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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
Just you and Astarion? [ that is useful information, actually. not that his little crew concerns her all that much, but two individuals will always be much easier to handle than all of the together.
she's losing patience with the half-elf already, though. a faint smile, small but relieved, to pair with the relief in her voice as she draws closer, closer. ]
At least I'm not alone.
[ will he take her hand and lead himself to the slaughter? she's curious enough to flip hers over, hold it out palm up in a clear request, a direct invitation for gale to take. whether he does or not it doesn't matter, she's bored with this form now and wants to drop it soon, but she has to admit it will be far funnier if he's reaching out with kindness and affection when she does so. ]
no subject
his hand itches to grasp hers. desperation, after a year of isolation. the enchantments, silken on his skin. it matters not; he resists.]
I β I should add that there are charms drawing us together at this very moment, so you might not be feeling quite yourself.
[ that explains everything, surely. ]
no subject
[ her head tilts, and the eyes that were big, soft, round, scared zero in with a laser focus, a predator spying its prey. quick as a flash she snatches both of his hands with hers, fingers wrapped around his wrists like shackles, and squeezing tight.
orin doesn't drop the disguise yet, this is much more amusing. her gaze grows sharp and mocking, derision in the smirking curve of her mouth and quirk of her eyebrows. her 'acting' only ever lasts so long, the viciousness ( insanity ) of orin too loud to be smothered for very long. ]
You are so lonely, little wizard, why do you hold yourself back? Are you not a merry band of heroes together, do you not writhe around in each other's righteousness each night? Really, I'm disappointed.
no subject
You presume much for one I havenβt met.
[ she holds his hands hostage, the very things he needs to cast anything of use, but he manages a shocking grasp cantrip easily enough and tries to yank himself free. ]
no subject
Has he figured it out yet? Not quite, not quite, a little closer! Tell me Gale, are you scared of your darling companion?
[ the act is gone now, so she might as well drop the look. her head snaps at a sickening angle, the crunch of bones audible as shadowheart'sΒ face twists with pain and desperation, one final parting gift to gale before she yanks her head back upright and her form shifts. white cloudy eyes blink back at him, teeth bared and grinning as orin in all the glory of her original form greets the wizard for the first time.Β
she has no blades here, nothing but the sharp splintered antlers that she'd fashioned as soon as she walked into the woods, but orin probably doesn't need to kill gale just now anyway. maybe she'll maim him a little, as a treat to herself. it's not clear where her makeshift weapon came from exactly, only that she's lightning quick as she lashes out at him. she's aiming for a nice gutshot, shallow and messy, enough to make him scream. ]
no subject
his features startle wider, hands raised to guard or counter. a split-second decision: he flicks his wrist and casts mage armour. the correct choice, he thinks to himself (not without smugness), when orin's makeshift weapon slices his robes open and splits the skin beneath it. the kind of injury one both feels and doesn't, only registering the extent of the pain when he looks down and sees crimson leaking from his side. an undignified yelp follows, the pain surging. ]
You are aware that killing me would end us all, aren't you? [ pitched higher as another shockwave bursts from his fingertips, pushing her farther back. ] A cataclysmic explosion, cratering this forest and any cities in the surrounding area, turning you to dust. And so on.
[ gods above, he's grown too reliant on shadowheart. without a healing spell in his repertoire, gale resorts to something ill-suited to healing and decidedly sloppier, mend knitting the clean cut back together under his splayed fingers. he groans with the stretching ache of it. ]
So, ah β let's not be hasty, hm?
no subject
[ this clearly tickles orin, she giggles as she echoes his words in only lightly mocking tones, but it doesn't need to be especially derisive to make a point. besides, she did just stab him. she spins the broken antler like maybe she's going to do it again, but ultimately lets it fall out of her hand and onto the floor, stumbling gracefully with the reverberating pressure pushing her back a few steps.
to be fair, if she was planning on killing him, she could do it without a weapon, and she doesn't think he'd be fast enough to stop her, but orin doesn't want to kill him now! she just wants to talk. ]
Oh, what in Bhaal's name have you done to yourself, that your meatsack would leave us all in such sweet danger? Are you cursed?
no subject
I β [ he mouths meatsack, looking closer at her skimpy, fleshy attire. nope, best not to think about it. and bhaal? ] In a metaphorical sense, I suppose. [ a hard swallow. ] I've a fragment of the Weave itself inside me, unstable and insatiable. Meant not for the Chosen, but for the gods alone, though I didn't know it to be so when I sought it out.
[ he tips his head to one side and then to the other, considering. his face scrunches. ]
You're not going to stab me again, are you?
no subject
I will not stab you today, wizard. Is that a relief? You can protect your shard of Weave another day yet.
[ he is interesting though, unfortunately. orin drops her hands slowly and clasps them behind her back instead, takes a step forward but not enough to meaningfully close the gap between them. she only wishes to examine him a little closer, head tilted and expression curious. ]
Mystra's Chosen, of course. And how did your Goddess react, when you snatched at her power for yourself? Did she reward your ambition? Did she smile favour upon you for wishing to sit at her table?
no subject
[ unsaid: not to be greedy, but what of tomorrow? a problem for, well, tomorrow. at the very least heβll have astarion at his side by then β if he survives the day, that is. her words cut as sharp as her pointed antler, mystraβs chosen. once. no longer. forsaken and ruined as he is.
even when she edges closer, he does not balk. though his eyes flit about, uneasy, they also brighten, too curious for his own good. gale has only ever met one other, singled out by a spectral hand, and elminster differs from orin the red in every way that matters. ]
You know as well as I, child of Bhaal, that Mystra does not want for equals.
