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draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
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ππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JAN TDM
JANUARY 2025 TDM: IMMORTALITY
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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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."
8-BALL
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, nsfw.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
NEW YEAR, NEW ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: homophobia, misogyny, implied grooming, cultural insensitivity.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
DIRECTORY
fiyero tigelaar | wicked | current player, new character
dancing through saltburnt. (and always keeping cool?)
Ah, wonderful. [ though, his tone indicates just the opposite of the word. ] Another one.
[ anthony remembers a time not so long ago when such a prospect startled him to the point of what felt like madness. now, he simply makes a point to rake through the dialogue he's just been given, starting with β ] This manor is called Saltburnt. [ had he said his horse would be found talking? of course it would be. why should he expect anything less? ] I'm afraid you aren't to find him here. We generally arrive with others, but none with ... chittering steeds.
im SCREAMING
oh, his father would have loved a version of him like this, he's sure. and of all the things that he could point out, that he should definitely draw attention to, the first thing out of his mouth? ]
He is not a chittering steed, he's a good friend and quite frankly an exceptional navigator. He studied it for near a decade, after all.
[ he tilts his head, his brow furrows and he huffs a little, amused and also confused. ]
Saltburnt could have tried a little bit harder, I think, if it wanted to glamor someone such as myself. It's a very difficult face to master, I'm sure. Are you a sorcerer? Incredible work, though I think the sideburns are a bit much. Very Ozmopolitan of you all the same.
i really am so sorry about him.
[ another place, another time, he might think the man perfectly mad. in the here and now, however, face-to-face, yet again, with an amalgam of his own features, he can only presume that what he speaks is his semblance of the truth. anthony narrows his eyes, makes something of an effort to backpedal toward decorum again, until β ]
A sorcerer? I beg your pardon, I am nothing of the sort. [ ozmopolitan? does this man speak only in fluent nonsense? what fantastical sort of world does he hail from? ] I can assure you, my good fellow, despite what you may believe are my shortcomings, this face? Is very much my own.
[ ( our own? perhaps it is still too soon to make mention of tim ... how he wishes he were here now to make a balm of this needless debacle. ) ]
(no subject)
8-ball
Still, he's had three or five glasses of champagne and he's certain another will keep him from getting too parched; though the task written on this strange (and ugly, if you want his opinion) ball may work just as well. ]
'Do a body shot'? Not much of a fortune, if you ask me. [ Dorian matches Fiyero's conspiratorial lean: far worse places to be than sidled up with a handsome man, in circumstances like these. ] Though I suppose it's preferable to realizing you're the subject of an ancient doomsday prophecy, or hearing that we'll be struck by lightning tomorrow.
[ They're not far from an impressive line-up of bottles, and Dorian sweeps his gaze across the labels, fluttering his fingers in their direction. ]
Pick your poison. Or mine, I suppose. My only request is that it isn't cheap.
no subject
but the older man beside him surprises him and fiyero grins. ]
Are you saying doing a body shot with me is such a great misfortune? I suppose the honesty is admirable.
[ there's a bright, winning grin to accompany the statement though - hardly any offense at all. ]
But I'll confess - I don't know what any of these are. I'm new here, and new in ways I don't think even I could expect. So, should I close my eyes and see where we land? Whatever the poison, I'll wager you this. You go first, and then you can pick one so I may try something new myself.
[ innuendo, maybe? definitely. ]
genuinely forgot fiyero is in college due to jonathan bailey
[ Once upon a time, Dorian was also fresh-faced at the orgy - assuming that's what this is devolving into, anyway - and it's a skill of its own to be game for anything. He respects the enthusiasm, and Fiyero certainly isn't hard on the eyes.
Dorian peers more closely at the bottle labels: recognizes things like brandy and whisky, of course, but none of the names. ]
Why not? I've had enough champagne to soften the taste of anything truly awful. So long as they don't have any Dragon Piss, I imagine we'll survive.
HAHA right its like we got CWed
(no subject)
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(no subject)
(no subject)
ozdust π
at any rate she's not impressed by the dancing at all, but one thing does catch her eye. a face, she thinks, across the room, and then he spins his companion out of the way and--yes, that's fiyero. at least far away on the other side of the room there's no one to hear the way her breath catches, briefly.
elphaba makes her way through the crowd of dancers, sidesteps neatly between a couple far enough away that they couldn't possibly be dancing together, and there he is. a few feet away, and elphaba almost interrupts, but at the last second she decides not to. instead she just waits until his gaze drifts around the room, until his eyes find hers, and once he does, that's when she lifts a hand to wave. ]
no subject
he's just trying to escape a boring conversation with an older woman who smiles and pets his hand a little too closely when he catches sight of something - green. a green he knows far, far too well. a green he waved away on a beautiful train in the same beautiful color. and a green hand waving at him all the same. and it's with a - sorry, i need to step away for a moment though your beauty makes it nearly impossible... - that he weaves through the crowd.
