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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
no subject
[ Halsin's hands span Matt's face, jaw in his palms, thumbs moving slowly beneath his closed eyes, gently stroking the fragile skin and bones. Pain is natural, but this pain feels poorly given, like a gift that weighs too much. He keeps his hands on Matt for a moment more, then drops them, taking a small step back to give him some room. ]
You should be careful sleeping it off out here. It's too cold.
no subject
[ It makes him feel much less like he's been microwaved. The tropical storm in his stomach eases up, and the snarl of pain between his temples loosens. For a moment, Matt's head lolls into the warm, gentle touch.
Then the stranger steps away, and Matt's eyes flutter open. ]
Ah--good advice, yeah. [ Especially now that the cold is reminding him it exists, seeping mercilessly back through his thin pajamas. Matt shifts from one foot to the other, weight shifting to try and keep his soles from contact with the icy ground. ] Maybe I should start tying myself to furniture or something, or setting up a ward.
... Thank you, [ he adds. ] And thanks to the Oak Father. I feel a lot better.
no subject
Frowning with concern, he holds out his hand in offering. Lacking a cloak to sweep off his shoulders, it's the next best thing. ]
You're not dressed for this weather. Can I help you back to the house?
no subject
That's kind of you to off--oh!
[ The end of the sentence is swallowed up as Matt's feet leave the ground. Because the stranger scoops Matt into his arms like he weighs absolutely nothing and just ... sets off with him towards the manor. Matt's bright, startled laughter echoes across the grounds.
A little while later, Matt is outside once more. This time, he's dressed for the weather, wearing shoes (winning!) and the scarf and gloves Lauralae gave him. He's en route to the greenhouse when he notices a pair of servants ducking worriedly behind a hedge. Curiously, Matt changes direction to follow them.
There's a whole gaggle of Saltburnt servants clustered on the grass, craning in concern towards a gigantic bear. The bear appears to be conked out on a wintry flowerbed, and there's some disagreement about whether they should try to wheelbarrow him indoors, using anywhere from three to six wheelbarrows, or ask Giles what to do. Matt brushes past the servants and approaches the animal.
... And pauses as he gets close. Holy fucking shit, bears are big. ]
Hey, [ Matt murmurs. ] Hello? [ He crouches down. ] Sorry to bother you.
no subject
Walking around in the cold is tiring work, even if he does make it look easy. Halsin stops to sit and smoke his other cigarette on the grass in the thin sunlight, which slowly becomes a desire to feel it on his fur as well as his face, which turns into a nap in his bear shape, surrounded by the scents of the winter-blooming flowers and the melting frost, and dreams of a deep warm den.
The noise of the servants brings him a little way out of his slumber, ears swiveling to the sounds. Then, closer, another voice, a familiar scent. The bear huffs and grunts sleepily, eyes sliding open. He yawns, showing his long teeth, and shifts his weight in the flowerbed. Pushing himself to his feet, he swings his big head from side to side, then shakes himself down like a dog. Golden light flows out from his eyes and paws, rolling in waves through his fur, coalescing around Halsin as he straightens up. ]
Oh, I'm sorry. [ As much to the servants as to Matt. He brushes earth off his corduroy trousers, smiling apologetically. ] I suppose I fell asleep. Hello again.
no subject
Then its head shakes, and golden light spills over its huge, furry body. Matt doesn't have the most finely honed instincts for magic and auras; there's so much energy everywhere, all the time, that he can't usually distinguish one signature from another. But when magic is breaking over his skin like waves, even he can tell where it's coming from. What it means. He shivers, just slightly; meanwhile, the bear's form resolves into a familiar shape. ]
... Hello again, [ Matt echoes, stunned. Quick on its heels, a bright and giddy grin blooms across his face, the words behind it a flurry of oh my god that's awesome and my friend Lauralae can turn into a chicken. ] You're a person of many talents, I see.
[ Matt glances back to the servants, who look way more surprised to see a bear turn into a man than anyone who works for the Balfours really ought to. His gaze returns swiftly to Halsin. ]
Um. If you want to keep napping, I can help you find a spot where you won't be disturbed.
no subject
Yes, that would probably be a good idea.
[ Back to the servants: ] Please accept my apologies for the flowers.
[ Turning to the bed, he holds out a hand, palm down. More golden light ripples across his outspread fingers; the crushed plants shiver, then seem to ease themselves back up off the frozen earth, some putting out soft new leaves. Apparently satisfied, he returns his attention to his young friend, gesturing towards the grounds. ]
Please, lead on.
no subject
Then the bear-turned-man (but still a bear, if you dig) gestures for Matt to lead the way, and Matt ushers them around another wall of high hedges. ]
Thatβs so impressive, [ he says as they go. ] The plant growth. Iβve done some work like that, but I always worry about pushing them too hard, you know?
