright autumn afternoon. ] Why limit yourself to child's play, simply to impress a seller of baubles?

[corporeity]

[ Out of the corner of his eye, Gale watches the seller near and turn, an about-face a touch too quick to go unnoticed. The observation passes unremarked, at Armand’s query. ]

Ah. [ surprise in his widened features, though not offense. ] Now that is a bold question.

[ Albeit one couched in flattery, honeyed by the implication that Gale is indeed above parlour tricks. He was, once. ]

The truest answer is a long one, [ canting his head, ] though not terribly original — [ with a rolling gesture, he seems to organise his thoughts. Ahem. ] To summarise: You stand in the presence of the former Archmage of Waterdeep and Chosen of the goddess of magic herself, from whom all power and poetry flows. [ Oh so admiring, besotted, devoted, mind alight at the mere thought of her incorporeal splendour. Voice aching to speak of it (and envious, too, embittering his worship). He splays his hands, feigning good humour when the sorrow overtakes his heart and mind, at the thought of his folly. ]

The modifier former goes a long way to explaining my present imprisonment.

[ To speak nothing of the Mindflayer tadpole coiled inside his skull. If Armand has ever taken note of the strange, secondary presence in Astarion, he’ll recognise that Gale carries a similar passenger.

When he thinks on his fall too long, as he does now, his mind spirals. He’ll never reach those heights again — never have her or be had in return, the veil separating them evermore (and if he happens to feel an observer, listening in on those pathetic thoughts of his, he’ll close the door on them, sudden and forceful; whatever power he has left enough to resist any unwelcome explorations of his mind). ]

[nishtha]

[ The titles are meaningless to Armand, but the flood of pain-devotion-love that floods through the wizard's mind is interesting enough to draw the vampire's full attention. To a creature who has spent much of his life searching for meaning in the incorporeal, longing for a form of worship that will finally answer the unasked questions of his body and damned soul, it's both familiar and uncomfortable, too close to his own secret longing.

Armand draws to a stop in the middle of the path to turn and look at Gale, unconsciously directing the mortals moving past to both ignore and step around them. ]

The goddess of magic. [ He says it carefully, his powers probing gently through Gale's thoughts, quiet and natural enough to be overlooked if Gale isn't paying too much attention. Read the blood, not the mind. There it is, the signature he noticed in Astarion. Another question answered.

He reaches up with one sharp-tipped hand, wondering, thoughtful, to touch his fingertips to Gale's cheek. ]

You miss her. With every cell in your body, you call to her. You long for her touch. An addict with no way back to his drug.

[corporeity]

I — [ tongue-tied, tripping over the instinct to deny an accusation oft levied at him by friend and foe alike. Devotee, lapdog. Never quite phrased like this. Addict, the word knocking his thoughts into a jumble. The euphoria of magic certainly is addictive, as is the utterly consuming, overwhelming presence of her. A staggering sensation, even in his mind. And his blood, which reeks of ichorous potential and something else, too — rot.

His features startle slack by Armand’s keen eye and touch both. The latter jolts him more than the former, grounded as it is in the physical, a foreign comfort after his year of isolation. He raises a hand to bracelet Armand’s wrist, not yet tugging him away. The thrum of electricity radiates from his palm. Another cantrip, as easy to loose as a breath. Under Armand’s fingertips, the lavender leylines glow. ]

[ softly, ] It’s rude to go rooting through another’s person, you know. [ Whether Armand gleans this clarity from his mind or another means, it seems he has privileged access. Not a stranger to magic, then, as Gale so wrongly assumed in his pridefulness. ] Like rearranging bookshelves in their home.

[nishtha]

[ Patient as a cat with a mouse under his paw, Armand allows it, the small struggle. The electricity that pulses against his cool, marble-slick skin. He doesn't pull away either, keeps his fingers spanned across Gale's cheek and watches the little lines spread across him, like roots. Not afraid at all, though Gale could probably cause him more harm than he's anticipating. ]

Astarion said the same thing.

[ Tipping his hand a little, but the magician might like to know about the connection. And Armand is curious to see the reaction to the name. Smiling softly, Armand adds a lie: ]

But he has forgiven me for it. I know what it's like to be used by a power greater than myself. To be transformed by it. Destroyed. Remade. You are not the man you were before. But you have nothing to fear from me, Gale of Waterdeep.

[ He shifts a glance sideways at the hand on his wrist. ] You can let go, if you want.

[corporeity]

[ Astarion — a flash of anger, then, that he couldn’t have mustered for the violation of his own mind, which belonged to another in its entirely for so long. And even if Armand didn’t have his ways, Gale is an open book: Thoughts play out in the pinch of his brow and purse of his lips. Forgiveness, particularly in matters of intimacy and privacy, is not Astarion’s way. The deception does not pass muster. ]

[ sharply — ] Oh, I can.

