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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
cw i luv icky vibes
it's pride, really, that makes alina want to insist she isn't so easily fooled — that she's learned not to look at dangerous men with rosy eyes. but if that were true — she would've seen danny johnson's mask for what it was. would've known to watch for a hungry wolf herding sheep, a row of sharp teeth hiding behind pleasant smiles.
the ugly truth of it is — she hadn't. she's as naive as she had ever been. accepting it feels as hopelessly impossible as having to set a broken bone, a moment of agony so she can heal from it, later. so she can be better. know better. she chews on the inside of her cheek, curbing her sudden spike of frustration. )
What do you mean?
( what has august managed to see that she's been too blind to notice a third time? alina spares a sidelong glance toward the next set of matches, seeking luci in the busy swarm of bodies, as if she might spot the warning signs. the symptoms of whatever inner rot creeps through his insides. )
I know he isn't harmless, ( she scoffs, swiveling her stare back to august's marred body. ) No one who leaves marks like that behind could be.
no subject
[he doesn't know whether or not to think she's being serious. worse, he has a gnawing feeling in his gut that she is and he's looking at her like she's just said something in a language he doesn't understand. maybe she has, maybe they don't speak the same language at all.]
What does his name mean to you?
[Lucifer or not, he doesn't spill secrets. more importantly, he's skirting under the radar when it comes to magic and prefers it that way. revealing him to Alina β if she isn't in the know already β would reveal himself, and he doesn't want that. instead, he's choosing to keep as much focus on her as possible. he'll gauge her response and decide where to go from there.]
no subject
her stomach cramps in angry, sickened spasms. the muscles in her jaw shift, trying to loosen the strain of that old leftover anger. )
He called himself the Devil.
( the birthplace of demons and devils, if he's to be believed. it's not so far-fetched — all of the devils she's known had worn handsome faces, carved from unspeakable, ancient magic. why not believe in his impurity, if he's so loudly going to preach it? it's more than she can say for the darkling, for danny johnson, spinning webs in the shadows.
it hardly answers anything, still. she shakes out her hands, pink beads of water splashing off like tiny crystals, with a vague gesture to her throat. )
Do you think I wear this for my enjoyment? ( hard to say which she means — the decoration of the bone-collar fastened around her throat, or the necklace of scar tissue that resides there. both permanent. both gifted to her by men who would think of it as a bride's gift, a loving declaration like a marital kiss. my leash touched you, my blade bled you, so now i own you. ) I don't. I wear it because people like you laugh behind my back about what girls like me don't know about men like Lucifer until it's too late for me, and then the only thing you have left to say is how sorry you are.
So if this is your way of warning me about him, kindly spit it out the answer to whatever riddle you're playing at.
no subject
Some people don't know the Devil as I do. [as much as it pains him, he stands, leaning to retrieve the rag for himself. maybe he should have asked differently. he keeps his tone even, a calm to her brewing storm.] That's what I meant. Why do you think I'd laugh at you for that?
[it's one thing to be oblivious or naive, it's another to be purposefully ignorant. he's already met people here from other worlds that are so far from his own that he has to assume someone doesn't know what he's talking about. she's practically at his throat and he's hesitating - hesitating because of the information he has and the potential of outing himself. he feels she's trying to back him into a corner and force an answer out of him, which never works out well for anyone.]
Don't make deals with him, even small ones that don't matter.
no subject
( — is the golden question of the hour, really. if there's any force of nature she distrusts, it's a man who would liken himself to creation itself, mother nature spewing out creatures to rival the fold's volcra. like ilya morozova, only twice as mad in his ramblings, and nowhere near as helpful. lucifer is, if anything, a toddler scribbling outside the lines compared to sankt ilya's methodical outlines.
still, a spade is a spade, and a powerful madman is a powerful madman. she swipes her messy hands down the front of her dress, only half-ashamed over her (brief) conniption, lips puckered into a narrowed frown. )
He's about as useful as a glass hammer. ( some people don't know the devil as i do draws her up short, ringing around in her head. despite her scoff, it isn't dismissive. the darkling had skeined the look of a lonely boy over centuries, an actor refining his craft, and none had cared to see it. it isn't so outlandish to believe that this man has seen past the clownish paint lucifer parades himself in. she deduces, statement and question alike: ) But you think he's only pretending to be a fool.
no subject
He can pretend to be a lot of things. A glass hammer is still a hammer, even if it breaks on impact ... [he glances down to her neck] it'll slice you up.
[he holds out his hand to her, however dirty he is, he hopes she'll take it.]
I'm August, [he lightens his tone, attempting to rekindle some friendliness between them.] sorry if I upset you.
no subject
( she rushes it out instantly, like knocking on a nerve-ending and watching the muscle twitch — a denial that's all bodily instinct. as insistent as it is, it's clearly a little white lie alina keeps in her pocket, the way ravkans keep bone shrines to their favorite saints: with the misplaced belief it'll keep them safe. she doesn't need to show him which pressure points to touch to get another reaction from her in the future.
she rounds her shoulders, strengthens her spine, though it does nothing to make the diminutive size of her seem particularly hardy. more like a stiff breeze could knock her over, but not without some fight to stay upright. not upset at all, see — she's perfectly, stubbornly fine. so fine she can take his hand and shake it, without flinching at the dirt and grime it rubs onto her skin, artist's callouses rubbing up against his own. )
Alina. ( stiffly, with the recognition of where his eyes have fallen: ) It wasn't his doing, if you're going to ask.
no subject
I wasn't.
