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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
paying it forward, part 2.
He doesn't hesitate as soon as he sees her, crossing the room, the sea of bodies, to find her, a smile coming easily to him in response to the one she offers, sweaty and flushed. It's not envy that he feels, not exactly, but β the word that comes to mind most quickly is relief, not to find her in this state but to be able to mind her, now, as she returns to her room. Even as she leans against him, he's offering her the crook of his arm, her hand sliding through like clockwork. ]
Of course, my dear.
[ It takes a moment to fully peel away from the crowd, to leave the strangely large amphitheater behind, but the relative quiet of the hallway awaits. The sight of them would be comical, he's certain, except for the fact that everyone else who'd attended the party will be doing the same thing, too. ]
I would offer you my jacket, but, well. I needn't say aloud that I'm hardly in a position to do so.
no subject
a bitter read on herself, maybe, but not exactly inaccurate. you have to give credit where credit is due, and parisa has worked her entire life to remain unattached from everyone she encounters βΒ not wholly, she could never manage that given the nature of her magic, but in a singularly specific way. people can have what they will of her, but they can never have her mind, her thoughts. anyway, she wonders if this is where she learns of emmrich's nasty side βΒ hanging back in the foyer of his mind, waiting for the ugly, wounded, possessive thoughts to come out. it would be a relief, because then she could stop looking for them. )
So chivalrous. ( and she is cold from her sweat, tucking in as close to emmrich as she can, to leech off his warmth. tired of waiting, she just asks outright, ) Are you ever any less of a gentleman, Emmrich?
no subject
[ He glances down at her, tucking his arm even closer to his side as though it might help lessen whatever distance remains between them, his look nothing less than fond. (A duck may be a duck, but that's an oversimplification at best, especially when it comes to a woman like Parisa, just as it would be an oversimplification to say that it's simply age and experience that help him see that.) ]
One cannot always be the perfect gentleman, but one may always strive to attain such a standard.
[ And so it goes with the ordered contents of his mind β perhaps not as neat as his study but maintained with the same principles. Yes, there are dark corners, but no more so than any other mind, coloring his thoughts about his work, his duties to the Mourn Watch, andβ just there, something more tangled, though it isn't in the spotlight in this immediate moment. ]
Besides, you may as well call this selfishness. The passing of a year is meant to be marked by spending it in esteemed company, is it not?
no subject
this isn't the first time she's peered at something darker inside him, anyway. that thing she's looking for, to ruin emmrich in her mind's eye, make him another in a crowd, another notch on her bedpost. she gets impressions, though not of anything in particular, but more ... feelings. namely emmrich's, his anxiety, his fear. a big question mark pocked on his brain. parisa fingers at the secret, wondering how hard it would be to crack open, what the secret code to getting to know emmrich is. he'd know she did it, of course β it'd be better to wait for him to show it to her, instead. )
I've always heard you should spend New Years how you'd like to spend your whole year. ( she tugs him to a stop outside her door, hand sinking down to interlace with his. parisa tilts her head into him, temple pressed on his bicep. ) In my case, it would be naked, with you. ( there's some difference between a year and the month she's already offered him βΒ they're reaching that deadline anyway, and parisa has no inclination of calling it quits. emmrich is far too interesting. ) Can I tell you something?
no subject
[ The (very generous) extension to a year doesn't escape Emmrich's notice, though he has enough decorum not to comment on it, at least not immediately. It's uncouth to call out a gift in that way. And even if she doesn't mean it, it's a flattering thought.
But the more time they spend together, the more often they run into each other, the less he questions just how genuine her interest is. Because he's seen her as she was at the party, and then he's seen her like this, her head against his arm β soft, not exactly less confident but perhaps more tender. Less pretense, less show. (He looks at her the same way she looks at that shadowed spot in his head, like he knows there's some core there, and knows better than to go digging for it on his own.) ]
Of course.
[ His hand squeezes hers, a punctuation mark. ]
Anything you'd like.
no subject
I need it.
