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draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
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𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 ▣ 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 — 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 « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» 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 isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
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 — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t 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.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐘: 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.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐊𝐀: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
𝐎𝐄𝐔𝐅𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
𝐄𝐆𝐆 𝐌𝐂𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐇: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
❖ momofuku's "cereal milk" ❖
❖ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss ❖
❖ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping ❖
❖ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling ❖
❖ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection ❖
If you want to leave, you’ll 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 he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — 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, it’s 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 — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t 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
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐘: 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.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐊𝐀: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
𝐎𝐄𝐔𝐅𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
𝐄𝐆𝐆 𝐌𝐂𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐇: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
❖ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss ❖
❖ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping ❖
❖ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling ❖
❖ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection ❖
If you want to leave, you’ll 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 he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — 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, it’s 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 doppelgänger? 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 púca, 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 doppelgänger? 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 púca, 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 — 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 let's gooo
So now Matt's naked, seriously buzzed off prosecco jello shots, and surrounded by a bevy of guests in similar straits. His first move is to cover himself: not his groin, but his scar, the snakelike thing that winds from hipbone to navel. His second is to jolt towards the sound of that squeak. He finds that its source is a redhead, her face flushed almost brighter than her hair. Matt's gaze follows a spray of her freckles, then another, as if expecting the little dots to form some familiar shape as they swirl down her neck, over her collarbone, towards the swell of her--
His eyes snap back to the woman's face. ]
Hi, [ he says, with more than a touch of deer in the headlights. Her laughter is infectious, making him smile, but he's a little overwhelmed underneath it. ] Sorry, were you--?
I haven't seen anybody named Lucian.
no subject
She’s at least not too self-conscious about how some eyes sweep her way (again, everyone being in the same situation helps with that), but as her eyes drift towards Matt, they basically do the same thing. The fact that his hands go elsewhere is surprising, which makes her automatically take a peek, and then laugh in jovial mortification as she’s caught. ]
Hi! Sorry!
[ He’s cute too! Everyone is cute, this is not fair. She can almost hear her extra passenger laughing at her, but as usual, she stubbornly blocks that out most of all. ]
I’m not looking for him, don’t worry! It’s just a figure of speech, since I’m pretty sure actually seeing the Divine’s balls would be, um…
[ Sacrilegious, maybe? Look, she’s not going to worry about it too much. She laughs again in how flustered she is, half at herself and half at the absurdity of the situation. ]
Well, you know, this is one way to make a first impression, yeah? Usually it takes longer to get me out of my clothes!
no subject
It's usually shorter for me, [ he says, his tone self-deprecating. ] So I guess we're, uhhh, canceling each other out.
[ Despite his best intentions, his eyes flicker around the room. He can't resist. Everybody here is so gorgeous? Still, his gaze lands naturally back on Lohse, his eyes squarely on her face this time. Come on Jello Shots, you can do this! ]
Damn, [ he notes. ] Even at like, full-blown orgies, I don't think everybody's been naked all at once.
no subject
...Now, granted. None of her performances ever involve taking off her clothes, so she's still feeling embarrassed and flustered, but seeing it mirrored with a little more ease in Matt at least helps it feel a bit less awkward. So, she laughs. She has a nice laugh that's warm and bright, even with the circumstances. ]
Right. Together, we're perfectly normal. This is perfectly normal.
[ She takes a breath like she's steeling herself for something brave, but that's for show. Mostly. Lohse commits to a bit, so she removes the hand that's covering her breasts so that she can offer it for a handshake with a cheeky grin. ]
I'm Lohse. Nice to meet you, Mr. Orgy Expert.
no subject
How’d you know my last name? [ he accuses as he shakes, unable to suppress a grin. ] Ah … just Matt is fine. Pleased to meet you, Lohse.
[ He casts another glance around the space. By the doors, a pair of nude and gorgeous coeds are yelling something about how they’re locked. ]
Typical, [ Matt sighs. He looks down at his bare wrist. ] I don’t care if they keep the black tie, but I better get the rest of my things back. Some very handsome people gave me that stuff. [ His next scan of the room catches on the 8-ball, where now, he notices, a phrase has surfaced. Send a naughty pic/text.
Hm. ]
no subject
[ She responds to the rhetorical question playfully as she withdraws her hand, and her expression makes her thoughts clear. They’re absolutely united on the surreal nature of this and how a handshake just seems… absurd. But, you know, why not, right? It makes as much sense as anything else so far.