his expression lights up, grin nearly ear to ear when he pushes through people and makes his way to her. ]
Elphaba? [ astonished, surprised, and he almost wants to get his arms around her for the relief he feels to see a familiar face. even if he won't admit it. ]
And here I thought you were on a train to see the great and splendiferous city of Oz. You've quite missed the mark, I'm afraid.
no subject
but she waits for him to continue β or at least mention it, ask her something, and no question comes. elphaba has to conclude that either he's being delicate with her (unlikely) or he doesn't know (hard to believe, but plausible). her hands fold behind her back, clasped together as she steps closer, and it's not because she doesn't trust herself, but she does wonder, oh so briefly, if fiyero would still have let her touch his cheek as someone branded as wicked. ]
And here I was thinking that the train only went Oz. Seems as if someone is playing tricks on us both. [ is a lie of omission really a lie? is it really a lie, if she's only protecting him from the decision of having to decide his loyalty?
and is it a lie if she's maybe protecting herself, just a little bit, too. ] I can't imagine you're having a good time here. The dancing is really quite dull to watch.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
dancing through saltburnt
But the newcomers aren't usually so -- tactile. Some of them are angry, some of them are bewildered, most a combination of fear and confusion that means they want to be given a wide berth. So the hand on Koby's elbow, the duck of a golden-kissed head down towards his own, the soft lilt of a voice he's unfamiliar with, from features that are a shifted echo of someone he knows well -- well. It's all surprising enough that for a moment he just blinks upwards, wide eyes, glasses slipping down his nose.
Finally:] A -- horse? You're looking for a horse. That's. [Coming back to himself, ducking his head and pushing his glasses up.] That's, um. New.
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Well, not just any horse. Feldspar. A good, noble gentleman who's been the navigator and travel guide for the Tigelaar house for, well - the whole of my life, actually. A good friend - though he can be chatty. I'm sure he's just found himself in some corner trying to argue his case for a third breakfast.
[ a sigh. ] Have you never lost your horse before, then? Only your glasses?
[ a smile, then he backs away a little, but only a little, before he gives a little bow at his waist. ] Fiyero Tigelaar, Winkie Land. Sorry, I don't believe we've met.
Where in Oz are you from, and do you have any idea how we've ended up in this very strange, splendiferous house?
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Feldspar. The horse. [Said a little skeptically, like he doesn't know a duck named Abraham Lincoln.] Right. Well -- I'd have to guess he'd be in the stables with the other horses, if I had to guess. Which -- I don't have to. Because I know for a fact there's never been a horse at breakfast. [Koby clears his throat, pushes his glasses up again, unnecessarily, tries to resist the urge to comb his hair over his ears to hide the blush.] At least, not since I've been here...
[And then the stranger -- Fiyero Tigelaar, a mouthful, to be sure, albeit one with manners -- is bowing, and Koby blinks a few more times, then finally summons back his apologetic little half-smile.] I'm sorry, I'm not from -- Oz. That's what your home's called? Or -- Winkie Land, that's a part of Oz? [A beat, then he pulls out one of the brochures, offering it.] I have some theories, but -- I've been here for a while now. I know more about being here than how to escape, I'm afraid.
[As an afterthought:] Koby -- that's my name. Koby. Nice to meet you, Mr. Tigelaar. [Nevermind that they're closer in age than he is to most people here. Manners matter.]
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ozdust baybeeee
but he's here anyway, abiding by the dress code with a slightly more casual twist so no one will think to try and drag him onto the floor or participate in this circus act. eventually he tugs out a cigarette, nursing it in the same way he'd like to be nursing a whiskey - but he doesn't dare on account of...that night. twice now. senator smith first, and then kenny. it's like embry said - his drinking got out of control too. and christ knows it's been a long week with alicent running amok and pushing people out windows, feeding on them like some nighttime incubus -
it's nothing. which is why he doesn't first register the polite small talk from the stranger next to him, puffing on his smoke and letting his gaze glaze over. something about family and dancing and despite the lilt, he sounds pretty posh himself, like he ought to be on the floor too with these peacocks. hawk stiffens as his free hand is seized unceremoniously, twirling him around to face whisps of blonde curling over a strong forehead and framing gorgeous, arresting pair of eyes bluer than the sapphire cufflinks he'd given embry for christmas. he'd recognize those features anywhere, even if this is a drastically different amalgamation of them. not anthony bridgerton, either. there's an amused smile, hawk taking the initiative to twirl fiyero the way he might have done lucy in her taffeta skirts, swinging out into the floor before he's dragged back in with one graceful pull of his arm.]
