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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
minthara baenre / baldur's gate iii
[ Minthara has become accustomed to surface foods of all types, and yet the feast that is provided for such a simple meal as breakfast contains many ingredients she has never heard of. She is especially fond of the gold-foil egg, though once she has cleared her plate she hums consideringly. ]
Could do with more mushrooms.
8BALL
[ Red eyes give a hard stare to whoever has been unfortunate enough to pair off with Minthara for the midnight kiss. ]
I am unfamiliar with this custom. Explain it to me - quickly, the ball will soon drop.
[ Not long after, she stands naked and at ease, taking in the scenes of startlement with one hand on her hip, muscles tensed at the ready. ]
A poor showing by our hosts, to play such magic tricks that divest us all of weapons and armor.
[ Well. "Us all" is probably a little strong, given most people here wore black tie rather than the leather garments and shining braces that were the closest things to armour Minthara could manage. Despite her annoyance, she waits for what she is certain will be the next step in this scheme: an attack.
And waits... ]
NURSE
[ It's detox season; Minthara did not touch the ReSculpt, having little interest in lotion or youthfulness. Is she not already in peak physical shape? And only 250 years old!
However. She will at least gather up any idiot who is now in the vile throes of withdrawals and has passed out near her. She princess carries you to the nearest bedroom. Is it your bedroom? No. Does she fetch you water, or a bucket to be sick in? No. However she will offer a prayer to Lolth and, with a glow suffusing her grey skin, cast the world's most begrudging Lay On Hands of all time. There, don't you feel better now? No? ]
(( open to whatever 8ball strikes you. permissions/kinks in journal. wildcards welcome. ))
8-ball
For a moment, he too waits to see if anything else will happen. Blood raining from the rafters, plague doctors armed with surgical equipment swarming from the gallery. You know, normal Saltburnt party stuff.
But nothing does. ]
Uhhh, [ he says, eloquently. ] It's not totally unprecedented to have some kind of naked combat, or like ... mid-party violence? But I don't think this is one of those times.
[ Luckily, perhaps, he doesn't have to work to keep his gaze directed at Minthara's face. Her red eyes are more than arresting enough to catch and keep his attention. ]
no subject
[ Though the total absence of anything that can be used as a weapon does cause problems for her, when so much of her Paladin magic relies on improving existing weaponry and imbuing her attacks. She should have worn needles in her hair instead of letting the maid braid it. Ah, well, hindsight.
She is deeply unimpressed by Matt, pale and human as he is. But while she will not lift her attention from the rest of the room, wary, she does come closer to him to speak. ]
If this is not precursor to an ambush...
[ Nearby, a couple with their heads together, murmuring and flushed, agree to do whatever the 8ball asked of them. Minthara listens in, considering them carefully, before looking back to Matt, raking her eyes over him. ]
Are you not proud of your scars?
[ Minthara is certainly proud of herself, each pale line on her grey skin a testament to her survival. ]
cw: brief cannibalism mention
At least they're all naked together. The 8-ball gleams do a body shot, and while Matt probably doesn't need more alcohol on a physical level, spiritually the suggestion appeals. Who knows what he's about to say when the question, whip sharp, takes him by surprise. ]
Am I ...
[ Shit. That's a good question. When it comes to other people's scars, Matt's opinion is decidedly affectionate: They're a personal history, a record of things borne and overcome. Something unique to an individual, no less worthy of love than any other part of them. Matt hasn't thought about whether he extends the same grace to himself. What does his scar mean? That Bella saved him, because she thinks of him as a friend. That Lauralae craved him so badly she had to taste. ]
It's complicated, [ he concludes. ] Mostly I'm worried it'd upset other people.
no subject
[ A huff out her nose, unimpressed at this concern for others. She shakes her head a little. Probably she should not expect better from a surface-dwelling pale-skinned male. ]
Ridiculous. Look around you. People's concern is with their own bodies.
[ Not Minthara, who stands exactly as she did before the clothes vanished. Her greatest concern is vulnerability, in a practical sense; strangers seeing her tits means very little to her. ]
People are no longer drinking or dancing as they were. Poor showing, for a party.
no subject
Some of our fellow guests are startlingly observant.
But yeah, this is a drag. I doubt you're gonna get many takers for naked dancing, [ speaking as a penis-haver, he's not about to put himself in a position that maximizes flopping, ] but I could go for another drink. The 8-ball suggested body shots. Do they have those where you're from?
[ He nods towards the 8-ball, still displaying (to his eyes, at least) its shot-related edict. ]
no subject
We do. But not ones related to drinking. Rather, I would call it... an archery term.
