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draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
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𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒 ▣ 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 — 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.
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.
❖ 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."
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
❖ 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!
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.
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
2g1c Ⓘ
He is tall, so very tall, and it makes her eyes widen briefly. He must stand at least two feet above her, and she is beginning to get painfully accustomed to people being so much larger than she is.
Stepping around the other people, darting around towards the man, she breathes out a soft sound, craning her head up to look at him. He looks elven, she thinks, but not like any elf she had known in her time, and it begs her wonder and her dislike all at once. Kannoth had been tall as well, after all. ]
True weapons can be found in the armory, or at the bequest of the library.
no subject
She’s a tiny thing compared to him, but he’s used to that. Instead, his eyes flicker to her ears, which are just as obvious and pronounced as his own. ]
A useful answer. How… unexpected.
[ Genuinely. He was considering how best to gut this poor person with his hands alone with how frustrated he was getting with the Ren Faire Character Pretense™️, so Laurlae’s answer is doing wonders to deescalate the situation. That, and his simple curiosity. He glances to the merchant, scoffs, and instead, all of his attention turns to her. His gaze drifts from her ears to her eyes, but that’s not much better. His impression is very intense, to put it lightly. ]
As are you. You are the first I have seen that is not mon-keigh, little cousin.
no subject
He is still so tall, and it should annoy her. It does not, not right now. ]
It is best to ask people who are outside of the staff for aid. They do not wish to help us more than they must, I think.
[ Unfaltering, refusing to let his height or his gaze offer any intimidation, she nods her head. He is no Seelie nor Unseelie, no Wood elf, or Drow, she thinks, not with his height and his appearance, but he calls her cousin... There must be something of elfsblood to him. She simply does not know what he might be.
Not the first time, here, in this mansion. ]
I do not know the word, but I can imagine its meaning. [ She nods her head, hair falling around her face. ] I am Lauralae, once of the Feywild.
no subject
Hm… I do not know a Feywild.
[ He rolls the word on his tongue in a way that makes it clear that it’s unfamiliar. He thinks that “Feywild” is the name of a people, after all. It’s not an impossible concept that there would be more Eldar out their in the universe, since even the schism that had made the Aeldari and the Drukhari was so long ago as to be near meaningless. But it is a surprise. It’s part of why he gives more of his (technically, former) titles than he would to most. He’s gauging her reaction. ]
My name is Marazhai Aezyrraesh, of the Drukhari. Dracon of the Kabal of the Reaving Tempest. Eviscerator of Illiridos, Blaze of the Barkhag Kingdom, and Slayer of Carrocius the Pale.
[ He gives the barest of glances to the shopkeep, who… Does not react to any of this. He clicks his tongue in irritation, since not having his reputation precede him especially to humans is… annoying. So, he takes a half step closer to her instead. He’s done with finding weapons here, clearly. ]
You are a tiny thing for Eldar. Are all Feywild so small?
no subject
It is unknown to many of this realm.
[ There have been other elves in this place, even those who might be from a realm familiar to her own, but that does not mean they are identical to hers. Astarion is from her own world, but she does not know him for it, does not recognise him. She wishes she had, that she had known him before, however imperfect that meeting might be.
She would look for many of her fellows in her world, if she had the strength. ]
The pleasure is mine, Marazhai Aezyrraesh. I know little of the Kabal of the Reaving Tempest, nor or Carrocius the Pale, but I respect you for your ventures all the same.
[ Leaning her head back all the more, she does not flinch to look upon him, head tilting instead. ]
I am small for my kind, but not terribly so. Are your kind always so large?
no subject
It’s novel, though, he admits. He huffs out a little note that’s somewhere between a laugh and simply pensive at her polite acceptance of his name and his titles. Drukhari may be enemies of, well, everyone, but they’re comparatively more tolerant of kin. Or, close enough, as the case seems to be here. ]
Polite. [ He comments, almost idly. ] You at least speak well.
[ Not that he cares about the politeness. It’s more that her way of speaking is familiar to him too. It’s more formal and more elegant sounding, even when they’re using the common, lower tongue here. He’s tempted briefly to switch to Eldar, but, no, he doesn’t imagine it would be familiar to her at all either. ]
Yes, we are. [ He crosses his arms as he starts to answer, since at the very least, he doesn’t mind questions. Far from it, since he’s pleased by curiosity. ] The fact that you stand at a mon-keigh’s height is more remarkable to me. They are very small for the creatures able to travel the stars.
