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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
no subject
He knew that he would pay.
He knew that the Drukhari would never let this stand.
But he also knew that Marazhai knew he was not to be underestimated. ]
Vile creature. You insult me.
[ It doesn't help, to dehumanize (dexonosize?) him. It doesn't matter. ]
Do you have no sense of self-preservation?
I'll kill you if you don't be quiet.
[ Whether it's an honest threat or not, it's difficult to tell. ]
no subject
He struggles to catch his breath after it, but still. He laughs. It’s shaky and mad in the way that Heinrix has surely caused before, but it’s different in Drukhari than in humans. Humans laugh in the face of torture because they don’t know what else to do. A Drukhari laughs because it’s rote. ]
And kill the Rogue Trader’s favorite—
[ He has to pause, to fill his shaky lungs with more breath, but it helps with the effect, albeit completely unintentionally. He sneers, teeth gleaming with his own blood, practically spitting out the word. ]
—pet?
[ Yet even punctuated, there’s no shame in it. He’d been insulted by it early in their partnership, but now? He knew how it bothered others far more than it bothered him. He’d be her pet just to watch their skin crawl. So, he clicks his tongue, tutting mockingly. ]
No… I don’t think you will. Much as you’d like to.
no subject
The Rogue Trader wouldn't permit it, as much as he desperately wanted to crush the creature's windpipe... He couldn't. ]
To the Edge of it, then.
[ He hissed, leaning forward and next to his ear. ]
Maybe I will bring you to the cusp of death, let you see the Dark Prince at the edge of your vision, before I heal you.
Bone, by bone. Muscle by muscle. Organ by organ. Back from the edge of death, just to do it again.
[ He reached out, and put his hand around his neck. It makes it harder to breathe, but he relaxes the tightening of his muscles, so he can breathe again. As long as Heinrix allows. ]
Would you enjoy that, Drukhari?
no subject
So, yes. To the edge of death is what he expects. That’s fine, in a way, because so long as he survives, that’s what matters above all else.
However. All of that smugness disappears quickly when Heinrix mentions Sai'lanthresh. Using him as part of the torture. It’s hard to say, since a Drukhari’s skin is already so pale because of their sunless home, but just from how his expression falls, it‘s easy to imagine him blanching. After all, it wasn’t an empty threat with Heinrix. Not because Marazhai doubted him, no… But because the corruption of Sai'lanthresh rolled off every psyker, no matter how controlled they were.
He spits out an elaborate Eldar curse with a glare that says he’ll skin Heinrix alive and sew him back together himself. It’s cut off by Heinrix’s hand, but as the tight muscles relax, he still reflexively tries to suck in a gasp of air. It’s easier and not, since the tight pressure around his neck still only allows so much. ]
When you finally lose control—
[ Every syllable is strained, but not so wheezing now that he can use his muscles more properly. But the sharp breath he tries to take is spat back out Heinrix. ]
I hope the demons fuck you to death.
[ so, that's a no, ]
no subject
It's the first real smile he's felt since arriving here. It's not a pleasant smile, but on Heinrix's face, it looks like he enjoys it. He likes hearing the Drukhari finally show something other than gleeful enjoyment at torture. They were hard to break, of course, the Drukhari. They had little weaknesses, few ways to truly dig into them in a way where it leaves a lasting mark.
And he wanted to. He wanted make sure that no matter what, the Drukhari knew that he could not escape, that he would not be left free to torture and slay his way through the humans here. They may not all be part of the Empire of Man, but they were still human, and it was all he had right now.
His fingers tightened around his neck. He smiled down at him. ]
I will never lose control, Xenos. That is the difference between you and me.
[ It was perhaps a little snide, but he tightened his fingers again.
He hurt, Heinrix could feel that, but was it enough? Would it be enough to open the doors, or would he have to — Sigh — sully this further?
He's not enjoying himself yet, no. At least they were both miserable here.
He reached down, his fingers hovered over his thigh, and he made it ache, the muscles too tight, the bloodflow too slow, hurting and tingling both, too many sensations at once, to harm him. Eventually, the bone inside snaps. ]
actually nsfw now, cw uh literal torture porn I AM SORRY MARAZHAI IS LIKE THIS
Marazhai’s insults are cut off with the tightening of Heinrix’s hands, but his glare is still defiant and furious in a way that would make anyone but a member of the Inquisition feel at least a pang of fear, even if it was quickly swallowed up by zealotry. Drukhari were a long-lived species, so their grudges were long too. This is something that would be paid over decades. If he had children, they would feel the repercussions of this rage and humiliation.
But, for now.
Even for all of Marazhai’s diverse experience in receiving creative torture at the hands of his kin, a biomancer is simply capable of things that even Tervantias isn’t. The sensations are new and contradictory, and he wants to squirm so badly as if that would help slough off some of it. He expects to hear a whisper in his ear at any moment for the way Sai'lanthresh’s corruption physically seeps through him like he’s a conduit for it.
