πππππππππ ππππ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburntmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
Entry tags:
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
solas / dragon age / possible veilguard spoiers throughout!!
welcome. (all da spoilers aok)
Still, if they speak over dinner, it's no more than a pass-the-salt. The unique scar that mars the sharp lines of Silco's face is easy enough to memorize, all things considered, and he's used to staring. No, he doesn't engage Solas until he catches him in front of a long mirror in the hall near the entrance foyer, made for guests to do one last outfit check before dinner. ]
You seem quite pleased with yourself.
[ Soft-voiced, stepping into the frame of the reflection and meeting Solas' eyes there, his hands clasped behind his back. ]
no subject
Instead, he tries to settle in as a newcomer, as a stranger to this place, to try and learn what he can. It is what he is most adept at, slipping away and disguising himself, listening for news because he is overlooked - but then again, he is accustomed to elves being given little attention amongst humans. Perhaps it is not the same here.
Turning his gaze away from the mirror, he greets the stranger with a tilt of his head. ]
A mirror can hold many secrets, don't you think?
[ A soft hum as he looks back over. ]
It seems expected, to be pleased in this house.
no subject
[ A tired old man looks back at him if he lingers too long, though also a living man, yes, furiously still alive. Silco mostly prefers to set them up to reflect not himself but his surroundings, blind spots when he's at his desk working. This one lacks even the usefulness of a good angle.
The next thing Solas says makes Silco scoff very softly, recalling a conversation he'd had with Stephen Strange about a city called Omelas. ]
Only superficially. Happy people don't give themselves over to addiction and oblivion.
[ Bitter, maybe. Another glance at the mirror, wondering if there's something he isn't seeing, a joke that's flying over his head. ]
Do you like it here?
[ A slightly accusatory question; there is absolutely a wrong answer. ]
no subject
[ A cryptic, irritating answer, to be sure, but that is the kind of man that Solas is. Built of half-truths and soft bending of reality, telling an honest answer is a difficult thing indeed, especially in a strange place. He does not know what he can offer, what he must keep close to his chest, what he might do that could betray himself.
He did not get where he is by being a fool.
Finally turning his attention away from the mirror properly, he sighs softly. ]
No, I can't say I do.
[ It reminds him a little too much of Tevinter, a little too much of the slavers, so-called Gods of the world of old, and leaves a strange, discordant taste in his mouth. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Welcome!
She watches him watch the mirror, attention grabbed first by his ears and then the way he looks into the mirror as a whole]
Whatever you're hoping to find in there, I believe it may be gone.
no subject
A young woman, drawn here as well. It seems strange, to see, so many pulled to this place, of different heights and shapes and races, and he wonders what had made it so they were chosen. He is so unalike them, but so similar all the same, echoes of world. ]
I fear you may be correct.
[ A small twitch of a smile, before - ]
Are you as new as I am?
no subject
I am. [She nods once] But my brother found me. I'm sure you'll be found too. [not by a brother, surely, but someone. She looks at the mirror, wringing her hands]
It's a strange place. It's bigger than it seems and I keep taking wrong turns. The house doesn't want anything to be too easy, I think.
no subject
[ There are few people that he thinks would enjoy finding him here, and the number dwindles day by day. Solas cannot cling to hope, not here, not when what he left behind was hardly the most optimistic of endings.
All the same, there is a spark in him. There always has been. ]
Shall we walk together, until we find a destination?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
8-ball
Well. Maybe not exactly. Matt shows no concern for the tattoos on his heart and hip, an emerald lotus blossom and stylized monkey-man respectively. Nor does he actually seem to care about covering his crotch. What he works to obscure is the long scar that wends from his left hip to just below his navel. It's slightly raised, and still recent, though thanks to the magic of this place, it looks older than it actually is. Matt angles his forearm to try and cover the whole thing, but the scar's shape is too irregular.
He turns to face the stranger, considering the question with a furrowed brow. ]
I guess it depends what "this" means to you, [ he muses. ] Like, all our clothes disappearing? New. But "being put in compromising positions in a locked room"? Very true to form.
no subject
If only he knew. ]
A strange expectation of guests.
[ At least he has no real reason to be ashamed of his features, even if his disappointment is obvious on his face. ]
Is there a means to leave?
no subject
I have a whole theory around that, [ "that" being the strange expectations, ] but I won't bore you if you'd rather be ...