[ Well, minus exceptions like Ulfar, the Space Marine, but. Humanity is also more inclined to toy with their building blocks than Eldar are. ]
But even so. It is good to not be the sole exception here. To be the only Eldar among them is... unpleasant.
no subject
[ It has been some time since then, but there are often things that are hard to forget. Lauralae is a creature of habit, and those which have been ingrained in her are hard to forget, hard to shove aside, leaning into the familiarity of it with a comfort that might hide her nerves. She remains unsure of herself here, but she is forging a place all the same, making a home for herself amidst all the horrors.
He speaks and speaks, and Lauralae thinks that he might have insult behind it all if she isn't careful, something sharp behind his words to match the curve of his mouth, but she stops herself from speaking on it. She has no desire to get herself in all the more trouble for it, not when her tongue still echoes with the taste of blood and her fangs still ache for it, to enjoy the thrill of the chase.
Head still tilted, she huffs the softest of noises. ]
There are others here with heritage akin to my own, though they are not of my world. We have been brought from so many a place, I cannot say what kinship we might truly share.
[ A nod of her head, and a twitch of something on her lips; almost as if it feels good, to be around someone who might well share her blood. ]
Do you wish to walk with me, Marazhai Aezyrraesh? Or would you shop here some more?
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[ He does cast a contemptuous glance towards the shopkeeper, who does break character just a tiny bit to toss him one in return. They can’t say “what the hell did I do”, but it’s clear in their flat expression. Lauralae is definitely doing them a favor by redirecting the Drukhari’s attention. ]
It could be so distant as to be irrelevant.
[ He stays on the topic of their potential kinship, since he wears his feelings about it much more openly. His smile is still edged and his gaze is sharp, but he’s marginally more at ease. The smile is what relaxes the most, in fact. He just seems to be someone whose default is “intense”. ]
I have seen it with the mon-keigh. They find a world and are forgotten by the rest of their kin. They forget how they made it there in the first place. [ Since he assumes that she means world to simply mean “planet”. Overcoming that misconception is going to be a difficult, and it’s half out of personal stubbornness… ] I would think even the Exodites better than that, since our lives are not nearly so fragile and brief. But it is possible.
[ It’s also an odd thing to consider. Though he didn’t have any strong feelings about the fall of the Eldar Empire because it was truly ancient history, it still feels surprising to know that perhaps some of the so-called Maiden Worlds did survive. He doesn’t crave that life, but it’s curious. So, imagining her to be from one of them, he at least explains a little more. Poorly, but. It's something. ]
I’ve no “world” to speak of. Merely the Dark City in the Webway and the stars.
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At least they are able to walk together, despite how strange she looks in stature beside him. ]
I had a world of mine own once, but I was cast from it. That is what the Feywild was, and now I live amongst the people here. Many of them are mortal, but there is power here, too, and strength.
[ They walk, and she is curious, wanting to know more of him. She has seen some elves in her time even before arriving at the mansion - Drow, and dark, and wood, deadly and dangerous, and even Seelie and Unseelie who had slipped out and away of their own homeland to stalk others - but nothing of his ilk. Not even elves who had wedded humans would make a creature so large, and it hooks her curiosity like nothing else, her desire to learn more and know more.
Like sinking your teeth into a book of dark, forgotten power. She knows that well too. ]
I do not know of it, but I would like to. There is much to know here, and I have enjoyed taking whatever I might trade in bargain.
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…That’s how he prefers to think of it, at least. He’s aware that it’s a story that’s just as true for him. Drukhari simply don’t make outcasts in that way, since they consider it a waste. Even a Dracon like him can be stripped of his status and thrown into the Arena to become a well of suffering for his kin. It’s only thanks to the Rogue Trader’s intervention that he’d escaped at all, which is why he prefers to view this through Yrliet’s lens rather than his own.
So, he nods with a neutral sound first as he listens. There’s a little twist of a frown as mortals are mentioned, then more interest when it shifts to power, strength, and most importantly, deals. That makes her feel like kin more than the physical resemblance. Ironically, it’s probably the most at ease he’s felt so far. ]
There are many bargains to be had, then. Even compared to the ship I was on, this place is…
[ He looks away from her and to some of the fixtures of the Faire around them. The people, the stalls, all of it, it pushes a hint of a hissing sneer into his voice. ]
…Unfamiliar. [ He doesn’t like to admit it, since admitting ignorance feels like weakness, but it’s true. ] Knowledge for knowledge, little cousin. If you’re wiser in the ways of the strange mon-keigh of this place, then I’ll make you wiser in the ways of the Eldar.