As Matt looks around, Lohse takes a moment to do the same. Her gaze scans the crowd curiously, and she’s amazed to see most people just taking this in stride. They’re carrying on conversations like this is a normal thing that happens, and is that just what being in this place has in store? Like, that doesn’t seem too bad, at least compared to her normal day to day, but it’s still odd.
Not that she has much of a chance to think too hard about it, because her eyes go very wide for a moment as she catches sight of someone fulfilling their 8-ball command, unbeknownst to her at the moment. She just sees one woman sucking on another’s titty and with a quiet “Oh, Seven” her attention snaps back to Matt. She sees him looking at the 8-ball and follows his gaze—
…Spill a deep secret? She’s good, thanks.
There’s a bit of a halting pause as her smile falters, but she catches up quickly. ]
L-Lucky you! [ Yeah, that stutter was because of the titties. Totally. Definitely not the 8-Ball. ] Mine were just… There. They were nice, like, probably the nicest things I’ve ever worn, to be honest with you, but they’d be better as gifts. We’ll have to find yours for sure.
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And maybe my phone, [ he adds, after slightly too long a pause. ] Uh. This’ll probably sound strange, but I’m wondering if this is one of those times where there’s a sort of scavenger hunt, or a task to complete, and then they’ll let us go.
[ He tries to wrap his tongue around how he envisions this proclivity of the manor’s, its tendency to rattle them like soda in a can to see what kind of fizz the pressure makes. But all he can think is that plenty of people here come from places that have neither soda nor cans in them, and anyway, maybe he’s already said too much. Matt points to a relatively unoccupied corner of the room. ]
Maybe we can start there?
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—Not as strange as you’d think, actually.
[ She does speak to that at least a tiny bit as they go, and she gracefully steps out of the way of someone who is not paying too much attention to their surroundings along the way. ]
Well, I haven’t had any questing like this for sure, but getting trapped somewhere and having to do something to get out? That’s just another day in Rivellon. Well, for me, lately.
[ She truly did not choose the adventurer’s life so much as it chose her very much against her will… But she just laughs again, since it’s really not something she’s all that bothered by anymore, since there’s a certain resignation you get to. She wouldn’t say her life before getting shipped off to Fort Joy was boring, but it was normal, at least. ]
But it sounds like you’re the resident expert. This doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of puzzle solved by talking to spirits or a quick little spell or two.
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But there's no sense in chasing the gone world. This party, like everything the manor touches, has gotten weird and NC-17, and now their task is just to deal. On the plus side, Matt perks up for that last part of Lohse's reply. ]
Unfortunately, [ though he's too pleased to encounter another practitioner to sound truly disheartened, ] a lot of the time, the manor seems to specifically account for those of us who talk to spirits and cast spells and plans around us. And given the whole "send a naughty picture" portent, I have no idea how we're gonna get out of here without our--
Hey.
[ A server's tray sits abandoned, littered with empty glasses. In one of them, Matt spots a fucking iPhone. Furthermore, it's an iPhone with a familiar lock screen: a black and white drawing of a young man on an armchair. He hustles over. ]
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A naughty picture? What—
[ Oh, there he goes. She follows after him this time, murmuring a hurried sorryyyyy as she bumps into someone, butt to butt. Oh, Lucian, she hopes she doesn’t see half of these people ever again, almost. ]
Is that the normal solution? [ She pauses, considers it, and when weighed against other options she’s run into: ] …I guess that’s not that bad, actually. Embarrassing, a little, but I guess if everyone has seen it all already, not so bad.
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He turns. ]
Well, last time I was stuck in a locked room, I followed the nearest written instructions and that seemed to do the trick. So I'm just going off of ... [ Matt gestures to the 8ball with his phone, which he currently assumes is showing everybody the same message. That was how the chapel worked, and you know how it goes, we learn to fight the last war just in time for the next one. ] The only question is what counts as "naughty," really. Does it have to be my dick, you think? Because I feel like people are never happy to get those. Oh, but it could be a message too, that has potential.
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So, with a deeper frown, she looks back to it. ]
I... think we're seeing different things on it.
[ Most people would probably consider hers the "better" of the two, but there's intimacy like sending someone something a bit dirty and flirtatious, and then there's being vulnerable. The troubled look doesn't last long, though, even if returning to her smile is a little more forced than it normally is. ]
D'you think it'd count if I just did yours too? I mean, everyone's already seen my bits, I can just send them to more people, right?