[ if she wants for anything at all, unmoved by earthly passions. ]
no subject
[ which is to say, orin's circumstances are a little bit different than just the status of chosen. there is a darker truth lurking behind there, one that even orin does not know, but then she doesn't know so she does not have to worry herself over how diluted her status of 'bhaalspawn' actually is.
to say that gale is relaxing is a gross overstatement, but she picks up on some shifting something--still defensive and guarding, but maybe interested enough to outweigh a very healthy survival instinct. that is...curious, and orin doesn't really know what to make of it, so she bares her teeth in a threatening grin just to balance things back out a bit. ]
Short-sighted, foolish, no wonder she died. To have followers of power is to her herself have power. Are you not a portrait of her greatest success?
no subject
her toothy smile sends his brows higher. approving or threatening? perhaps both. his stomach flips, but he does not look away. ]
Her greatest failure, perhaps. [ bitter in his mouth. none have ever called his rebellion against mystra a success, thinking him a lovesick fool or a power-hungry apostate. few of his former colleagues have reached out, since he disappeared. still, he isnβt so ashamed as to reject the recognition, rare as it is. and she isnβt wrong, not entirely, when he accomplished the impossible. ] Though I suppose thatβs a singular achievement, in and of itself.
[ a sudden thought. guileless, gale gestures between them, as if he might solidify their tenuous connection. ]
He taught you different. [ from his learnings at the foot of mystraβs celestial throne, knees bent and eyes worshipful. ] Did He name you?
no subject
[ she snorts even as she says it, because of course he is too soft and too good for her kind of worship, but it's a true point all the same. saverok would be salivating at the thought of an assassin like gale β he always does complain that orin takes too long with her kills.
she's not expecting a question back though, really. that's not how these things go β orin menaces, orin interrogates, prods and pokes and either she kills her victim or she releases her plaything off to scurry away for another day. she has already decided that this particular toy can live on a day longer at least, and she's still caught up imagining him in bhaal's temple and smirking at the thought like a very funny joke has just been made. so orin is caught off guard, just a little, when he levels a genuine question her way.
orin blinks, clearly confused, and then narrows her eyes, suspicious as she carefully steps through her answer. ]
He did. Orin the Red, I was named. Not Anchev for my mother or grandfather before me but red for the world I would help create. I wasn't always Chosen, but I was always His. Does that surprise you?
cw: grooming (or whatever mystra & gale have going on)
he doesnβt know, and he likely wonβt get the chance to learn, beyond conversing with orin. ]
A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Orin. [ The irony of this statement isnβt lost on him, with the pain lancing through his side. ]
Ah, yes and no. Mystra appeared to me when I was only a boy. [ eight, when the great elminster sought him out on her behalf, and already slinging fireballs about the garden. ] The gods mould us in their image, so we might better serve.
[ Shar took Shadowheart at a young age, too, and Vlaakith β the goth belong to her from birth. ]
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[ orin doesn't tend to proselytise, if only because she doesn't believe most people worthy of the worship of bhaal, so that isn't exactly what she's trying to do here.
sure, yes, of course bhaal is a god much better served than mystra, orin knows this to be true, but she's not trying to convince gale of that fact. rather, she would just point out in her own helpful way, that the pursuit of power and a seat at the table should not be an insult. if mystra moulded him, she should have been proud to see his snatch for power.
but enough of that, orin rolls her eyes so powerfully that even without iris or pupil the gesture is clear, and waves her hand. ]
Do you feel powerful, Gale? Do you like it?
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[ and the uncomfortable probing, which nicks the edge of another open wound. mystra has forsaken him β she wishes him dead, penance for his ambition. if she ever looked upon with affection, she does no longer. and heβs nothing without her, isnβt he? an insignificant little ant. not to mention, heβs quite literally dying. ]
Not to mention the Netherese blight consuming me from the inside. [ encroaching, upon his very person, colonising the tendrils of the weave that once made him exceptional. dryly β ] Puts something of a damper on grasping the power of the gods.
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[ this probably does not sound like a compliment, but it's meant as one. orin likes to toy as much as any sadistic assassin does, but to have a morsel in her hand and not eat it is a strange turn of events indeed. regardless of promises to hold off on bodily harm, she might well have done it anyway. it's not like the promise actually means anything, to her.
but he is still quite wounded, and orin clucks her tongue as if with great sympathy, like the wound wasn't gashed open by her hand. she shakes her head, as if this simply will not do, and takes a sweeping step backwards, arm outstretched away from their clearing in the woods and back towards what she assumes is the faire and civilisation. ]
Tend to your blood, wizard Gale, I would so hate to leave you a pretty scar. [ she'd love that, actually, but, she's doing a whole thing now, and it wouldn't do to leave a sour taste in his mouth. ] And think on my question. I want to know if you like the power. I'll be expecting an answer soon enough.
[ but not now. stewing on it, she thinks, will serve more honesty. ]
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if he likes it seems a far more dangerous inquiry, when the instinctive, traitorous whisper at the back of his mind says yes. for every wizard that named him lapdog surely could not have found what he did, nor dared touch it.
for now, he says nothing, too rattled to risk her turning back. ]