[ Ha ha. It's hard to tell if she's being funny or not, which is always true when she makes a bad pun, which is why she does it. She'll follow Matt to the alcohol, at least. ]
no subject
Honestly, I can see that as the Balfoursβ next party game. βShoot the shot glass off someoneβs chestβ or something β¦
[ The bartender is still on duty, fully clothed. Fucking show off. Matt says, ] Could I get two shots of mezcal, salt, and a lime please?
[ Matt intends to drink one of the shots and use the other as his dare shot. But when the little glasses arrive, Matt feels greedy, so he holds one out to Minthara. ]
Do you wanna try? You strike me as a mezcal person.
no subject
Acceptable. Is this your body shot, then?
no subject
That's the shot, but not the body. [ He gestures towards the lime, two wedges, and the salt in a small dish. ] Where I come from, body shots are drunk either out of the glass or off some part of a person's body, and then you lick the salt, and take the lime out of their mouth with your mouth. The only real rule is no hands, but ...
[ Matt inhales, flicking his fingers in a gesture of up, up. The limes and salt dish lift into the air. ]
That's not a problem for me.
no subject
[ She looks at him directly, unimpressed by his little display of magic. She reaches up and takes the lime wedge out of the air, considering its bright green rind. A far more interesting sort of foreign fruit, apparently. ]
Because were you hoping to drink from my skin, I would expect to see you on your knees begging for the privilege.
no subject
Nothing in the letter of the law says it can't be me, [ Matt muses. ] But I could beg, for sure. Would you be into that?
[ He's not used to making tests of strength against another person, with magic or without it. And that's when he's sober, so tipsy he has no idea how this'll go. Still, Matt inhales quickly, and the lime makes a yoink back towards him. The salt in its dish, continuing to float, briefly jounces into the air before the grains sift back down. ]
8 ball;
As I have noticed, in my short time being here, that seems to be allt hey are interested in.
[ The man is human, with not even a scar on him anywhere. As is evidenced by... well. They both have nothing on, do they? His lips are turned into an annoyed frown, but he's not so ashamed to hide himself. Instead, his hand is half-raised, as if he is ready to strike out, and his eyes look around. ]
It may only be a game. [ He admitted with a rueful hiss. ] Or it could be an attack. I have experienced both here, and it is difficult to tell when it will be an attack, and when it will be merely...
[ An annoyed roll of his mismatched gaze, before he says the word like a curse. ] Frivolity.
no subject
What she does like, however, is the confirmation that she is correct to be paranoid. How like her home, where sometimes a gathering was a celebration and sometimes it was a trap.
Another glance over his body, considering his musculature, trying to judge his familiarity with combat. ]
Would you be able to defend yourself in this state, should it come to that?
[ She hasn't seen anybody she knows (yet), so it makes sense to consider a temporary alliance with strangers, if they prove themselves worthwhile. ]
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His eyes β two different colors β look her up and down. It is not lustful, but instead appraising.
Thus far, she has been serious, and suspicious. Far better than Marazhai if he were considering allies. ]
Yes, of course. Being without a weapon should not detract from one's ability to defend themselves. [ A pause, and tight look in his eyes, before he sniffed. ]
I had not thought to prepare for losing my clothing, however. It had my knife. I will have to do with my psychic ability instead. [ It is not with shame, that he says it. Again, he appraised her. ] Can I assume that you also are able to? I have already been attacked more than once since arriving. I do not doubt it will happen again.
8ball aka two haters that don't know shit
He stands out in the crowd as he always does, since he has more than a foot over very nearly everyone here, but it does at least let him see the people that gather. There are familiar faces, but there are also new ones now, and as he sees a sharp-earned woman who is dressed in a way that he thinks of as quite sensible? Well, thatβs more curious than anything else, as it turns out.
Yet as he approaches, the mood of the crowd shifts to look at the 8-ball reverently, and Marazhaiβs expression twists up into confusion. ]
Nor am I. It is another mon-k— [ He stops himself, huffs out a sound of annoyance, and corrects himself begrudgingly. ] —human frivolity. Their customs are absurd and full of such nonsense.
[ Itβs almost pleasing that she doesnβt know eitherβ¦ ]
it's always two dumb non-humans telling each other exactlyyyy
[ Minthara agrees immediately, something around the eyes expressing a very particular kind of pleasure β it's rare, in the overworld, and especially here, to meet others equally scornful. It helps that Marazhai looks more like a drow than anybody else she's met here. ]
However.
[ Ugh. Caveats. ]
They outnumber us. It may be unwise to anger them, should this be more than frivolity.