( another telepathic trick β generally speaking, with parisa who looks the way she does, with a mouth shaped like hers, with a voice that sounds like that, it doesn't take much to make any particular person at any particular time thing about fucking her on a conveniently located chaise lounge, or something equally pretentious. being naked helps things, not that she needed the training wheels of nudity to sell a seduction. let him ruminate about what it is, coiled back in his mind for a second β a second is all parisa needs to snag his consciousness on tether hooks, pushing the both of them ( mentally speaking ) into his mind.
to any passersby on their physical bodies, they'll just look like two focused people looking intensely into each other's blank sclera eyes. inwardly, she brings emmrich to the study of his mind, a place familiar enough for emmrich to recognize. of course, she's been here a lot, whether in her own wanderings or in emmrich's thoughts, sat on his desk, one leg crossed over the other. up against the cluttered walls, his body pining hers. the wonders of an expansive mind β you never run out of places to dirty it up.
in any case, when emmrich opens his eyes, they're there, miraculously clothed, gazing at each other. )
We're in your mind. Sorry for the trick. ( but not really that sorry, it seems, her hand still on his cheek, stroking down to the corner of his mouth. ) I would've knocked you out cold, but I wasn't sure you'd say yes, if I invited you inside. We're meditating, just outside this. We can go back anytime.
( important he knows, he can leave anytime. he's certainly not trapped, least of all in his own brain. anyway β parisa squeezes his hand, almost carefully. ) I was going to say, I wanted it to be you. If you asked me how I wanted my night to end, it would've been exactly this. Well β maybe less talking, but talking could certainly be part of it.
( she's also curious if he'll get curious. poke around in his mind. show her something, let something slip. the dawning darkness of his mind looms over them, up on higher floors. )
no subject
βthen, they're somewhere else entirely. Or rather, they're somewhere even closer than here, something he realizes even before the words have left her mouth. Fortunately, the hand on his cheek is enough to keep his attention from drifting too far, tempted as he is to keep looking around, to take in the full scope of the shape of his own mind. (Any academic's dream, really.) He may not be a guest, but he is a passenger, sort of. ]
No apology necessary, Miss Kamali. [ Then, more softly, ] You really are quite the wonder.
[ His fingers squeeze hers in return, his other hand rising to gently brush back the curtain of her hair, the pad of his thumb traveling over her forehead. Lovely as ever, even as what he assumes to be a sort of projection. ]
I suppose there's no use in lying when we're here, as curious as I am to know what that might look like. That is to say, if you'd asked me that question, I'd have said the same thing.
[ He pauses, as above them, braziers light with pale green flame. A ethereal glow, stretching further and further up. ]
βYou're welcome to take a look around. I'd hardly be a good host if I didn't extend the offer.
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( a strange moment of disconnect where parisa steps away from him, although in the far recesses of his mind he'll have the phantom feeling, of where their physical bodies still touch. languidly, she steps in the space, looking very purposely like she's been here before, because of course, she has. she trails her fingers over the lacquered finish of his desk, forefront thoughts in his mind showing as little memos on artful stationary. the same things she had been reading in his mind earlier, actually β startling at the sudden nudity, pleasure at seeing parisa, enchantment at her telepathy. she smiles more privately to herself, fingering through the pages, rounding the desk before taking a luxurious seat in his chair.
arms on the rests, she folds one leg over the other, quirking a brow in his direction. )
I've seen it actually, if you'll pardon my manners. I like your mind. It reminds me quite a bit of where I come from. ( a gesture to the walls, lined with little trinkets and bottles and collections of things. ) More books than potions, they've never been my strong suit. But still β the chaotic organization of an academic mind. Especially one more inclined to the morbid.
( more intentional still, she tilts her chin upwards, eyes going to the ceiling. of course, there is no true ceiling β just the dark haze of something undiscovered lingering overhead, like a shadow, like a rain cloud. ) What I haven't seen is up there. Minds work in layers, as I'm sure you can understand, from projected thoughts to hidden secrets. That is your inner sanctum, which I have been ( she tilts her head back and forth in thought ) unsuccessful in penetrating. Or disentangling, you could say. It's a tricky thing to explain. The point is, I haven't really tried, because I like you, and even I know that's a violation. The trouble is, it's hard to trust you, when you have shadows all over your mind.
( it's not really all over. really, it's just there. really, emmrich is a lot more of an open book than your average person, which ordinarily wouldn't bother parisa, except that she likes him more than your average necromantic professor, which is troubling in its own way. so, stalemate. parisa leans forward in the chair, hands folded in front of her, turning his professorial paradise into some crime boss' meeting room, arranging blood money deals. )
I thought we could play a game. I'll peel a layer, and you'll peel one, and we'll go until we're as naked as we care to be. Then, I'll fuck you in front of that fireplace.