It's miserable. He’s in pain. And, kae-morag, it still can’t help but feel good against his soul. The Drukharis' needs weren’t picky, after all. Any suffering slaked the thirst and turned into ecstasy, and it’s a shiver down his spine directly to his cock. The skirt of his Faire outfit does nothing to hide that, since he’d discarded the undergarments after bouts of wrestling.
At least until the bone snaps. It’s a loud, awful sound that’s ripped out of his throat, maybe the last bit of breath held down by Heinrix’s hand. It’s a howl of fury and agony, and every muscle in his body goes taut even without Heinrix’s assistance. ]
WHEEZE Sighs.... all the way down probably
It's also why he looks over him with the sort of cool appraisal of a man who had expected this. ]
How typical.
[ He will not admit to enjoying this. Feeling the tightening of tendon and muscle underneath his hand, every little twitch and reaction to his ministrations like a personal psychic symphony that only he could hear. Close to a cacophony, loud and incessant, when he broke his leg, he released the first shaky breath. It isn't much, but it doesn't have to be. His nostrils flare, and he looks down at the creature.
They would have to, wouldn't they? They would have to do something, wouldn't they? Something to satisfy... whatever was watching.
He hoped they hated it.
He did it again, twisted the muscles in his other thigh, put it to sleep, made it tense like it was in use. Everything. If they wanted a show, he could do it without even touching him. ]
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Marazhai’s throat feels raw from the intensity of the howl that had torn out of him, and it stings even more as he feels Heinrix’s control relax, marginally. He squirms under Heinrix’s hand, but not with any of the strength necessary to dislodge the man. Every muscle feels like it’s been stretched too far. ]
You’re enjoying—
[ He starts to call him out for it, because he can feel it. Or rather, its result. The bloodthirst and disgust brush against Marazhai’s senses, and even now, he wants to drink it up. It’s not something that comes from sanity. But it’s cut off by the feeling in his other leg that’s a pain of a different sort. He twists and his more functional hand comes up to grab Heinrix’s wrist tightly. If he had his gauntlets, the vicious things would surely dig down to bone, so even sharp fingernails are nothing by comparison.
He hates it. He loves it. It’s agony in every beat of his heart, and it’s vivid bliss in every draw of breath. The Drukhari may fear Sai'lanthresh with every fiber of their being, yet there are few creatures that are such slaves to the exact kind of hedonism the Dark Prince desires. He only gets harder, but he breathes out a laugh to feel it. Will he come first, or will he fall unconscious? He’s not sure. He's at Heinrix's mercy, and he knows it. ]
Still trying- [ A shallow breath, a gasp that’s pained, and yet, ] -for a deluge?
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You think me incapable? That I will hold back, or find some reason that I shouldn't?
[ He likes this too much. The struggle of it. The way he fights against his hand, against everything. He could hold him down, too, but Heinrix didn't think he needed to. He didn't want to. He wanted the fight in him, it made it so much better. ]
I always wondered something. The Magos Biologis Sharle Darvus once thought that there was something to your ears. Did you know that?
[ He didn't have to touch them, he just had to spark the nerves to life, painful, but not blindingly so. The gentlest he'd been today.
It is not gentle at all. ]
I wondered about some of his theories.
[ His lips curled into the first smile since walking into the chapel. As if the possibility of a new discovery would make this worth it. ]
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That’s not the problem at all. He’s sure that the man is capable, both in strength and in will. He’s just misunderstanding something about the Eldar as he applies mon-keigh behavior to them. They are not creatures that weep. Drukhari especially had little capacity for the emotions that would evoke tears. It was only a vestigial, reflexive response, so far as Marazhai was concerned.
But he understands why Heinrix wants to see it. It’s delicious as a sign of pain. That’s what he thinks Heinrix is trying to evoke when he rattles off some meaningless name, and even the mention of his ears doesn’t prepare him. So, the direct stimulation of especially sensitive nerves…
He spits out another curse, and his fingernails dig into Heinrix further as his back arches off the altar. It’s painful, yes, but in a markedly different way. It’s as sweet as a lover’s enthusiastic, almost over-eager bite, but it’s a phantom. If there were actually teeth at him, he’d probably moan. The color that immediately fills his pale cheeks is a visible sign of that. Not so visible is how his cock twitches, but he squirms. Being hard and unable to do anything about it is a mild torture all its own. ]
Too afraid to find out with your own hands?
[ It’s not as confident and sneering as he’d like, but the pain, the cruel pleasure, and a lack of air make a heady mix. Can he goad Heinrix into fucking him? He doubts it. But a direct touch might be enough for Marazhai’s selfish pleasures. ]
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Heinrix inhaled sharply, watching him strain against his hand, against the points of pain, the way he writhed like it was both... He feels a lurch of something in his chest that feels like guilt and disgust and anger all mired in one sensation. He wants nothing more than to be done with this, but damn him he enjoys watching the Drukhari suffer.
Every slight, every insult... he feels like he can extract them from Marazhai's flesh now.
But no, he was an Inquisitor of the Holy Ordos Xenos. He knew the value of patience. Of waiting. Of taking his time. He could not take every sin, every pound of flesh yet. He had to show patience. ]
I do not fear anything about you, Xenos.