[he's used to stubbornness, to bristling and discomfort. those things seem to follow him wherever he goes, with or without his help. he's always part of the equation, though. sometimes he doesn't make it easy for people, and he certainly hasn't made it easy for Alina. in playing avoidance he inadvertently struck an open wound. his muscles ache, and a part of him wishes he'd kept his mouth shut so she would've kept tending to him.]
That's not my business.
cw: violent imagery, discussion of murder ???
her lips roll together in an uncertain purse, at war with her good intentions and the desire to not subject herself to wading through her trauma with a perfect stranger. in the end, it's the former that wins out — ever the martyr for the greater good, even if addressing it feels like being strung up on the minotaur again, sliced open and bled. )
It should be your business. ( she puffs a strand of hair from her face, ignoring the inevitability of it smacking her right back in the forehead, curtaining her face as she reaches into her satchel. the salve tin she pops open is basic, at best — an earthy, pleasant scent that sends nostalgia wafting through her. she smears her dirty fingers in it — used already, by the smudgy looks of its contents — before she slathers it onto august's knuckles without asking, setting it to tingle across his battered skin. appropriate bedside manner doesn't exist with alina starkov, apparently. ) Unless you're more worried about breaking bread with old coots than unrepentant murderers.
cw mentions of destructive behavior/suicidal(???) thoughts, also murder
the last of her sentence reaches his ears and he's barely present. skin prickles from the salve. a murderer in the house. a murderer in the house, and he's one of them. he's left his body to be used in exchange for more magic, woken with blood on his hands, or worse, be the one driving the blade through flesh. it wasn't ever on purpose - the demons made him do it, yet he'd keep going back. over and over, it wasn't ever enough. the fighting was only the start of it, scars a story of where he's been.
he knows he won't live past thirty, so why not get as much as he can while he's alive? he should be more upset about that, but he's not. he'll break bread with all of them at some point.]
I didn't want to pry. Who is it?
just nice normal things, u know
eventually, though: ) Danny Johnson. He has a fixation with death. Mine, specifically.
( and embry moore's, but it doesn't feel right to rewrite that saga. she isn't the author of embry's story — that's his to tell, when and only when he wants to tell it. there's no telltale tremble in her voice, no frenetic energy in her fingers — but a tension threads through the words, all the same, pulling the syllables tighter in her throat. an emotional betrayal of her attempts to sound matter-of-fact, unaffected — the way she supposes this manner would have preferred. a perfect little victim they could have sympathized with, and not the angry thing it had made her.
she pauses, letting his hand drop to tend to the other. her eyes, all the while, stay trained on his mottled knuckles. )
Jem Walker and Eddie Munson are his lap dogs. I wouldn't trust either of them not to turn on you, if Danny snaps his fingers, though Jem is quite good at pretending to have a heart. ( she pauses. it's going to air itself, eventually — and when it does, she doubts others will be kind to louis or alia. ) The Balfours hosted ... They called it a game, but it was more of a hunt. There were others, but — it wasn't their fault. They weren't themselves.
( the implication, of course: danny was. jem must've been, when she tried to bloody her hands to finish the job danny had failed to do. ravka might call her a saint, but she has no forgiveness to spare for what they'd done. )
normal thoughts for normal people!
The werewolves.
[more to himself than to her, affirming the connection. Grace had told him about that - Lauralae had, too. his plans for the house aren't kind, and he's sure he's going to get scolded (or worse) but if he can disrupt the order of energies here enough to prevent further torture, he will.]
I'll watch out for them. [and they should be watching out for him, too.] Why does he want you dead?
no subject
she's turned it over and over in her mind. autopsied it. dissected it. examined it thoroughly, and come away with no other explanation than the obvious, morbid one danny had given her: because he had wanted to. because it's in his nature. a wolf would never waste the blood and bowels of a good meal — but calling danny a beast is an insult to animal instinct. he's something altogether worse, driven by a need of a different kind, a stricter appetite.
alina swallows, throat seizing in tight spasms. when the words finally crawl onto her tongue, there's an eerie blankness behind them, trying to disconnect herself from the disgust that roils in her stomach. )
For pleasure. ( hatred would be easier to stomach. an artistic lust for the vision he'd made of her, painted in the splatter of her own blood, is — nauseating. alina drops august hand, suddenly, a dizzy pulse of vertigo in her skull, nostrils flaring around the smell of copper in the air. ) Sorry. I — can you bandage them yourself?
no subject
Yeah, I got it.
[probably. he has a feeling that his presence isn't helping whatever she might be feeling, either. intense emotions are sometimes made more intense, especially ones with a darker history. he picks up on what's unsaid, catching Alina where she falters.]
You don't have to stay.