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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
i'm so sorry for this tag
[ the change in aemond's body language is lightning-quick, immediate. slow curiosity transforms to knife-sharp interest, aemond practically vibrating with every inch of his being. dragons. it's been months since he's held vhagar, since he's been on her saddle and touched the sky. months alone without the hum of her thoughts pressing at the edges of his mind, since he's burned his enemies to ash and boiled the seas with dragonfire. ]
Ao Valyriha iksos daor, [ he remarks in high valyrian with some confusion, valyriha weighed evenly as he rounds out a questioning daor. says it more to himself with wonder and no small amount of grief. ] But your world has dragons. Iβ
I think I might ask to keep you company for as long as you can stand me. I have so many questions to ask of you now.
[ he invites dorian pavus to follow him into the manor, leading him through the winding halls that ever change at the slightest whim. aemond has learned to be familiar with most of the markings, the shapes of the doors β pointedly learned to avoid the meat room, disgusting thing that it is β and so it is fairly easy for him to come upon one of the smaller leisure rooms, half a library and half a painting room. there is a fur rug and a hearth, and the ceiling is still decorated with tinsel and shimmering baubles, but the lights are turned down in the late hour, and there are two long chaises to be sat across.
aemond wants to take this man by hand, by shoulder, and press him for every story he might have to tell. dragons. aemond's very bones are singing out to learn more. would it cost him to ask? would the man take advantage? it would be no hardship to kneel for him; aemond had been interested before he'd offered anything about tevinter and its histories.
he busies himself with the hearth instead, hesitating to speak again lest he say something overeager or childish. he's been made painfully aware of his age here; all of eight-and-ten, a child to many of those in whom he has an interest. for once, it might help him. if dorian is possessed of things like morals and restraint, if eight-and-ten is too young, then aemond might pull from him dragon tales more in place of a warmed touch or a wet mouth.
the fire roars up in a rush before settling to a crackle, the kindling breaking from the heat. aemond holds his hand to the flames to soak up the warmth, and perhaps holds his palm open to it longer than is common. he doesn't care to be noticed this way; in the onset of winter, aemond has not felt truly comfortable in his skin. dragons are repelled by the cold, and aemond has dragonblood in his veins.
once they have settled, aemond breaks the silence; ]
Do you prefer leashes or chains?
never apologize he's perfect
Well, we do as of roughly forty years ago. Before that, no one had seen a high dragon for centuries.
[ Dorian follows Aemond without protest, making only a passing attempt to pay attention to where they're going, the yellow light of the wall sconces blurring in Dorian's vision. In truth, he likes talking about history with someone who's interested, and particularly likes talking about Tevinter, despite its complicated history and his own complicated feelings.
He's grateful for the warmth of the parlor Aemond leads him to, as well as the low light. Dorian looks around while Aemond stokes the fire: takes a book off the shelf in half-interest, flicks a bit of tinsel that's come down from the ceiling.
By the time the fire is properly going, Dorian's removed the jacket of his suit; the shirt beneath is sheer silk, high-collared but sleeveless. He drapes his arms across the back of the chaise, settled into a comfortable lean, and arches an eyebrow at the question. ]
You know, most men buy me dinner before asking about leashes and chains.
π«π«π«π«π«
For the saddle. [ is that still euphemistic? ] I should make my confession now, I think.
[ aemond isn't angling for anything more than stories here, and he knows he'll prove a captive but willing audience. histories, philosophies, languages β whatever engages the mind is what he likes best, barring the slick thrill of a sword in his hand, clashing with another blade, dancing with another warm body in a fight.
to pierce another man is unlike anything in the world, after all. aemond has a taste for it now.
he sits himself opposite dorian, letting his gaze drink in the look of him. the fire bathes them in a golden light, adding a flush to aemond's colours and a warmer look for dorian's; they may well be seated in one of dorne's sun rooms, where even the walls are said to reflect light from gold and sand baked into the brick. with slow grace he leans forward, ever curious, his one good eye openly watchful. ]
My family, my bloodline. Ours is the House of the Dragon, where I come from. Raised from the conquest of Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, with his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys. They conquered the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros with the three-headed dragon as their sigil.
You're only the second person I've spoken to here to have an inkling about what dragons might even be like.
[ and the other, his little dragoness β well, they're going to break the moon open together. bring dragons forth to this place, and unleash chaos on everything it stands for. a story for another time. ]
Do you ride your dragons, in Tevinter?
no subject
If anyone's tried, I don't think they've lived to tell the tale. [ Dorian's not at all slow on the uptake, known as a man of quick wit and sharp mind, but he's a haze of drink and sex tonight. His ankle's crossed over his knee, still leant against the back of the chaise as he watches Aemond's curious face in the glow of the fire, his own expression now matching his curiosity alongside a thread of disbelief, brow knit. ]
Leashes or chains for the saddle, fasta vass-- Do you ride them?