[ If she had a blade she might consider herself capable of standing against the entire party, but without it she imagines she would soon be swarmed. Her pride is not so unbending that she cannot acknowledge that she is very much a stranger in a strange land right now. ]
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So indeed. It is an inconvenient thing about the estate and its⦠preferences. Or perhaps largely selecting weaker prey is more convenient.
[ Which, in a way, heβs probably correct. Technically. Since if there was an estate filled with Drow and/or Drukhari, it would devolve into honestly impressive amounts of bloodshed so quickly. Itβs also why itβs easy for Marazhai to ignore the way the crowd is getting excited as the clock ticks over for one minute remaining, since finding a bit of a kindred spirit is far, far more interesting than celebrating a new year. ]
But clearly, that does not apply to you. [ He nods to her bracers approvingly, perhaps even minutely jealous, but thatβs just his personal grievances with the library (correctly) not giving him anything he wants. ] I have reached the same conclusion, dull as it may be.
no subject
I'm so glad you agree.
[ And with that he's her designated midnight kiss, so she steps closer with intent, and hooks her fingers into whatever they've managed to get Marazhai to wear. Her mouth is an unimpressed line, though he's handsome enough, and seems to understand his place better than most of the men she's met here so far.
But there's very little time for her regard. Around them, humans are starting to chant out the count-down, though they at least seem excited rather than ominous. She meets Marazhai's eyes steadily, an unspoken alliance: ready? ]
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β¦That part is good, and he doesnβt seem offended or pull away from his touch. But as the implication dawns on him, her expression ends up mirrored as his smile sets into a line too. ]
Oh, do not tell me— [ Five, the crowd chants, and he makes a sound that sounds like an animalβs hiss. ] This ritual involves kissing?
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Do not shame me.
[ If he pulls away now, she's going to break one of those crystal wine glasses and bury the shards in his skin. Though it's not as though kissing is the good end, here; Minthara has forgotten to warn him that she habitually dresses her lips with venom. Well, with any luck it won't be enough to sicken him.
There is no further time for words. The ball drops, and Minthara will do what she must to remove any last height between them, dragging his over-tall frame downwards so they can kiss. Despite her annoyance, it's more than just a dutiful press, lips soft as a lover's as she takes his mouth for her own.
And then his clothes disappear so she has no more grip on him at all, which is exactly the kind of misfortune she was hoping to avoid, damn these Balfours. ]
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It also means that it isnβt all that hard to drag him down to her heightβhalf because sheβs stronger herself and half because heβs interested enough to allow itβand the touch of their lips is a surprise. For one, thereβs the softness of it, which he honestly just didnβt expect, considering her tone. He expected a firm, obligatory thing, perhaps teeth and blood, but thereβs still a bite all the same. Itβs none that he would be familiar with, but he still knows the unique feeling of poison well. Both of their people become acclimated to its bite as a rote part of their lives. He puts a hand on her shoulder tightly then as a warning, maybe a threat.
So, itβs surely ironic that itβs not that but the kiss itself that makes him tense. The venom is welcome compared to any show of tenderness and intimacy. At least if he was poisoned, he would not have such trifles to care about. His turquoise eyes are bright and full of fire, like heβs considering taking one of those wine glasses to do the same, but alsoβ¦ Intrigued.
And yet. The sharp and sudden mix of feeling and reaction both deflates just as quickly. The strong (and rather pleasant) grip is gone, and the chill of air hits his skin. That gets him to hiss and pull back just enough to see that⦠everyone is in this situation. The spark of adrenaline at being caught unaware turns to annoyance instead. ]
Typicalβ¦
[ He growls it out as he straightens, but itβs clearly not at her, considering he licks his lips lightly. Heβs trying to figure out that venom, but itβll remain beyond him. The sudden nudity clearly doesnβt bother him, since he doesnβt react with any shame or distaste, even as his many, many piercings are suddenly on display. ]
These mon-keigh are so simple that I do not know why I expected differently.
welcome
it wouldn't do to leave commentary unanswered, however, especially when there's a risk of causing offense to their hosts whoever they might be. sansa has not worn her name as a proper lady of house stark in a long while, but she's not forgotten her upbringing either. ]
Perhaps it's been set aside for the midday dinner? It might be difficult to harvest them with the weather being so cold.
...Do you like mushrooms?
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[ A sharp rejoinder, but not one meant to insult. Minthara considers the delicate grace of the red-headed girl and elucidates with what she sees as kindness, but may seem supercilious: ]
In my home in Menzoberranzan, fungi make up our primary foodsource. The city is underground, you see. Surface food is never quite as flavourful.