Is that part of the β¦ what did you say, the Oak Father?
no subject
He is a wild God, changeable as the wind, solid as a mighty tree. It's with the Oak Father's guidance that I use my magic. And you are right to be cautious -- what I have done today may risk those plants if there is a hard frost tonight, but I could not leave them like that. Sometimes it's hard to maintain the balance.
[ He glances at Matt. ]
You're a magic user? A wizard?
no subject
Which is to say, I am a magic user, yeah. [ Matt quirks a smile up at Halsin as they walk. ] A witch. My name's Matt. And actually, [ he adds, ] my plan to find you a nice napping spot involves a little demo, if you're interested.
[ Matt flips a gloved hand over, his breath momentarily falling into a steady pattern. He exhales with a soft zephyr-puff of air, and the fog of his breath seems to gleam, catch the sunlight and turn golden with it. Separate itself into ribbons of light that form a filigree in the air, half weaving and half lettering. ]
no subject
You are talented indeed. Where I come from, ten years of experience would place you high in the ranks of most schools of magic.
[ He watches the spiralling forms of light, curiosity and appreciation clear in his face. ]
What is it, that you've made?
no subject
I'll show you.
[ This seems like a good spot for the demonstration, actually. Shielding hedges on two sides, plenty of direct sunlight, a nice view down towards the lake. For a moment, Matt focuses, drawing breath and life from his body like water from a well: With your sun-bright skins, give us protection reaching far. Further us rightly, favour ye our bodies with your gracious love.
Matt's breath catches in his throat, before it releases on a long sigh. The tapestry above his hand fans out, spreading over the pair of them like a sheet being tossed up and drifting, tentlike, down. It forms a golden dome, semi-sheer and glowing, Matt's configurations flickering along its surface. The manor grounds beyond its compass have blurred, even the sound going dim. ]
You can touch it if you want. [ Matt's smile has turned a bit breathless. His cheeks, previously pale from the cold, are tinged pink. ] Or go through and come back, just ... try closing your eyes to get back in.
[ If Halsin does touch, he'll find that the glimmering curtain is tangible, though not quite catchable. Its light and sigils meet one's skin like warm raindrops. Past the barrier, the manor becomes distinct again, its sounds sharp. Though one's eyes tend to slide away from the circle Matt's made, lured by a branch's crack, the glint of sun off the lake--anything else, pretty much. ]
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By the Oak Father's mossy beard.. [ Awed, Halsin reaches out a hand as Matt encourages him, pressing gently against the barrier. He grins, glancing over at Matt. ]
A remarkable spell. [ He strokes his hand up the curve of the dome above his head, watching the light and magic ripple around it, then turns to study the effect. ] I wager I could stand beneath this roaring at the top of my lungs and still wouldn't be noticed.
[ He turns and drops down to sit on the grass, waving a gesture for Matt to join him. ]
Come, let's enjoy it together.
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But when Halsin speaks, he returns his grin with one of his own. ]
I wouldn't roar too much, [ he admits. ] Something like this that I make without material components to support it, it tends to crack under too much scrutiny. But as long as we're making reasonably normal amounts of noise ... we could hang out here for hours and no one'll notice us. [ Halsin sits, and Matt follows his urging to settle in beside him. The ground beneath them is wintry and cold, but-- ] God, you're warm.
[ He had occasion to appreciate it earlier today, but he's glad of the reminder. Even across the polite inches Matt maintains between them, Halsin feels like a human space heater. ]
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I'm told I'm even warmer with a fur coat on. Would you like to meet him again?
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[ He turns at the waist to regard Halsin with a student's eager attentiveness. Transformation of this kind is far, far beyond his own capacities, or those of anyone he's witnessed back home. And despite his observations of Lauralae, he has yet to become enlightened as to the mechanism of the change. Still, he holds out hope that after sufficient study, he'll find the trick. ]
"Meet him" like ... sorry if this is an ignorant question, but is there a spiritual component to this change? Or like, unlocking an inner bear-ness that isn't always at the forefront?
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[ Halsin tilts his head thoughtfully, clearly taking a moment to consider it for himself. Between the war against Ketheric and the shadow curse, he hasn't spent much time with the philosophy of his magic, though it has been part of his teaching. ]
When we take on the forms of beasts and birds, we are not becoming those animals in truth. We are only borrowing their likeness, their strength and cunning, for a time. But the change goes both ways. The ivy that twines up a tree also takes on the shape of the tree, itself. As we change, so we are changed, bit by bit. The more time I spend in the bear's form, the more I come to understand his life. I see through his eyes. And it has been a long time, by your measurement. Hundreds of years of hunting and fishing, hibernating.. mating seasons. [ A fond, crooked grin. ]
Perhaps it isn't just unlocking my inner bear, but my inner bear unlocking my outer Halsin.