[ He reached out with a free hand, gloved, to stroke against the surface of the ear. It is surprisingly gentle, until he reached the end.
There he pinched it, hard. ]
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But it’s all the sweeter when that little bit of goading works.
His breath quickens in anticipation as Heinrix takes the bait and moves his hand. He expects pain alone, some sorcery at Heinrix’s fingertips, so when it’s a soft brush at first, it’s unexpected. With every nerve at attention and bracing, the softness is a shiver through his whole body. Marazhai can’t help it—He gasps out a moan.
The shiver turns to a bolt of lightning down his spine for the intense, painful catch of his ear between Heinrix’s fingers. He can feel cartilage bend so hard it’ll bruise, but the pain-pleasure is more intense than that. Heinrix’s potent feelings, the agony in his limbs, the ecstasy of finally getting a touch to a sensitive area, no matter how sharp… He could luxuriate in these feelings until he died, he irrationally feels in the moment. He feels alive in a way that perhaps only Drukhari can.
Marazhai half chokes on his moan, but it’s replaced with a hoarse, shuddering cry. There’s no mystery in why, since his expression becomes anguished bliss, and his hips twist and stutter as that already damp spot grows larger as its dotted with his release. He pants, trying to draw enough breath to match the exertion, and thus, the way his eyelids flutter changes too. The suffocation of Heinrix’s hand just adds to it all, in his opinion… But as his eyes unfocus as he verges on passing out. ]
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Of course he had.
Heinrix's fingers went slack on his ears, though he still held onto his neck for a long moment. He was in tune with the body before him, manipulating it like so, he knew exactly what was happening, even if Marazhai had tried to hide it, he would have known. It was difficult to ignore when one had a fine-tuned sense that seemed to know exactly what stimuli would do what.
He may not be a Xenos, he may be far better with the human body, but he knew what Marazhai did. He knew, because he could tell the balance of endorphins and other hormones. Different than a human's, but still something he could recognize. Drukhari were perhaps easier, because everything was wrapped up in the pain/pleasure of their... everything.
His hand let up next, and his lip curled. He let the creature breathe, unwilling to put him on the hook for carrying him out. Especially since he had decided to make a mess of himself. "Decided" he thought, as if Marazhai had a choice.
Meticulously, he healed the wounds, knitted the bone back together. He did not fully release him until he was certain that the Xenos would not need help out of here.
After care, of a... particularly violent sort, given how Drukhari felt about the touch of the warp. ]
I'm sure your...lurid display should be enough to satisfy.
[ He remarks, coldly. As soon as he is able, he takes three steps back, arms crossed over his chest. Marazhai can try the door, he decided. ]
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It also helps to ground him again. The fog of near-unconsciousness and his intoxicated afterglow fades more quickly than it might for him normally. He trembles once his muscles are returned to his control, and Heinrix is right to step away, because it’s just fast enough to avoid his quick strike. He sweeps up and slashes at Heinrix’s throat, though it’s a gesture that wouldn’t do anything even if he’d managed. It’s purely reflexive, since it would be deadly if he had his sharp-fingered gauntlets.
There’s rage in his mad, vicious smile. It’s not dissimilar to when they he’d relayed Achilleas’s betrayal and they had very nearly killed each other on the spot. ]
Are you pleased with yourself, Heinrix van Calox?
[ He practically growls it out, and from his look alone, it does carry the feeling that he’s going to step after Heinrix and rip out his entrails with his bare hands, but. He does know he’s at a disadvantage here, even (or especially?) without the Rogue Trader’s authority. ]
This… This is something you will pay for. But you know that, don’t you?
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[ He is grateful he had stepped back, but he keeps his tone cool, his jaw clenched, his mind clear and sharp. He refuses to get goaded right now. Marazhai is angry, a Xenos's emotions are alien to a human, but he can tell. From the spike of violence to the fact that he was addressing it like this.
He wished he had a book to take notes in, and annotate his observations. Well, that would be next on the list. ]
I pay every day by being in your presence, Xenos. Let us not pretend otherwise. This is merely balancing the ledger.
[ No it isn't, but. ]
Now, get the door.
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There are several scenarios that flash into his creative mind all at once. Whether it’s utilizing every name that he’d forcibly squeezed out that burned, maimed mon-keigh or debasing himself by begging Tervantias for that collar he’d fitted on Heinrix… He’d make a fountain of agony out of the Interrogator. Even something as cold and tempered as him could shatter. It only took more skillful, individually designed tools.
…Eventually.
For now, though. He stands from the altar stiffly, though whether it’s from his aching body or his rage isn’t clear. He might not be completely sure himself. He’s forced his face into a calmer expression, but that rage is still bubbling underneath. He has to get closer to Heinrix to get to the door, naturally, but he just looms over Heinrix as close as he’ll allow. ]
You dare order me? You are filling up that ledger faster than it can be paid. How many of these ignorant mon-keigh will I need to string up for you, hm? I’m sure I could find you a nice cage to watch from.