You seem pretty capable of starting a riot out there all on your own.
Bet you'd get a few takers.
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Well, of course I could, but that wouldn't be very polite now would it? I understand those poor people have willingly sat through classes to reach this very moment! I couldn't take their great moment from them.
[ he tilts his head, gives hawk's hand a squeeze - correct, he's still got a decent grip there from when he'd been twirled back. he gives one brow a little lift. ]
And bold of you to assume I have not already plucked out my ideal dance partner. You've demonstrated a swankified aptitude for improvisation, and you didn't even bow politely and ask for my hand first. I'm impressed.
Should I put your name as one of the takers? Well, of course I should - dance with me. Right here, even, unless you'd rather be the shining star of the ball. What do you say? I promise I won't leave you with sore toes, but I can't guarantee I won't bruise an ego or two. I'll make it up to you, I promise.
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And besides. Are we really going to pretend this house hasn't brought in anyone but top notch guys and dolls?
[there's no uggos here, but maybe fiyero doesn't know that yet. hawk shakes his head with a snort, squeezing fiyero's hand in turn before letting his fingers slip away from the now overly intimate moment.]
Haven't seen you around before, which means I probably shouldn't be acting like a grumpy old man about this. And apparently my manners could use some brushing up - but I'm hoping you can forgive me. One good turn deserved another.
[a literal one across the floor, that is. but he tilts his head at the request anyway, thinking about how it might ruffle some feathers to have non-participants out-classing everyone else. at least, he thinks they would - by looks and..."swankification", he supposes. there's a smirk as hawk sucks down the rest of his cigarette between two fingers, exhaling it behind him and dropping it into a passing glass of champagne.]
Well, it'd be rude to say no now, wouldn't it.
[hawk puts a hand behind his back, extending an over-exaggerated bow and lifting his chin with a grin.]
May I have this dance, then...?
[he's waiting for a name.]
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keep dancing | un: gingerailed
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does everyone lounge in their room waiting for all the fun to come to them?
that's no way to live at all.
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midnight kisses
And when there is, he's a man on a mission, albeit a subtle one -- sidling and nudging people out of the way as the countdown begins, aiming for the bright eyes and flushed face he's been watching all night, letting his broad frame do most of the work, until he's close enough to reach out, catch the young man's arm and spin him away from some other would-be kisser.]
Scandalocious? Me? [The word sounds silly, sounds like the champagne on Corrigan's tongue, the bubble of it down his throat, but he flashes his own megawatt grin, waiting to see if the stranger recoils or demurs -- he's not everyone's type, shockingly, but maybe, maybe...] Perish the thought. But I am a staunch traditionalist, and I can't let anyone go unkissed on New Years, so...
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a grin blossoms across fiyero's lips instantly and he tilts his head a little, but he doesn't remove the hand on his arm, instead smooths his palm over the fabric of his shirt to steady himself. ]
Well, if you come running when you hear the word scandalocious then you absolutely know how to have a good time. [ there's a little laugh, bright and easy. ]
I think you've interrupted the kiss I was about to have - and what makes your offer more favorable? [ never mind that he's clearly very interested in corrigan - and the woman behind him seems utterly gone from his thoughts even if she glares up at corrigan over fiyero's shoulder. ] I am a man in demand, after all.
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8ball
Her eyes dart down to the ball in his hands, and it's something completely foreign to her. Is that what they wish from them as they've stripped them down? She feels near humiliated, but this man is certainly taking it in stride.]
You can go. [It is not as if she knows what to do with it anyway. And then he accuses her of that, and her head snaps up.]
I can assure you my plans include nothing of the sort. It is simply the operations of this place. [Despite being demure, she has some feistiness that can certainly come out when need be.]
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[ there's a playfulness to his tone though there is also a hint of concern - after all, fiyero has gotten close enough to at least block her from the view of most. ]
I'm sure we could find a way out and some clothes somewhere. So if you'd rather - I honestly don't know what this thing is for in the first place!
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ozdust
He shifts out of the twirl mid-turn, brows creased as he straightens his glasses. ]
The kind of dancing you're looking for is downstairs. But I wouldn't-- I mean, you shouldn't go down there when you have lookalikes. It'll give people the wrong idea.
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[ fiyero grins a little, but it fades a tiny bit when he looks up at tim, tilting his head and truly observing the lines of his face. well, then. this is strange. peculiar. a face that looks like his own and yet doesn't all at once. ]
Lookalikes? I am nothing if not charming, so I promise you I would do no disservice to your - well, our shared likenesses. What's downstairs, then?
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