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draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
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๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ โฃ 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 โ 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 ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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 isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐: 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.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
โ momofuku's "cereal milk" โ
โ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss โ
โ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping โ
โ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling โ
โ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection โ
If you want to leave, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐: 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.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
โ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss โ
โ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping โ
โ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling โ
โ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection โ
If you want to leave, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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 โย 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 โย 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 โย 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 โย 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 โย 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 โย 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 โย 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 โย 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 โย 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 doppelgรคnger? 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 pรบca, 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 โ 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 โย 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 doppelgรคnger? 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 pรบca, 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 โ 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
8-ball
[ Minthara stands with a hip slightly cocked, seemingly fully comfortable in her nudity as though she's a big cat rather than a person. Being touched is only uncomfortable insomuch as it makes her feel threatened, attacked, so she had no real plans to fetch a blanket when she pulled away from Glinda's panicked attempts to get behind her.
She does understand that the little blonde human is embarrassed by her nudity, and pities her. A gold glow begins to swathe her pallid skin; the aura of courage, that this girl might be less afraid of eyes on her body. ]
Stand. Use your hair to cover your breasts, and place a hand here.
[ Modestly over her genitals; Minthara demonstrates, slender fingers hiding the downy white between her legs. ]
Use the other to pluck out the eyes of all whose gaze you find unpleasant.
no subject
Oh! [She straightens up, follows directions without really thinking, tugging her curling blonde hair around so it modestly shields her perky, pert breasts, then cupping her hand over the neatly-trimmed golden curls between her legs. The next direction gets a startled, blushing laugh.]
Pluck out their eyes? Is that -- what's done by sorceresses where you're from? [Because she will if that's what's done, but she just got her nails done...]
no subject
[ She makes a gesture with two of her fingers extended into the empty air, illustrating how her sharp nails would blind the man who made her nudity feel humiliating. ]
They should bow and avert their eyes at your beauty. After all, are you not a princess?
[ She saw the way Glinda was dressed before all this happened, and it struck her as very Overworld Royalty, far more so than most of the people here. Minthara herself is a princess, so she would know these things. ]
no subject
Well. Itโs somewhere between Elphie and Madame Morrible, itโs commanding and disdainful and proud, and Glinda envies and fears it in a tangled rush that makes her stomach churn, her heart pulse, her cheeks pink as her lip gloss, as her manicured nails, even as they tuck modestly between her legs. Sheโs doing her best not to stare at the not-sorceresses hand in the same place, with the resulting consequence that her breath catches at the word โ]
Princess? Me? [It comes out in a squeak, then Glindaโs blushing deeper and shaking her head hard, so hard her hair tosses, her chest heaves, her soft blushing body birdlike in itโs flattered surprise.] O-Oh no, no no no, Iโm not โ I mean, Iโm no more a princess than youโre a sorceress, maโam. Miss. Maโam? [Itโs not like her to be flustered, and itโs frustrating, white teeth notching into her plush lower lip to fight a pout.] Ah, um โ itโs so sweet of you toโฆto say such a thing. A princess, really...
no subject
[ Neither Miss nor Ma'am but a secret third thing. ]
My magic is no sorcery, but a blessing given by the goddess Lolth in exchange for my Oath to her.
[ A paladin, in the terms of her world. She speaks with such smooth tones, arch deliberation that yes, speaks of a great amount of self-assurance. But despite herself she is charmed by this flittering little thing; she can recognize a kind of strength in being pleasing to the eye, knowing how to angle one's head just so. That, more than anything, is what strikes her as regal in an overworlder way (in the Underdark, of course, Minthara's House retains its ruling prestige by bloody determination.) ]
no subject
And Minthara is self-possessed, composed, untouchable. Glinda may flutter and flirt and flounce, but sheโs plagued by doubts, even on her good days, and the sight of such confidence sends a pulse of envy through her. Just envy, of course โ she certainly isnโt staring at Minthara with any sort of approval or longing, because thatโd be silly.
Clearing her throat, beginning to toss her hair back โ and remembering just in time that itโs currently being used to veil her bare chest from the world โ Glinda glances again at the number the ball had given her, biting her lip in deep thought.] Well. Um. Nightwarden. Iโm Glinda Upland, and I havenโt been blessed by anyone, really [aside from whoever was handing out bouncy hair and big doe eyes, of course] but I would be fascinated to hear more about your, um. Your Oath. If that would interest you. [And itโll give her a chance to broach the topic of โcould I please follow directive number three just for a moment, just while youโre talking, so we can get out of hereโ, hopefully.]
no subject
[ She has a good voice for narration, with her low rasp and posh accent. She sounds quite fierce about it all, brows drawing heavily down. ]
Now that I am older, it has changed; my vengeance is against all those who have killed and tortured in the service of the Cult of the Absolute.
[ Blah blah fantasy bullshit. She notices Glinda peeking at her chest, and cocks one pale eyebrow. ]
no subject
[And then sheโs silently called out, blushing deeply and puffing out her cheeks in a pout.] Iโm โ so sorry, the ball thing, it...wants me to, um. Well. It wants me to behave in a manner thatโs very unladylike, and the thought of it keeps distracting me.
Please, go on about torture and murder, Iโm listening. [Glinda perches herself on a nearby couch arm, folding one leg over the other and crossing her arms demurely over her chest and not looking at anyoneโs lovely, perfect breasts. Shh.]
no subject
Indeed, a salacious command.
[ Unaware that they're seeing different things. She reaches out, not to pluck out Glinda's eyes but to stroke a sword-calloused hand gently over her pretty cheek. ]
Fear not. This place is depraved; I believe there is little you could do here to draw disdain, or even much attention.
[ It's true, people are barely looking at their tits, too caught up in working through their own commandments or hangups. Already people are realising that these lewd acts are the key to leaving, while other couples are simply enjoying the decadent New Year without clothes. ]
no subject
Donโt be afraid. Iโm here.
It comforts something in her, even as it makes her face flush dusky pink, her eyes dropping again to the other womanโs bared chest. Itโs the first Glindaโs seen outside of her own โ aside from a few sideways glimpses sheโd caught accidentally here and there, the changing rooms at the spa, before and after combat lessons, in the late-night warmth of her shared suiteโฆ And itโs lovely, of course, very nicely shaped, justโฆin an objective sense. Glinda slips her little pink tongue over her lower lip, eyes flicking between Mintharaโs full, soft breasts and her face.]
I donโt care particularly about what others might say, butโฆ [She breathes in, eyes softening, going dark and heavy-lidded and enticing. Itโs the way she flirts with boys, all flounces and hair-tossing and batting eyes, but โ itโs what she knows.] I donโt want you to disdainify me. Or think I donโt respect you deeply, as aโฆnot-sorceress. [One hand reaches out, perfectly manicured, resting lightly on the tumble of Mintharaโs hair over her shoulders.] Because I do. I truly, truly do, and I would love to discuss your magic further, once weโre out of here. Which, in order to accomplish, Iโm supposed to โ put my mouth on you.