[ Processing? Sulking? Doing naked stuff with somebody else? Matt leaves it for Solas to choose his own adventure, continuing on to: ]
There must be a means to leave ... because some people have gone and come back, by their account. But whatever it is, I haven't been able to find it. [ A pause. ] Did you mean to leave this room? That one I might be able to help with.
no subject
More likely than you think.
Looking around, conscious of his nakedness, feeling strangely out of place without armour or robe to protect himself, Solas breathes out a noise. He's capable of taking care of himself no matter what, powerful enough to defend himself - but there is not much that he can do here.
Not without drawing too much attention to himself.
At least people here seem willing enough to help, which is something he can appreciate. ]
Tell me how you might help.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
welcome;
but it's that tell-tale sensation to the back of the neck, and instinct well-honed after years of being surreptitiously watched in the red keep. he knows someone is watching, and aemond searches the faces familiar and unknown both.
there.
aemond excuses himself from his family's table under pretence of getting himself a new drink β true that his glass is empty of the crystal water β only he diverts from the usual path after filling his glass, and places a saucer of mild dessert down in front of the elfin man. the ears β quite like lauralae's, but slightly taller than hers are long. ]
Mother tells me it's not polite to stare, [ he remarks in lieu of greeting, seating himself across the man with learned ease. ] but I am being impolite myself, coming to you unwarranted, am I not?
[ aemond drinks his sparkling water with a cool sip. ] You're new.
no subject
He has lost enough to know it.
When the man approaches him, Solas does not falter, doesn't even flinch, only letting his lips curl just a little, as if he's pleased that someone had noticed him. ]
Was I staring? [ His eyes had roamed the room, examined people, but he didn't think he had settled too long - but perhaps he was wrong.
He takes a sip of his own drink - water, too. He shuns the tea and coffee with the air of someone desperately offended. ]
Is it obvious?
no subject
[ it's partly the reason why he's taken personal interest, separating from his family's table to give his attentions to the stranger. the desserts are both peace offering and enquiry: what are you looking for? why do your eyes wander?
there's always the common answer that claims curiosity, of course. aemond is partial to curiosity himself, the boldness in his interests getting him into situations he's sure his mother would rather he didn't. vhagar, worn subject of conversation as she is, and many others too β aemond's desire to learn of war firsthand, to taste the blood of war personally.
it will all kill him one day, his curious, voracious nature. for nowββ ]
You will have been recently arrived, I should think. You have the look of someone taken from somewhere familiar and yet to fully acclimate. [ aemond sips from his glass, pausing to choose his words more carefully. ] Are youβ fae? My lady has ears like yours.
no subject
[ Solas feels his lips curl, just a little. He has always had some affection for those who are willing enough to ask questions, to support those who will seek out answers and sate their curiosity - it's something that pleases him, since he is so willing to give answers and share the knowledge that he has.
It has always made him happy, to be a source of wisdom. It speaks to his nature, even if he might not be able to put it into words in a way that makes sense.
Arms behind his back, idle and casual, as if nothing bothers him, he hums softly. ]
In my world, we are known as 'elves'. If your lady has similar ears to me, then perhaps we are cousins of a sort.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
new year i'm sorry for him (cw: emeto mention)
It starts with his father: watching him from the corner of a room, beside a statue in the yard, face impassive. Then the breach, a stretch of impossible torn sky no one else can see, a problem he can't begin to help solve from here, like this.
Then demons, of course. They're easier to handle than his father.
Dorian is too ashamed to go to Halsin, through the start of his withdrawal: finding empty bathrooms in which to sweat out a fever, vomit onto the cold tile. Dorian's never been terribly skilled at healing magic, beyond the basics, but he isn't even good for that, at the moment. It's undeniably pathetic.
When he does seek help, dark circles under his eyes and hastily-wiped dried blood beneath his nose, he doesn't look at all the confident, cocky mage who first arrived--nor the one Solas knows.
He's seated, gaze bleary when Solas comes to him. Dorian looks at him a moment, and then laughs, bitter with disbelief. ]
Of course it's you.
[ Pushing a hand over his face, through his hair. The room swims. ]
I'm clearly ill, or I'd be able to hallucinate better clothes onto you. Or a prettier healer altogether.
dorian baby please
They had travelled together for months, shared space for just as long, voices carrying in the echoing chamber of his rotunda. There's no doubt in his mind when he turns his head, seeing the familiar shape and form of a man he had once called friend, tugging at his chest and making him feel something close to regret, the sort of feeling that might have culled him, once, brought him to his knees.