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That sounds amazing. [ Quiet, curious. Matt tries to imagine hundreds of seasons turning, the body rhythms matched to the cycle of heat, cold, berries, fish. Weird for a person who went to the trouble of applying to grad school for urban planning to be so fascinated by nature. But there's no contradiction for Matt. The city and the forest are both ecosystems, both wheels made of time and bodies. Both multipliers of miracles.
With a crooked smile up at Halsin, Matt concludes, ] I think it would be an honor to meet him. And you.
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Very well. I should tell you one thing: he likes to be scratched around his throat, and behind the ears.
[ The shift and change from one form to another is the same this time, though in reverse. Golden light blooms around him and flows up over Halsin's body, rippling and swelling into a larger form. His eyes turn into glowing embers as his mouth falls open, full of long teeth, and he shudders all over, the only moment that seems as though it hurts -- and then he's the bear, nose already twitching as he sniffs at Matt's scent. He's big enough to almost fill out the dome.
Huffing soft warm breaths, he leans over to lick a broad pink tongue across Matt's cheek. ]
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Okay, [ Matt says, ] I hear you like your neck scratched, but maybe I can start with ears ... Jesus Christ you're enormous ...
[ Behind the ears is an easier landmark to orient around, and Matt has just reached them when Halsin's tongue swipes across his cheek. Matt starts, then laughs in bright shock. ]
Uh huh! [ he says. ] Okay ... I'm taking that as a good sign.
[ He redoubles his ear-scritching efforts. ]
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He keeps licking at Matt's cheek and into his hair, snuffling and grunting his pleasure at the attention. If Matt isn't careful, he's liable to get pushed over by the bear's eager interest. ]
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[ Warm, amused. Now that the first spike of surprise is ebbing, Matt sounds a little more like he's asking a partner if they're enjoying his touch than asking an animal about good scratching spots. Matt and Katy-Rose were never permitted pets as children for fear they'd ruin the upholstery, and for better or worse, now Matt tends to address animals like they're people. No matter the gouges their finger-sized claws are making in the lawn.
The snuffling at his hair prompts a giggle, a ticklish stretch of Matt's neck. ]
Or do you like that ... that's a proprietary scent, so I can't tell you the ingredients. But it's an original creation by Ast--oof.
[ And there he goes, unbalancing into a soft sprawl on the grass. ]
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He sniffs and licks over Matt's face, then down onto his throat, chasing the perfumey smells and the trace scents of his breakfast, the soap on his skin, fabric softener and candle smoke and different fabrics, all under and over the singular scent of a young healthy body.
The bear settles over him with a low cowlike groan of satisfaction, muttering to himself as he snuffles over Matt's neck and chest, nipping lightly at his clothes with his teeth as if testing the fabric. ]
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Matt has just gotten his bearings when another small shock hits, in the form of a broad tongue swiping down his throat, sending his scarf drifting onto the grass. Matt lets out a breathless laugh, arching into the nuzzles that follow. It's ... definitely not the first time someone he's just met has licked his neck, but the particular morphology is a new one to him. Matt decides not to read too much into it, even if it does feel good.
When Halsin starts to nibble at his coat, Matt's eyebrows arch. ]
You're the one who told me I wasn't dressed for the weather, [ he chuckles. ] But you really are warm ...
I'll show you another trick.
[ With a moment's thought, and a quick inhalation, Matt's coat buttons ease themselves open between their bodies. Underneath, he's got on his usual sweater-trouser combo
because Dorian's makeover hasn't happened yet. Matt's gloves follow the buttons, pulling themselves off his hands so he can scratch behind Halsin's bear ears and really get his nails into it this time. He's surprised how soft the fur is here; one hand begins to travel down to Halsin's neck, where the bear's coat seems a bit more wiry. ]cw: bestiality vibes.. implied bear dick..
Which, of course, means that one thing leads to another, as the bear rediscovers how good it feels to have a willing partner beneath him, lighting up nerve endings that are never truly dormant. Big and dominant and masculine, he's not exactly accustomed to being passive about his desires in any form -- so he grumbles softly and takes the front of Matt's sweater carefully between his teeth, worrying it a little as he rocks his hips and presses himself against the grass, trying to satisfy the feelgood urge in his body. ]
cw: it only gets more bestiality vibes while you wait, also implied man dick
cw: it just continues from here
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