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Then she asks the question, and Matt blinks. ]
It's worth a try, [ he says, though he doesn't sound convinced. ] We had a scavenger hunt once where everybody had a different list ... but I don't think doing other people's lists counted.
Why? What are you seeing?
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Still, though. She plays it off with humor, if only because she does want to hide how she feels about it. Somewhat. ]
...It probably says something about me that I'm hoping for yours instead, but you're not allowed to think too hard about that, kay? Kay!
[ She clears her throat dramatically, but jokingly, then recites: ]
"Spill a deep secret."
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[ Maybe it says something about him that he, too, would rather have his assignment than hers. Sex is easy--the arrow of desire, the beauty of skin. All the other shit about being a person is where it gets tricky, and the deeper you go, the more confounding the puzzle becomes. What does telling secrets get you, except why did you do that or I'm disappointed? Even the people who have assured Matt they still like him, they don't think any less of him--they tend to drift away. ]
I'm so sorry, [ Matt sighs, aiming for levity despite how seriously he means it. Fumbling, he adds, ] Well--how about, if you tell me one, I'll tell you a deep secret too? So if it has to suck, at least it's an equivalent exchange.
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For all the strangeness of the situation, it’s certainly a relief that it seems to be with good company. It won’t be the first time tonight (in the vaguely handwaved way of the magic of rp timelines, anyways) that she thinks that the people here are kind. She flashes him an almost apologetic look in return for his apologies, but her smile warms again easily. ]
That’s nice of you. You don’t have to.
[ But she has a feeling that it’s not out of obligation. So, she laughs, and he nods to his phone. ]
But fair’s fair too! I’ll do the same with yours? [ There’s a question in her tone because there is a logistics issue on her end of also not having her phone, but… ] I don’t know, d’you think you have a friend that might like to see us both? Something like that?
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But his second response is a considering: ] Actually ...
[ He starts to scroll through his contacts. After a bit of back and forth--verbal, to give Lohse the gist, and physical, to nail the pose--he snaps a photo of them and sends it to Heinrix along with a quick, hopefully naughty note. He's laughing as he lowers his phone to his side. ]
He'll love it, [ Matt assures Lohse. ] Or at least, he'll be a lot happier to get that message from me than something where I'm like, actively in danger.
[ Not that that happens a lot, or all the time. Haha! ]
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It also helps solidify her feeling that Matt is a nice guy. He’s considerate, but fun, so she’s really sensing a kindred spirit here. She makes friends easily and quickly, since such has been life on the road, but it’s still always nice when it happens. Lohse nods to the assurance, since that’s good enough for her! But at his additional comment, she tuts lightheartedly. ]
Oh yeah? Sounds like that’s something that happens to you a lot when you put it that way!
[ Called out… But there’s not a single note of criticism in her tone since that’s a solid “girl same”. She takes a half-step back just so they’re not tangled up together still, but before getting to their mututal secret spilling, she does have to ask. ]
Is it dangerous here?
[ But her tone is still light, half because a “yes” wouldn’t really bother her, and half because there’s still a joking in her tone that clearly asks “or is that just a you problem”. ]
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No, [ he protests, in a way that very much sounds like "yes." A pause. ] I mean, yes, it is pretty dangerous here in various ways, though it kinda depends on your paradigm, you know? Like everything.
But no, I don't think I get into like, unusual amounts of danger, given the givens. Don't ask him, [ Matt adds, shaking his phone as if to chastise it, ] he's biased.
[ Though he has to admit that a number of other people he knows here are biased in similar ways. ]
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If you say so… But if he’s biased, he still has a reason, right~?
[ There’s melodic teasing in her tone, but she doesn’t push it, since. Well. ]
I’m not judging, for what it’s worth. I’d say I get into unusual amounts of danger, personally! Void, the past few months of my life have been nothing but, emphasis on unusual. So. That’s why I was curious about this whole place, since it seems pretty nice so far? Minus… You know.
[ She gestures with a laugh to them both, but she’d still consider surprise nudity extremely mild on the danger scale. So far, it’s been kind of fun? ]
Well, you find yourself in unusual danger, I’ll help out, ‘kay? Judgement free, I promise.
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[ Please don't fact-check this, Lohse. You're so cute that Matt can easily see Heinrix just telling you every gory detail of their encounters. Heinrix is a straightforward guy to begin with, and Lohse--she's got such a melodic timbre to some of these teasing flourishes. Who wouldn't want to harmonize with her?