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[ Be it word for word, or pleasure for pleasure, or something more - Lauralae has found some worth in it. There are aspects that confuse and baffle her even now, a strangeness that she is still trying to deal with, but that is something she is doing her best not to worry too much over. At the heart of it all, people here are kind, and have been so, even when her hands were covered in blood and her very being was deadly and dangerous.
Her ears twitch, just a little, as he speaks, consciously paying as much attention to him as she can. She wants to listen, especially if there is a promise of knowledge, of information, and it draws her in like a promise. ]
I am wiser due to exposure and experience. I have been here two months now, and much of their strangeness has become more accustomed to me. If you have questions, then I would give you whatever answer I have.
[ Easy enough. She does not judge him for his ignorance, nor does she make a point of it. She has asked enough questions of others here to be guilty of it herself. ]
Do you have a question now, or do you require time to choose one?
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…But there’s still annoyingly much to learn.
It’s a thought easily reflected on his face as a sour expression. After all. What the fuck is a month? ]
Many.
[ He similarly has no shame in admitting that, even if it’s half-growled out. But the smaller questions like how this planet rotates or why they don’t soil themselves just to see him are ones that don’t feel worthy of a bargain. Those are things that he can seek out on his own. But other than the quiet (which is a worthy question on its own), there's another that bothers him. ]
We cannot leave. [ His tone makes it clear that he’s tried, perhaps multiple times. ] What force stops us? And why?
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His sourness is, at least, familiar. It reminds her of those she had met once in the Unseelie court, the ones that had been so strange to her long ago. She has more in common with them now than she does with anyone who might once have been her "own" people. ]
It is the nature of things.
[ That is to say, she is not the kind to be cruel to him for having questions, even if she might not be able to answer them all. ]
There is some magic, but I cannot say what. I have not been able to find any source, nor do I sense the power of it from the family that owns this mansion. It is unfamiliar to me, and none have discovered the true cause yet.
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Sorcery… Of course.
[ His tone makes it clear that he is not a fan of magic, but to be fair, his understanding of magic is also fundamentally different. Fearing the forces of the Warp is not only common, but it’s wise, especially for his kind. ]
It is what I suspected, since I do not know what else could be responsible, but it feels strange, even so. I would expect to hear Sai'lanthresh more acutely, not for it to be silent.
[ He clicks his tongue lightly and shakes his head. ]
Is it always so… [ He trails off as he looks around, searching for the word, but ends up just gesturing to the faire, since he can’t think of one suitable. ] —Like this?
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I have found no ritual markers, no symbols, nothing to indicate where the barrier might come from, or the source of it.
[ Perhaps she ought to keep her own magical prowess to herself, at least for now. A soft noise, almost like a laugh, and then she is shaking her head. ]
No. This is an event for this month. Usually the parties are simpler, with less game to it. Perhaps that are trying to earn our forgiveness for the last few weeks.
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Forgiveness?
[ Naturally, that catches his attention much more than the idea of barriers and rituals. It draws out a feeling of unease and anticipation that would be at odds for anyone else, but for Drukhari… Anything needing forgiveness was something that could have been preyed upon. ]
And what did they do that they might be asking for it?
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[ They walk, and Lauralae tilts her head. There are some aspects of it that she must keep to herself, to tuck away - she has no desire to tell a stranger, no matter how cousin-y they might be, that she had fallen prey to baser instincts and had become a monster in turn.
Many had forgiven her. She is still trying to forgive herself. ]
The game became real, and many of the guests here were killed by others. The game was of wolves, and people were named wolf and forced to kill, even if they did not wish to.
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How familiar. That sounds like something that the Wyches would think up.
[ It’s familiar. But it’s also so familiar that it’s what had taken the humor out of his laugh. He’d been on the receiving end of the Wyches’ games not all that long ago. Even if their “work” was for the sake of Drukhari, it didn’t mean they were immune to being part of the churn. ]
It would be exquisite anguish. But I assume that you do not have the need for that, based on your phrasing.
[ …A thing that’s odd to consider. There’s perhaps a moment where he feels a bit of jealousy, but he’s also quick to push it down. That’s simply not a good thought to have. ]