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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
SLAMS RIGHT IN HERE ( ARRIVAL )
he'd thought it was aegon come to bother him at first, because no one else would choose not to announce themselves to his quarters. he's been here long enough at he's familiar to most the other guests, and they've not had any new faces in quite the while. but it's not aegon that's stood in front of him, not aegon in an overwarm dress.
helaena. his sister. his queen.
aemond doesn't move and the moment stretches to forever. if he moves, will she disappear? has he completely lost his mind, and is making up the memory of her out of grief and yearning for someone familiar?
he still has her spiders, kept well alive in their little jars from the last time he'd seen her here.
softly β brokenly β he calls out to her; ]
Sister? Is that you?
no subject
Aemond. Brother, where-- [She takes a few hurried steps toward him and then pauses, tilting her head as she regards him. Looking at him, looking through him. She scans him, focusing on his hands for a moment and then his mouth before meeting his eye, brow furrowed slightly]
Is that you? [It's her brother, but somehow not. Not exactly. Something just a bit different that she can't quite put a finger on. Still, she approaches, looking around the room, out the window, at him] It's too real to be a dream. [Too clear and crisp too, now that she really thinks about it.]
no subject
aemond tries to follow her, but keeps his distance. he wants to reach for her and speak to her, hold her, beg her to take her words back. he doesn't want to die. he's not afraid of death, has rid himself of that fear since the night he'd faced vhagar and claimed her, but alicent had ripped apart his carefully-built defences and cast him down to ground like only a mother might.
he doesn't want to die. not yet. not when he wants so much, and knows he has the power to reach them. ]
Aegon's is the next room, [ he tells helaena in hushed, reverent words. ] Do you want I should get him? Call to him for you?
Are you here to stay longer?
no subject
She turns to face him, brow furrowed again] Why do you follow, like a shadow? [And then, with only half a breath's time:] Your hair. Where did it go?
[he speaks like she should know this place. She looks at the curtains, but even the material looks unfamiliar and she presses a hand to her head, face contorted in a grimace of pain, the headache still lingering.]
no subject
[ and he lingers still, but with caution and worry this time. helaena clutches to her head and aemond fears something must have happened to her, worse that he might have hand in it himself. ]
Are you hurt? Is anything the matter with your head? What do you remember last?
no subject
She looks around and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, shaking her head and then instantly regretting it]
My head just aches terribly. Like it did with the twins. But I'm not with child again, just... an ache. I woke up and it was too bright. [What's a Tylenol?? what's a hangover??]
I remember... Aegon came in, looking for Jaehaerys, while I was with Jaehaera. I told him not to disrupt his studies, but Aegon does as he wills. I told him of the rats. I must have... laid down to rest? And then I woke here. Was I kidnapped? Where... Where are the children? Are they safe?
[Belated she remembers to look for them-- it's strange, not having one or the other constantly around.] Did the rats get them?
no subject
aemond's stomach pinches terribly in grief and anger. ]
Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are home, sister, I swear it. And he'll take care of the rats, our brother. Aegonβ [ will be king again. ] Our king bears the weight of his duties as he's meant to.
[ aemond drops to a crouch, half-kneeling before his sister-queen and gently taking her hand in his. gently, and lightly, the barest of touches like she's gossamer and glass. ]
Will you take medicine if I offer it? For your pain?
no subject
He seems troubled, but then, she supposed, they were kidnapped, or something. Anyone would be. She probably should have been freaking out even more, but if Aemond is here it must be safe. He would, after all, cut down anyone who tried anything, loathe as Helaena was to violence. If Aegon is only one room over, and if the doors have been mostly unlockedβ¦
She doesnβt like that the children are somewhere separate butβ] The others are taking care of them, then. [Not unusual. The fractured parts of the whole are odd, but the picture that comes together is still clear enough: theyβre not in danger. The children are safe. Aegon and Aemond are here.
She looks at where their hands are clasped and tries to think when the last time was that someone other than their mother had been so gentle with her or touched her so. (Aegon does not count).
Itβs notβterrible. Heβs her brother. She knows him and loves him. Itβs a good touch. A comforting one. She smiles a little and relaxes, nodding as she gives his hand a squeeze]
Yes, I would take it. Will you tell me where we are? If this is a surprise trip, I would have liked to be told before hand to prepare. [Mentally if anything else] Was it Aegonβs idea? [This sounds like something Aegon would do, surely]
no subject
[ how will he explain it to her, that their mother had died under their watch? that she's been returned to them changed to her very nature, become something undead and dangerous? she had bit aemond, drank of his blood, and fed from others too. what if she comes across helaena now, would sheβ? no, aemond thinks. alicent would never. not her only daughter, not her innocent child.
helaena should be safe here. safer than at home, safe from the rats who would dare to put their filthy hands upon her and cut into her skin. and if she's here, then maybeββ perhapsββ might she never know the grief of watching her son die before her. would never have to choose one child over another.
aemond thinks to kiss her hand but decides against it, choosing to stand instead and root around his bedside drawer for the pain relieving medicines he keeps close for his own headaches. if there's something to appreciate about the balfours' keep, it's the abundance of evening light and the medicines.
he offers a small round pill to helaena, and a glass of water poured from a pitcher he keeps nearby for when aegon stumbles in drunk. ]
Drink the pill with the water, [ he urges her with a hand hovering, ready to pull her to her feet if she needs it, or to take the glass, ] and lie down to rest. I'll fetch Aegon? Do youββ? What else do you need?