Anyway, his expression softens as she mentions the tumult of her life in recent months. How pleasant everything here has been. That's how they get you, he wants to say. All at once, he sees the manor and its contents, the Balfours and servants and endless rooms and all, as a shimmering spider's web, with all the guests wriggling in ecstatically crafted cocoons. The many-eyed and many-legged creature that preys on them is doing it slowly; Matt suspects none of them has ever seen its face.
He sighs. ]
I'd advise staying on the alert, [ he says. ] In my experience, it's when things are really nice here that you know there's a drop coming. But thank you--right back at you, if there's ever anything I can do to help you out.
[ Matt squares his shoulders. ]
So. Shall we tell each other some deep dark secrets?
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…Yeah. You got it, chief. I’ll stay on my toes.
[ It’s a bit of a depressing shift in the conversation, but in her heart of hearts, she’s not that surprised. Despite her cheerful and gregarious front, she’s much more deeply cynical than that. It’s always been a part of her, since that’s just how it goes when you’re a medium and get to experience the tragedies of the spirits that stop by, but. It’s certainly intensified ever since a particularly nasty spirit had refused to leave. Since the Magisters shipped her off to Fort Joy.
They’re both good secrets too. She runs her fingers through her hair anxiously, but nods. Between the two, though… There’s one that she thinks isn’t actually as big of a secret here as it is at home. She’s seen no sign of Magisters, of Source Hounds, of Voidwoken—none of those frightening things that made a sliver of her magic so dangerous. So, it might be cheating to pick that. That’s also why she’d rather pick it over the very present danger that she knows is still a problem. ]
I guess…Well. There’s not really any caveat I can apply to it, but please don’t tell anyone. It’s been nice not having to sneak around Magisters for once, and I promise I have it under control. Better than most, I swear. But I’m a Sourcerer.
[ It’s pronounced the same as “sorcerer”, so it’s not like Matt is going to catch the distinction there, but the gist is clear. Just from her quieter tone and the plea it comes with, clearly, it’s something deeply taboo. ]
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I'm a practitioner too, [ Matt offers. ] I mean, we say "witch" where I'm from, sorcerer is kind of an archaic term, but ... spells and stuff, you know.
[ He hesitates. I am more under control than most people doesn't really sound like someone who's in control of their abilities. It's closer to how Dani sounded describing his powers--flourishing, but new to him, their extent unknown. With a pang, Matt thinks of the meditation sessions they'd planned to do together.
I hope you're figuring it out somewhere, he prays briefly. ]
If you ever feel like you want a space to figure things out, [ he says, ] I'm definitely open to that. I mean, none of us was born knowing how to use our powers, so.
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Well, I’ve certainly been called a witch before, but it’s not exactly a nice thing to hear. At least where I’m from, yeah?
[ She tucks that lock of hair she’d been fidgeting with behind her ear. It’s another anxious little gesture, because it brings to mind the first time she’d really heard it when that concert had gone all wrong. She’d blame Adramahlihk now more than her Source, admittedly, but… The combination of the two didn’t help. Honestly, she still didn’t exactly think that getting shipped off to Fort Joy was unjust, at least in her case.
It's a dark thought that’s better ignored. ]
I do think I have it well figured out though, honest. It’s… a long story, but the point is, I’d studied with a few masters of it before ending up here. I’d still be interested, though. It’s the kind of thing that’s best to just keep practicing, probably.
[ Though the idea of getting more Source always makes her uncomfortable, especially here. It doesn’t seem to be the same, so taking it by force really isn’t something she’d want to do. She’ll just have to hope it never comes up. Lohse nods, and her smile is encouraging. ]
…I’ll keep yours a secret too. Of course I will. I don’t know what it’s like for you exactly, but… Never any fun to have Magisters chasing after you. Or anyone else that isn't keen on magic.
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Oh, [ he says, in realization, ] that's--magic's not a secret, actually. For me. It used to be one, but then enough people found out, and I met enough people who kind of changed my perspective on it that--
[ He's babbling. ]
It got to be something I just. Let people know. [ Matt hesitates a moment. He doesn't particularly want to delve into the melon guts of his life back home. Those secrets probably wouldn't matter here, but they matter to him. He searches for something else. Puts fumbling mental fingers to: ] I guess my secret is I'm married?
Sort of. It feels both like it might be a joke but also like, kinda for real? But the reason it's a secret is, he's not a very good person, in a traditional sense. He hurt some of my friends.
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cw: allusions to past dv
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