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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
ADDITIONAL PROMPT: BEAR TIME
He's learned, over the centuries, that it's easier to cope with such impulses if he takes his animal form as often as he can, settling the restlessness in his body in his Wild Shape. It's been a while since he hibernated properly -- a habit he finds himself missing these days -- and he knows he can't do it in this strange place, where he needs to stay aware of his surroundings, but he can at least let the bear out to wander around a little.
As the chilly days and nights of January continue, bear sightings in the woods and grounds -- and, occasionally, bedrooms -- of the manor will increase. The cave bear isn't a small animal, as tall as a man at the shoulder, and Halsin doesn't try to hide, though he does make an effort not to scare the Balfour's deer herd and the local wildlife. He can be found curled up to sleep beneath the trees or in empty bedrooms, pacing slowly through the undergrowth in search of food, or taking a dip in the lake. Feel free to approach -- he won't bite unless asked very nicely. ]
no subject
Iggy's seen black bears before because they're native to Vancouver Island, and he's always wanted to see a Spirit Bear - a rare subspecies. This bear is neither of those, nor is it a grizzly. Odd again.
Most odd of all, however, is the fact that it's sleeping in a bed.
Feeling a bit like Goldilocks, Iggy backs up slowly. He'd swept into the room because he been told to by a ghost, but now retreat seems in order. Careful retreat. Silent retreat.
He backs up into the side of a dresser, bumping it and making trinkets and perfume bottles chatter. Then he hits the wall and knocks a picture off if it, the frame crashing down and the glass shattering.]
Oh goodness no!
[Iggy looks up at the bear, frozen.]
no subject
The bear, currently taking up the entire bed and even overflowing it a little, blinks sleepily at Iggy. He slips out a red tongue to lick his chops and yawns, showing off long yellow teeth. Gold light starts to flow out from his eyes and claws, rippling through his fur as it shrinks and fades and becomes a big elven archdruid wearing a sweater and brown corduroy slacks, lying on his belly. He still looks sleepy. ]
I'm sorry if I scared you. The bed is very comfortable, I couldn't resist. Is this your room?
no subject
Goodness. Er.
[Iggy shakes his head.]
No, no, it isn't. I was just popping in to check on something. I'm so sorry I disturbed you.
[He hunkers down to start picking up the broken glass, setting it on the dresser.]
I promise I won't bother you. I'll just clean up here and be out of your way, sir.
Are you new to the manor?
[Would it be impolite to ask about the bear thing?]
no subject
For the moment, he stays where he is on the bed, propped up on his elbows. ]
Everyone keeps asking that. Do I look so new?
no subject
No. But I have a great memory for handsome men, and I don't remember you.
I'm Ignatius.
no subject
My name is Halsin. Will you join me? [ He pats the bed beside him. ]
no subject
My goodness, you're extraordinarily large, Mr. Halsin. [Trying not to drool.]
I hope that you're getting on well enough here at the manor. If there's anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, don't hesitate to ask.
...anything.
no subject
Just Halsin is fine. Are you a servant here? I understand the family who own the house employ quite a number.
no subject
[He shakes his head, then has to fix an errant curl.]
No, I'm a guest like yourself. I just like to help people. And it's a new year and I've been trying to improve myself, so I've been taking etiquette classes. That might be making me sound like a butler.
Do you mind terribly if I ask about the whole... bear thing? Because you were a bear, right? I wasn't hallucinating?
no subject
Yes, I was a bear. [ His rueful smile returns. ] I'm a druid, and it is one of the forms I can take. As for taking up the bed, I'm afraid the cold weather makes me sleepy. I used to hibernate through the winter, and the habit occasionally sneaks up on me. I had hoped to be more subtle, but the bear's instincts are strong, and difficult to ignore.
no subject
He too listens intently, and he smiles when for once he at least sort of understands the vocabulary being used.]
That's so cool. Where I'm from, druids are something we only know about from stories because they existed a long time ago. Well, some modern people use the term but it's different. And I'm quite certain they don't turn into animals. [Iggy's pretty sure they just party at Stonehenge twice a year.]
I'm terribly sorry that I woke you from your nap. [He leans in just a little, somehow resisting the urge to just use those pecs as a pillow. But no, no. Restraint! Charm! No bumbling enthusiasm and weird remarks.]
Although it's lovely to meet someone so fascinating. Do you find other animal instincts take over often, or is it just the sleepiness? I imagine your appetite has the potential to be voracious.
no subject
[ A little troubled by the idea of druids no longer existing, Halsin sets that concern aside to study Iggy thoughtfully. Young, and very polite. But there's no sign that he's anything but honest.