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[ It's only then that he allows himself to look up. There's no sign of fear or apprehension in his gaze; rather, his expression β the slight pinch his brow, the wryness in the line of his mouth β betrays something like regret. A note shifts, on the desk. Upon it, the outline of a thought: if she might think less of him, when (not if) she sees what he's stowed away. Not a particularly novel thought, one assumes, given the prospect of exploring the innermost parts of one's mind but, he knows, not one that inspires much confidence, either.
So he allows himself a huff of sheepish laughter as he comes to take a seat across from her. The student, for once β back straight, hands folded in his lap β instead of the teacher. (To be here reminds him, perhaps unavoidably, of the Fade. They're different beasts, of course, one an entirely separate realm and one extant only in his head, but the degree to which it all feels surreal, the strange sense of familiarity β that, at least, is the same. And he's been brought to both, now, with a guide.) ]
But I appreciate your discretion, and your willingness to follow me this far, despite theβ [ he gestures above them, letting the shadows speak for themselves. ] Though the concept of a game typically implies the existence of a loser and a winner, and I haven't an inkling as to who the former might be in the ruleset you've just described.
[ A beat passes before he leans forward, himself, chin tipping downward as he levels his gaze at Parisa, reaching a hand out, palm turned upward, onto the desk's surface. ]
But, more to the point: Parisa, if there's anything you want to know about me, all you need do is ask.
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in any case, she leans forward, gracefully placing her hand on his open palm, her expression not one of someone used to getting what she wants simply by asking for it. she wears the look of an archeologist, used to taking out her fine tools and going digging in the dirt, for a scrap of truth. what no one tells you: telepathy is a dirty, dark business because minds are dirt and dark. emmrich? at first glance, it's hard to believe he has any secrets at all, when he dons the title of necromancer so proudly. people, including people from her world, would see that as some great repulsion, expect that to be hiding in the dark alcoves of his mind. instead, his mind is more a necrotic lair than a study, blatant, even proud of his magic, sometimes hosting a walking skeleton with crystal eyes. he couldn't be more proud of it if he had it tattooed across his forehead. parisa β
parisa strokes her fingertips against the soft bit of skin on his inner wrist, eyebrows twitching, then smoothing out. of course the threat of the truth is scary, because the idea of losing emmrich is scary, which she doesn't care to acknowledge. papers in her own mind get shuffled around, though they impact the memos on his desk with an errant breeze. it's still necessary. she keeps her voice low, in a whisper. )
What are you hiding?
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So he smiles, at her question, his fingers gently folding over her hand β an anchoring touch, rather than any impediment to her movement. Even before he speaks, the amber light around them begins to flicker a sickly green. A little something for a favored son of the Mourn Watch. ]
The cost of ambition.
[ And the lights flare, as if on cue, sending pale tendrils snaking into the space above them, the relatively inoffensive decor surrounding them giving way to something more traditionally Nevarran in nature, skulls adorning creatures carved out of stone. It's as though a door has opened, the contents of a room that had once been sealed suddenly on view β not welcoming, exactly, but what nest of thorns is? ]
The highest honor, in my field, is to be raised to lichdom, to effective immortality, [ he says, as an array of faces slip in and out of shadow. ] The path to it isβ wholly unique, for each necromancer. There are no instructions to follow, and no amount of study or research ensures the ritual's success. Even once the right to attempt it is granted, some are found unworthy and die in the process. Some only change halfway, cursed to steal souls to sustain themselves.