[ His grip loosens and falls away, but Armand won’t feel the relief. An invisible hand tightens around his wrist in place of Gale’s own, just strong enough to be unpleasant, thumb digging into his pulse (or lack thereof).

He splays his hands once again, showing off. ]

Can you?

[ If Armand attempts it, Gale will play at restraining him. He’d rather not fight, but there’s something to be said for a preemptive show of strength. ]

[nishtha]

[ Rather than fight, Armand stays where he is, hand still raised. His expression takes on another layer of complexity, head tilted back a little to bare his throat, nostrils flaring as he pulls in a breath he doesn't need. His pupils expand, blackness bleeding into the bright orange that jitters slightly, seeming to flare as he extends his own power into Gale's body -- and finds himself forced out again, like trying to sink his fingers into concrete.

Around them, there's no reaction, not even a glance in their direction. Invisible in the middle of the crowd. Armand doesn't want this particular struggle to be noticed. ]

I am Armand.

[ Not quite a concession, but there's power in knowing a name -- even if it's not a true name. He doesn't let on that he's attempted to seize control and failed, slipping back into another place of power, more subtle: wilful, watching submission. Do with me what you will, suggests his body. Let me see what you will become. ]

[corporeity]

[ Gale lifts his chin, waiting for a hit to glance off the hard angle of his jaw. For the scrape of a hand inside his head, seeking the correct string to pull. Neither comes to pass. Instead, ember orange slips into black pitch, an endlessness in those eyes that Gale has only ever witnessed in Elysium. It recedes before he can parse it, ephemeral like the tide. ]

Armand. [ sounding out the name, trying to tease the origin from its syllables. He knows no powerful wizards or sorcerers with that moniker — or those eyes. Too bright, the same way Astarion’s are too red. Inhuman, if nothing else.

And pliant in a way that unnerves one who has never held power, without a spectral hand on his leash, or abided much physical intimacy since a goddess took him for her lover at a tender age. There’s a glimmer of that, in his mind, the way Mystra need only ask of him, and he’ll serve her. A whisper at the back of his neck. An order, from the mouth of mentor. One need not use force, to hold power over another.

In a heartbeat, the invisible grip dissipates, and Gale steps back, so Armand need not touch him any longer. ]

You’ll have to forgive my indelicacy. [ on account of having being indelicate with him first, mind. A furtive glance around them, finally aware of the world itself shifting to accommodate their privacy. ] Whatever are you, Armand?

[nishtha]

[ Released, Armand's hand drifts downwards, slowly. Almost reluctantly. For a split second he looks a little lost in the absence of it, a flicker of uncertainty, even fear -- then the mask settles back over his face, and he's smiling carefully, as if he never stopped.

He can feel Gale's awareness, his suspicion. The invasive taste of his own experiences with power. But this time, Armand doesn't push. He tilts his head a little, uses the freedom to readjust the cuffs of his coat, fussy. ]

I am a vampire. A very old one. [ He glances back at Gale, a sort of wariness in his expression. It's no longer a secret he can depend on, not in his house. Easier to admit to it and see what happens.

Almost apologetically, he adds: ]

Rather too used to getting my own way.

[corporeity]

[ Armand’s recovery makes for a conflicting set of stimuli. The man — the vampire more affected by the encounter than he let on before now. Fixing his coat like Astarion would, finicky. It’s tempting to reach back, to try to feel the shape of Armand’s presence in his mind, but he resists for the moment. Now that Armand has opened that door, there are like to be other chances to walk through it.

Gale clasps his hands behind his back. His finest weapons, sheathed. ]

Happens to the best of us. [ a generous instinct, despite everything. ]

[ slowly, ] You must be powerful in your own right. [ a hint of that envy again, lifted by renewed curiosity. Could Armand have taken him? Had he tried? Gale faced all manner of enemies, when he was Mystra’s Chosen, but never a vampire lord. ] Why don’t you break free of this place?

[nishtha]

[ Restored to himself, Armand isn't sure if he's come out on the winning side of whatever this is. He feels as though he's gambled and lost, revealing more of himself than he intended to this strange magician. The discovery makes him fidgety; he plucks invisible specks of dust from his sleeve and frowns. ]

I've tried. [ He glances at Gale, then out at the grounds. ] I attempted to escape and was brought back to the earth. I tried to bring suspicions to bear on our captors, but most of the mortals here are more interested in fucking themselves stupid than leaving. And besides -- [ A complex flicker of emotion crosses his face. ]

I would not risk those I care about. If I escape and they are left behind to bear the punishment -- I can't do it. The dead do not stay dead here. We are captives alongside gods. Whatever holds us, it is powerful. And ancient.

[corporeity]

[ It’s not the most reassuring conversational turn, when Gale had half-hoped someone stronger or cleverer than him might have found the way out already. No matter; he’ll solve this puzzle in time. He always does.