[ Sharing a smoke, the pains of family, and this blazing fire with a princeling who rides dragons. The fire has quickly warmed this side of the room, the smell of woodsmoke joining the sweetness of the clove they shared that now clings to their clothes.
House of the Dragon, conquerors. Dorian knows better than to assume that all of their royal family desire conquest; no one is their name alone. But he wonders at this young man, the firelight dancing over the scar on his cheek. A force to be reckoned with, he can see already. ]
went and did a size comparison finally
Since I was ten. I ride the largest dragon in the world, back home, and the oldest of them. My Vhagar, she would eclipse this whole place with her shadow when in flight. I lost my eye in claiming her, though not by her doing. She tried to throw me off her back several times that first flight, all the same.
[ his respect and deep affection for his dragon is undeniable; aemond's body language softens despite himself, and his carefully mild expression warms with affection. he misses her, his vhagar. misses her acrid moods, her displeasure at being woken for anything that isn't flying or torching or feeding. she rarely hunts these days; aemond has to direct the dragonkeepers when she needs to eat, and he maintains her saddle himself. hoary old bitch, some would call her. aemond would not trade her for a younger dragon at all.
aemond has always had a preference for the company of those older than he. it's only the nature of his interest that changes, as he himself grows older. ]
There is nothing like it, riding on dragonback. I'd choose it over almost anything every time.
[ he's asked dorian to come with him and tell him stories about tevinter, but aemond is so lacking in company who would listen to him talk about dragons andβ and not dismiss it as fancy, or simply not understand what it is that aemond is talking about. his family all already understand, to varying degrees of respect; his mother certainly fears the dragons, vhagar especially for what it had cost her and her children.
and there is zoya who calls herself a dragon-queen, but they are in contest for the one dragon here, and fairness demands that aemond not interfere with her. he would not have himself accused of using knowledge gained intimately against her; they have laid the terms of their contest clearly.
by aemond's measure, this is perhaps the most sincere conversation with a stranger about dragons he's had since arriving. he'll not waste his opportunity by dithering and talking himself in circles. directness has always served him well, more often than not. ]
But she isn't with me here. So here we are; your stories about your home and your dragons will be new to me, and I'd like to hear you tell them. [ a pause, only becauseβ what was that about being eager? ] I'd share more my own as well, if it pleases.
hooooly shit
I think I need another drink.
[ The high dragons spotted across Ferelden are so dangerous, the Inquisition has only taken down a few, surviving those battles by the skin of their teeth. Dorian will go wherever Lavellan needs him, but he will complain the whole way; he'd rather fight a thousand Venatori than dodge a Gamordan Stormrider's lightning breath ever again.
Dorian finally stops pacing, hands gripping the back of the chaise he was seated on before, looking at Aemond again properly: the eyepatch and the long scar that disappears beneath the edges, wondering, despite himself, what the rest of it looks like. ]
Well, I have nothing to match what you've just told me. But I can tell you how I nearly died to a Fereldan Frostback and Gamordan Stormrider, not long ago.
big bad bitch of a dragon π
he should have been celebrated, even for a night. he would have accepted a warm hand from his father, or a simply bestowed smile. instead he was made to endure the loss of his eye, to swallow the indignity of apologising to his nephews who had cut across his face and maimed him.
what would you have me do? i cannot give him his eye back, viserys had shouted at aemond's crying mother, while aemond himself bled, no milk of the poppy to ease the pain of the maester's needle threading through his torn skin β aemond's father would have him lucid to answer questions about the insults aemond had thrown his nephews' way.
now one of those same boys is long dead in vhagar's belly, the first casualty of the war for the crown. aemond considers that justice years delayed. ]
My mother thought me reckless, too, [ aemond remarks with a pleased smile, watches as dorian makes a loop round the room before returning to his seat. ] She let me ride with Vhagar back to the Red Keep only if I would fly with my brother and sister.
[ he opts not to clarify what that means, or he'll be talking about his family and their dragons all night, and he would much rather hear dorian speak to him of his world's own. the joy of learning, the thrill of discovery β aemond could never be done with it. ]
Vhagar would be what we'd call a grand wyvern, given her age and size. What is a Frostback, how does one compare to a Stormrider?
[ aemond could pepper dorian with a hundred questions and come up with a hundred more. he looks to the man with unabashed interest and wonder, now, letting himself feel his true age as he devours every scrap of information dorian might allow him to have.
dragons. an age of dragons, in a world far from westeros. aemond would love to have seen it himself. ]