[ One face suddenly seems to muscle its way to the forefront β that of a woman, around Emmrich's age, her hair tied back in a bun and her eyes a blaze of fire behind her angular glasses. ]
Johanna. We were friends, once. Peers. She was β is β brilliant. When we were students, I thought the day would never come when we wouldn't work together. But sheβ [ It'll be the first time Parisa's seen him really build his sentences as he speaks them, taking away some words to choose others better suited to his purpose. He's working through his feelings as he explains them, as the room shifts around them β these are thoughts he's never spoken aloud. ] She was banished, some years ago. Everything we considered dangerous, cruel, she considered an acceptable means to an end. She's shirked tradition, turning herself into a half-lich, enslaving souls with the intention of usurping our entire order. I know what must be done to stop her, but Iβ
[ He pauses, then, the smile he'd once worn now long-faded from his features, replaced by the pinch sitting in the crease of his brow. ]
I say all this because ... I thought these things to be separate, once. The actions of others and myβ my fear of death. What kind of fool must I be, to fear death β not even just my own, but of those I love β when my life is devoted to its study? Would I fear it less, had I gone with her? Could I have saved her? I knowβ I know not to blame myself for it, yet I wonder.
[ His gaze falls again, the light now seeming to focus on his face, the sharp angles of his features. He's not certain he's explained things as clearly as he'd like, but he wouldn't know where to begin further unpacking it all, either. ]
I was granted the right to attempt lichdom β the thing I've always wanted, always aspired to. And yet cowardice holds me back. [ Finally, as wryly as he can manage: ] It's hardly an attractive quality.
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her fingers tighten on his hand, more like a flinch than fear, echoing words the cost of ambition like the proverbial chord that david played to incite the lord to listen. parisa knows the price of ambition, at least by her own world's standards. in the back of her mind there's a young, joint-high atlas blakely saying let's be gods, making the same mistake as emmrich, believing having the knowledge meant having the answers βΒ believing that knowledge, in its own right, was godhood. reina mori, the naturalist of parisa's graduating year, saying it's time for new gods, and her particular brand of study focusing on the alchemic, genetic make up of the gods. how to become one. the lie parisa has told: they were studying to make a new world, to prove it possible. the truth: they were making a new world, to own it βΒ reign dominion.
it's beside the point, and she's thinking too much. the point is,Β effective immortality sounds brutally awful. the point is, parisa studied it anyway. the point is, she'd take it in a heartbeat if it meant never looking older.
point two: looking at emmrich is more like looking in a mirror than she ever thought possible.
there are tenants to the magic parisa is used to βΒ namely that nothing comes from nothing, that is all has to come from somewhere (except dalton, except, except), so she's a little awed by his display of magic, blinking up at the swirling faces, the green light. when she sees johanna, she might as well be looking at atlas, the only rival to parisa's talent in telepathy she'll ever know, who used parisa like a bug in the system, knowing he couldn't be stopped, but wanting to issue a failsafe if he went to far, which he knew would fail, because. not because parisa cared about him, or even liked him much, but because parisa is so nonchalant as to be irresponsible β because parisa is so jaded, she'd never choose the world over herself, and she doesn't even like herself much. because, she would be and was far too self-absorbed to even notice the world was any worse off than it usually was. because, between the choice of selfishness and selflessness, there is one choice parisa kamali will always make. it's so obvious, it's hardly a revelation at all.
what is a revelation, on the backs of the previous one, is that she and emmrich are, in fact, absolutely nothing alike. and the better for it.
she doesn't love anyone enough to fear their death. there's no one close to her that isn't replaceable. if the benefit was never aging, parisa would go down the path of lichdom tomorrow because the worst thing that could happen to her is death, and what is she living for anyway? next season's jimmy choos? )
It's hardly unattractive to fear finality. ( so, the truth then. parisa's always known she is a coward β the same way she knows emmrich, inherently, is not. she glances back from his snaking magic to smile at him softly, almost knowingly, before locking onto their handhold, thumb rubbing against the fatty part of his hand. maybe it seems silly, to be so afraid of aging when emmrich is here, older, wrinkled in places, and no less attractive to parisa for it. it's different. she's a woman, the entire breadth of her power lies in her remaining fuckable, she's in her thirties, it was her birthday last month, she found another gray hair. ) An empath once convinced me to jump off a building. I remember the falling, what it was like to die. There's an inexplicable something in that suffering. Peace, maybe. But it's not without fear.
( most of the reason why parisa isn't repulsed by emmrich's capabilities βΒ she isn't disgusted by the human fallacy of death. she fears it too, in a certain way, but she also respects it, that great collaborator, the final door left to close. she doesn't pry, telepathtically speaking, but verbally β well, he said she could ask him anything. )
Will stopping Johanna help you ascend to lichdom? ( head tilted, curiously. ) I don't find you foolish, Emmrich. I find you human. A good one, at that.