(Except the one that plagues him now, his end delayed by chance abduction and not any skill of his own.) ]

[ with a rueful little smile, ] So was my last lover.

[ Powerful and ancient, what with being an eternal goddess. Ha (please laugh). An intentional confirmation of what Armand may or may not have suspected — reading the love in his eyes plainly, but perhaps doubting one so unremarkable, so frightfully mortal could have caught the eye of the divine.

In his mind, it’s only fair to give a little of himself willingly to one who has done the same (admitting to care the way he doubts Astarion’s maker ever would). ]

All the more reason for the curious among us to work toward an escape that benefits the many, as lascivious or disinterested as they may be.

[ Gale steps closer again, seemingly assured that Armand is a friend, not a foe, at least for the moment. ]

Would you tell me more of your experiences here? [ leaning forward, eagerness barely contained. ] Perhaps while we walk the faire.

[nishtha]

[ Whether the admission is a show of trust or an attempt at flirtation, Armand takes it the same way, restored to a little of his usual composure, safely hidden behind the mask once more. He studies Gale with a long unblinking look, then tilts his head like a shrug. The world around them begins moving again, a sensation like muffled ears being cleared -- noticeable only as it reveals the way it had previously stopped, while they had been talking.

Armand makes a small gesture to suggest that they should resume walking. As he falls into step beside Gale, he slips his hands into his coat pockets. ]

Is there anything you would particularly like to know? My fledgling Daniel has built up quite a store of notes about the place, if you are interested. I believe he and his apprentices have even been working on a map of the manor.

[corporeity]

[ Ancient and powerful, indeed. An admiring glint in his eye, as he joins Armand. If Astarion is like a stray cat (and he is), skulking around alleyways by his lonesome, Armand shares that feline intensity — eyes as careful and assessing as they are bright — but his bearing has been honed to a fine point. Not to be underestimated, lest he cut himself on those sharp edges. ]

There's powerful magic at work. [ a flick of his fingers. ] Enchantments, like those beguiling our courtly favours. [ said off-hand, as if Armand already knows about the empathetic link between their little baubles. It's obvious to him, at any rate. ] I'm most interested in similar spellwork, when it's like to offer clues about our caster, but I'll gladly take your Daniel up on those notes, if he's amenable.

[ Fledgling, he notes, not spawn. It seems a kinder word.]

[nishtha]

[ Now he knows the power behind those deft hands, Armand keeps part of his attention on them, watching out of the corner of his eye as Gabe describes arcs in the air. He nods slightly as he takes his attention back to the faire around them. ]

He will be. [ A fond kind of smile floats through his expression. ] He enjoys novel experiences. The chance to witness magic like yours first hand will be.. compelling. But I will ask you to be careful. He's new to this stage of his life. He struggles, occasionally, with self-control.

[ He studies Gale with a sideways look. ]

I would prefer not to have to dispose of your corpse, archmage.

[corporeity]

[ Gale catches the smile and knows it isn't for him, a private, personal softness that makes his chest ache. Belatedly, he processes the warning and its implications. A freshly turned vampire, fledgling, unlikely to have Astarion's level of control. Right. ]

Oh. [ The concern would be unexpected, even from one Gale knew better. For all his geniality, he hasn't had many companions in his life, particularly not since Mystra set him apart from others. ]

Thank you. [ What else is there to say? ] I shall exhibit the utmost care — particularly when my death would cause an explosion catastrophic enough to level the manor... [ Uneasy, he thumbs the silver earring on his left side, an eight-pointed star. ] And possibly scorch the continent we find ourselves upon. [ said aloud because, well, he's going to think it, so Armand will hear that tidbit one way or another. With a dismissive wave and chagrined expression, he adds: ]

The price of my folly. I assure you that it isn't a danger otherwise.

[ Probably! ]

[nishtha]

You are an interesting man indeed, archmage.

[ Amused, more than a little, at the irony of it. Of the two of them, he knows who most in the manor would pick when it comes to the larger threat, but Armand isn't quite up to levelling the entire place. Not without significant effort, anyway.

He catches the way Gale touches his earring and files it away, along with the thoughts of Mystra floating in Gale's mind. ]

Your folly. Do you regret it?

[corporeity]

I shall take that as a compliment.

[ Slung back with a slightly sad smile, as he considers the question. I do, the only answer, despite his good (ish) intentions. If any part of him stands by it, it is a quiet, resentful one. See how easily she discards you. A god cannot return human affection, merely accept the worship of their supplicants. ]

Of course. I’ve lost everything for it. [ his standing, his title, his power — and his life, which she asked be offered in exchange for her forgiveness. An eternity in the higher planes, for the price of a terrible death. ] Including the favour of the one who made me all that I am.

[ He’s nothing and no-one now, a failed Chosen who clings to memories of greatness. ]

Such is the way of humanity.

[ Folly after folly. ]