Halsin smiles crookedly, tilting his head slightly to look at his new friend as he continues. ]
But I'm not troubled by them. Such instincts are natural. It would be dangerous to try to ignore them, or the power they have over me. As inconvenient as they can sometimes be, when I can't find something to eat, or a comfortable place to sleep. Or a willing bed partner or two.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
84 years later
look, she won't say it's aspirational but. that's only because no one has asked.
she's heard whispers of a bear, but people were also whispering about a dragon and she's pretty sure that's straight bullshit so she gives neither idea much thought while she's tipsily trying to find an empty room to snooze in because she does not sleep in her own bed.
she opens one door, finds the bed empty, closes the door and walks over to it. she peels off her sweater and awkwardly hops out of her converse as she goes. one shoe goes wide and she hears a soft grunt. ]
Oh, shit, sorry, I didn't think anyone was inβ ohmygodbear.
[ grace doesn't usually have the fight instinct, flight is more common. now... now she is frozen. it's a bear! terrifying!
it's a bear snoozing in front of the slowly dying fire in the fireplace inside a chintzy fucking manor and the absurdity of the juxtaposition has broken her fucking brain. ]
no subject
At least there are plenty of places to rest between excursions. Halsin had only intended to warm himself by the fire for a short while, but he'd found it all too tempting to lie down and stretch out on the rug, and had slipped into a deep green dream of hibernation -- so perhaps it's not surprising when he wakes in the bear's form.
The bear doesn't rouse all the way, still heat-soaked and sleepy. He yawns widely, unrolling a pink tongue and showing long yellow teeth, then shifts heavily onto his side. One paw lifts, as if to beckon her closer. Want a cuddle? ]
no subject
even after werewolf and being literally consumed by someone she considered a dear friend. (and is considered so still despite this.)
the bear yawns and gestures her closer, unmistakable. she shuffles forward automatically, bourbon-drenched body accepting this even if grace is still trying to figure it out it. ]
...did the library do this?
[ is he... a present? ]
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If she's bold enough to lie down with him on the rug in front of the fire, he won't hesitate to drape his paw carefully over her, like a lover spooning her in a bed. That done, sleep rises up to claim him once more. ]
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and then she abruptly decides she is dreaming and just goes with it, cuddling up next to a huge ass bear in just her bra and pajama shorts and falling into the deliciously easy sleep of the exactly right amount of drinking to be blissfully dead to the world.
she dreams about richie's lightly furred arms holding her. ]
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And so, while they sleep, Halsin's natural form reasserts itself and the bear melts away in ripples of golden light, leaving him curled around Grace on the rug, one arm her pillow, the other draped over her sleeping body. It's not an uncommon position for the archdruid; he's always delighted to be allowed to rest next to someone, either in the deep meditative state of his elven kin, or in something less refreshing but more fun and closer to human sleep. As it is, he snuffles a little, pleased to find someone else there, instinctively moving closer around her. Awareness filters through slowly -- a scent he doesn't recognise, soft and warm, light florals and the bass notes of alcohol.
He hums softly, nose nudged into her hair. ]
Mm. A fine way to wake.
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she was dreaming of... a sigh gusts out of her and the intensity of her gaze softens before her eyebrows knit together. what a strange as fucking dream, a bear! but she doesn't remember this guy and she usually remembers her one night standsβ though she's still wearing her shorts so how much of a one night stand was it really?
she needs to stop drinking. ]
Hi. Sorry.
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He raises his eyebrows at her a little. ]
No need to apologise. No doubt you thought this was a very comfortable place to sleep, and so it was. Should I leave you to it?
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[ so he doesn't have to leave. once she gets over being startled, she seems pretty at ease all things considered. still, she sounds increasingly more awkward trying to piece together what happened last night. ]
This is gonna sound insane, but um, do you know how I got here? 'cause I thought, um, I was, god this is the insane part. I thought I was invited in by a bear. And like I went, which is also insane, but you're not a bear. Wellβ [ focus up, le domas. ] I kinda feel bad I don't remember your name. Or meeting you in the first place.
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Yes, I might have been the bear. I seem to have fallen into the habit of hibernating in that form without meaning to. It happens in cold weather. But I hope I didn't scare you. I mean no harm in that form. Or now. My name is Halsin. It's good to meet you.
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[ her hand lifts to pinch the bridge of her nose, expression scrunching up as she slots things into place in her mind. maybe he's a druid like lauralae. he probably is. he better be because she doesn't have room for more fantasy shit in her head. she doesn't ask in case she has to learn a new thing upon waking up. no time for that!
with another gusty sigh, her hand falls to jut between them, as if to shake in their impossible to shake position. ]
I'm Grace. You're very comfortable to sleep with. Next to.
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So I've been told. On both counts. [ His smile widens a little as his thumb passes back and forth over her knuckles. ]
I've also enjoyed sleeping with you.
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