[ please don't be angry with me anymore. ]
no subject
She gives a soft 'ugh,' taking the water glass--glass! Interesting!--and the little pill.] This little thing will help? [She turns it over in her hand, curious, but in the end she swallows it down without question. The water is cool and soothing and at least something is familiar in this process. She drinks it all before holding it out to Aemond to take]
Thank you. [She looks at him a moment, searching again, expression equal parts concerned and probing. There's a million little things he could feel bad for, future and past, but perhaps she isn't meant to be here at all? Distress, and worry. It rolls off of him and she thinks she's rarely ever seen Aemond so disturbed.
He'd reached out to comfort her and it hadn't looked so hard. She's sure she could do the same.
She reaches out to take his free hand, giving it a squeeze] Things will be alright, Aemond. [here, at least, there doesn't seem to be an end. A feeling, deep in her bones, in the back of her mind.] Death cannot touch us here. [She smiles, trying to be reassuring before she lets him go to lay down, feeling a sense of relief when her eyes close against the light]
Is Aegon in a state to talk? [She asks, at length, remembering that Aemond had mentioned his name]
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[ he would make the effort for his brother and sister to have their conversations. and why shouldn't he? helaena is more deserving of their attentions both than anyone else in this keep, save for their mother. aegon was right in his earlier reprimand of him; why does he bother with the smallfolk, who do not understand what they are or what they fight for?
if anyone should find happiness in this place, then it should be helaena more than any of them. aemond hasβ he's cost her, and more than he likes to think of.
aemond returns her seeking touch and holds her hand with a great desperation. they do not apologise. they're royalty, and apologies do not sit comfortably on their tongues. he can't let himself do more than this, else he'll be seen weak.
death cannot touch us here, she tells him, and it hurts to hear. ]
You should know β Rhaenyra and Daemon are here, also. As is Jacaerys, if you might like to see him.
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She seems to be dozing already, though she stills at the admittance that the rest of their family is here. She opens her eyes, blinking slowly, and presses her lips together in uncertainty]
...Is that alright? [That they're here. That Helaena might want to say hello. Death can't touch them here, but violence still can] What has mother said about it? [She's the queen .She doesn't need mother's permission to do anything, honestly, but it would break her heart if she wanted them to stay away and they didn't.]
It would be nice, to be all together again.
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[ despite what propriety might dictate, aemond sits next to helaena and pulls her hand into his own, kneading at her knuckles. were they still children he would lie next to her and ask her to tell him about her favourite insects, or perhaps pull his hair into loose braids. but they are man and woman grown, and sister is his brother's wife. mother to his niece and nephew, rightful queen of the seven kingdoms. she outranks him in age and station. ]
If it is your wish to be friends with him, I would not deny you. You are Queen; so long as he doesn't harm you, why not? So long as he keeps you safe.
Do you like him, our nephew Jacaerys?
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Itβs nice.] This place can change people. [She murmurs aloud, though not addressed to any one person in particular. A general observation.
Mother wants them to get along, which is not a surprise, but is a relief. It seems a waste for such squabbles to get in the way of things here.
She keeps her eyes closed, her free hand resting on her stomach, listening to the way his skin sounds sliding against her knuckles, the soft swish of it that lulls her to a dozen. Sheβd expected Aemond to tell her to still keep her distance regardless, but sheβs glad.
At least her headache was subsiding]
Heβs nice, and kind. Heβs good to his wife. It would be nice if they had children. If our lines would join, things might be better.
But I think tragedy dogs our steps. [All of them. It makes her terribly sad, honestly.] The throne is a curse.
[But she gives Aemondβs hand a tug, opening her eyes a little to see him] Lay down. Rest.
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that's a bitterness to stew in for later. his sister needs none of his distress, or his misplaced anger. helaena pulls at his hand and aemond goes easily, lays himself out next to her, keeping a great space between them as he faces her.
he would have done his duty. if mother chose him over aegon, he would have. but aegon is king, and helaena is his queen. brother and sister both out of his reach now. ]
Would you marry Jaehaera to their children? Would you have others after the twins? Your first pregnancy had not been easy, and Aegonβ Aegon would needs be present.