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Even as Parisa describes her leap (and he keeps himself from asking what could have convinced her to take that step), he feels a chill lance through him, followed swiftly by that repeating thought: that he's a coward. So the words that follow β hardly just for the sake of his comfort, if he's learned anything about her at all β are a balm. Human. It is what he is β will be, untilβ ]
I'm not certain, [ he answers, as his eyes find hers again. ] I know it's something I must do, or at least that I'd regret it if I left it to someone else.
[ His thumb brushes over the ridge of her knuckles as he lets the thought float between them, wondering idly how much she can still read of what he leaves unsaid given their environs. He's not so guilt-ridden as to think that the path Johanna's chosen is his fault, but he owes it to himself, at least, to see this through to its end, the same way the sun has to chase the moon. And in that sense, perhaps it would be a necessary step β an arc completed, its denouement reached, with nothing left but to move on. But when he plays the eventuality out in his head, when he imagines what shape foiling her would take, he fails to see past that nebulous stopping point.
There is a future, he knows, in which he never achieves lichdom, not because he's killed during the process but because he never goes through with it. And, more and more, he thinks that's not really what he wants. What has all this been for, otherwise?
On the heels of that thought: ] But, if it didβ I'd be changed.
[ Human no longer, his current visage gone save for the use of a glamor, his very sense of the world changed. Which brings him to another thought, one that's hardly worth giving voice to giving its lack of guarantees β that he'd be able to leave and come back, that he'd go through with the ritual, not to mention the fact that whatever this is has gone unlabelled, unspoken, butβ
βfor once, he jumps. ]
I suppose it'd be too presumptuous of me to ask if you'd mind?
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the question then becomes, is there a line in the sand parisa finds unbearable, uncrossable? she's fucked her fair share of evil people, senators and princesses and politicians and ceos and moguls and so-named self starts, app and web designers, business owners, real estate agents. you find, there's no such thing as a good person in the world, actually. all humans are criminals, all cruel, all a ten grand paycheck away from revealing their inner darkness. emmrich comes startlingly close to the opposite end of things βΒ her white whale, that one good thing. even his secrets are good really, just more evidence that sets him apart from the whole. the truth: parisa can't promise to feel affectionately towards him if he changes wholly. he could become just like everyone else. he's her diamond in the muck of the world, something precious to be protected.
not that parisa is one to protect anything. but, still βΒ worrying on a physical change? she's the last person to be judgey on that front, when so many people judge her on first glance. her hand slides out of his, parisa standing up to round the desk again, fingertips trailing over the top as she saunters, thinks, weighs her head back and forth. )
I like when you're presumptuous, actually. And I always support the pursuit of power, being power-starved myself.
( not necessarily a fair read on emmrich, but the power has to mean something to him, an appeal higher than just the prestige of a title, or the proof of his mettle. she comes to the side of his chair, observing the little distance between his knees and the desk edge, before taking a languorous seat on his lap, hands cupping his cheeks. )
Would you still want me? ( it seems a vulnerable question to ask, and parisa doesn't await an answer, eyes boring into him. ) Then I wouldn't mind. I'd help you.
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What follows, at least, is easier. As she settles in his lap, his hands find her hips, his chin tipping obligingly up β just so, given how slight she is β to meet her gaze. She doesn't leave him space to answer out loud, but he arguably doesn't need it. Not when the answer sits on the desk behind her: a framed portrait, drawn in Emmrich's careful hand, depicting her smiling face, her expression at its most unguarded, adorned with the faint sense memory of her perfume on his pillow. (He's always been like this β fallen fast, fallen hard. Then again, she's made it incredibly easy.)
I'd help you, she says, and his heart flutters. Relief, joy, every dizzying emotion all at once. Carried on a smile: ] Oh, my dear.
[ He leans into her touch, nosing against the curve of her thumb. ]
Even death β even time immemorial β could not change how I feel about you.
[ One of his hands finds hers, shifting it just far enough for him to be able to press a kiss into her palm. ]
Thank you.
[ For her trust. For entertaining him at all. For accepting him as he is, with all his fears and particulars; for accepting him as he might become. (He figures he doesn't need to ask what she makes of it all β after all, she's still here.) ]