[ to be a husband, a father, a king. ]
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Pregnancy is never easy. It is the woman's battlefield with just as much blood spilled. But I think there will be another, at least. [She tilts her head, as if listening for something, but then relaxes and neither continues nor corrects herself.]
But I think... I would like Jaehaera to choose for herself. But that's not possible. We're just crickets. [Her crickets, kept in their careful cages.] If the timing is right, things might be happy.
[But it probably won't be. She tries not to dwell on it or else she'd be in a constant state of have mourned, is mourning, will mourn.
She opens her eyes to look at Aemond for a quiet moment. If she had married Aemond, would he have been calmer? Tamer? Or would she be as powerless to curb him as she was Aegon? But maybe because Aegon had never seemed that interested in the first place it was different.]
Aegon would likely find out, if he was not involved. [She glances toward the door, remembering Aemond had said he was sleeping just a room over] He would be angry. He would take it out on everyone.
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I don't want to talk about Rhaenyra.
[ their half-sister who would not yield. who places them all in danger with her claim to the iron throne. aemond knows that she might allow helaena to live, if only because of their shared womanhood, but she will never offer the same grace to her brothers. they are in the way of her sons sitting on the throne.
aemond sighs. the politics of their house would be exhausting to lesser men, he thinks. how does his sister manage to look across time and make sense of it all? does she have a choice in what she sees? or is it all forgone in her mind? ]
...Do you know it? Are youβ Sister, are you pregnant now? [ if she is, if her blood quickens with child, then that would explainββ ] Is it a son?
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She presses her free hand against her stomach again, humming thoughtfully.] No, I don't believe so, not yet. But if I were to have another, he would be a son. He would be the death of me, in time. [From anyone else it might've been something exasperated, the lament of a mother with a rambunctious son. From Helaena, however, it's much too real.
She shifts, uncomfortable, a dizziness hitting her like when she's in free fall on her dragon, hurtling to the ground, or when you're half-way asleep and your body jerks awake thinking it was falling.] But I don't know. It wouldn't come from Aegon, or maybe... [Helaena shakes her head, curling up a little.] The more I try to pick at it, the more the tapestry unwinds and the picture falls. I do not know.
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no. this isβ ]
If anyone should assault you, I would cut them down until nothing is left to remember them by. Do youβ Is it the childbed? Would you sacrifice yourself for a babe? You are worth more than that.
[ he wants to reach for her and hold her close, to tell her it will be all right, that no one will hurt her β but he's hurt her himself, hasn't he? and aegon cannot father children now, can he?
with no small amount of alarm aemond wonders if this possible child is his, and he shames himself. aegon will need an heir as king. it could never be jaehaera, not when they fight rhaenyra for her claim as a daughter. who else, then? would aegon permit his queen to take another man? his own brother?
we must keep our blood pure. ]
Don't look too closely at the threads. Let them be, sister. Focus on me instead?
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Focus on me instead?
She forces her eyes open and stares at Aemond's face, focusing only on his look now, not the what ifs and hows or whys of what may come to be. Or not come to be.
A deep breath in, a slow exhale. Repeated, until her heart slowed again and her head felt clearer.] ...Thank you.
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it's a little game they used to play. when the red keep is too loud and the court presses too closely, they would find a quiet corner to hide and count the bricks, or the stones, or the spaces between the latticework of the windows. breathe to five, hold to ten. breathe in, and out, again and again.
sometimes they play for helaena's benefit. sometimes for aemond's own. sometimes they play the game just to play it β but they haven't done so in years. not since the wedding. not since the babies. not sinceβ ]
Anything you need, Helaena.
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But they're not children any longer. They're grown and the space between them all has grown to a chasm she's not sure how to begin crossing. But maybe this is something like the first step. Death cannot touch them here, so maybe things can work out somehow. A little. Something.]
Tell me more about this place, Aemond. It's strange here, I can... feel it. [She's not sure how to explain how she can feel it, but things are just. Odd.] Is it...safe here?
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[ he cannot promise her safe, when alicent herself had died by this place's machinations. ]
But I will protect you. Aegon and I are here. We are yours to command.
Are you worried?
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At least she can believe they'll protect her.]
I don't know. I don't like sudden new things. [And especially doesn't like being blindsided by them.] I'm sad the children aren't here. But happy that the other side of our family is. It's a lot of mixed emotions.
Perhaps I just need to get used to this place. I think I will be here a while.
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I would like for you to stay longer, too. This place could be good for you. You could β you could meet our sister and nephew as you like. If you'd like.
[ he doesn't want for her to meet daemon just yet. not while aemond hasn't resolved certain matters with his uncle. and would helaena even want to meet him? would she feel comfortable seeing him, when she hardly looks most people in the eyes most times? daemon killed a man before her, cut his head in half and left him on the marble floor.
helaena has suffered death at daemon's command. what if he dares to visit it upon her personally? ]
We can introduce you to them slowly. [ then, as if telling a secret: ] I've made friends.
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babymond for vibes