He had left his regrets in the waking world, had he not? Solas is here, now, when he had imagined only the Fade in front of him, and while his grief remains dangerous and a wild pressure inside of him. It's as if any press on his heart, on his ego, might have him bursting, and it takes all his self-control to keep himself in check.
Dorian's face is what draws him, though, concern flashing through his features before he schools himself. His friend doesn't look quite the age he had seen him last in Minrathous, but time travel is hardly new for them, is it?
Stepping forward, he frowns. ]
Dorian. What have they done to you?
[ Ignoring the insult.
For now. ]
no subject
A finger pressed to the center of his palm. He can't manage it, right now. ]
Oh, you know. A little poisonous magic as a welcome gift.
[ Dorian won't speak of what he's done in the past weeks, the sour threat of vomit once more in the back of his throat. He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. ]
At least your bedside manner's better than Vivienne's. She'd give me a look of blistering disdain and maybe a potion, if I was lucky.
no subject
[ Falling into magical traps, prisons, situations, and all the rest. Both with the Inquisition and after - Solas is tired of it, of being suckered into things that he cannot control, for all his years of knowledge and wisdom. Waking to a strange new world, even he would encounter things painfully foreign to him, undeniably.
He is better equipped now.
Dorian leans forward, and Solas steps close. He is careful, as if he might startle a wild animal, and he offers his hands out gently. ]
But at least she would ask someone to help you, eventually.
[ A little huff of a laugh. ]
Will you allow me to offer you aid?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
welcome
β¦And admittedly. Itβs just a simple way to pass the time. The estate itself is stifling in its idleness, at least in his opinion. Before the library had reopened, heβd felt so restless that heβd been seriously considering murdering someone just to feel something less dull. Truly, itβs a blessing for everyone that it had reopened.
It does mean heβs a bit more eager in collecting his books, lest it suddenly close again. Heβs seeking out some of the largest books he can find as a result, unbothered by if theyβre incredibly dry, near-encyclopedic histories at this point. He doesnβt plan to linger and read them here, after all. Itβs why he at first barely spares a glance as he sees someone that has.
Yet, he stops as one feature in particular catches his attention. The ears, naturally. He huffs out a little sound of amusement, considers just carrying on with his task, butβ¦ He canβt help but be curious at each one. ]
Another little cousin.
[ Itβs how he announces his presence if Solas hasnβt noticed already, whichβ¦ Truly the only reason would be if heβs turned slightly away. Heβs as tall as a Qunari (horns included), so Marazhai is hard to miss. ]
What a surprise. Perhaps our mysterious hosts have finally acquired some taste after all, for you are the third I have seen today.
no subject
It's some history, some explanation of the events of this world, but he's only paying half-attention. The door had opened, a stranger had walked in, and his attention is there. The more he can learn about this place, the better he is going to feel, settling in to this mansion of danger and desire. He has to understand exactly what is going on before he can make his plans for his survival.
Being stared at isn't necessarily new for Solas, but there's something different to this stare. Something as if he's being recognised, and it makes him turn his head, raising his eyebrow.
Does he bristle at being called 'little'? Perhaps a little. ]
I didn't realise there were other elves here.
[ Don't call him cousin. ]
I've yet to met any others.
no subject
Nor have you yet, but the resemblance is uncanny. It is why I paused, for the elves I have met are more tolerable than the humans. The benefit of kinship, no matter how removed, surely.
[ He steps closer as he talks, and even though the last part is almost certainly meant to be a joke, thereβs still a sharpness to it thatβs likely off-putting. To all of him, really, because even his quiet steps come at an arc like a predator circling prey. Itβs not entirely intentional. ]
But yes. [ At least heβll answer the implied question. ] There are other elves. Three here already, and three today.
no subject
[ Solas is accustomed to being amongst his own people, thanks to his work with his agents and those who wished to follow his path to tear down the Veil and imprison the false Gods of the past. In the Inquisition, he was something more of a loner, something more of an outsider, and the comparison had been sharp.
When he had left, he had decided that he ought to be as much on his own as he possibly could. It was safer, and easier, especially after his heart had been so wounded with his own choice to befriend the others.
Months of friendship had changed him, and he cannot deny it. ]
What is wrong with the humans?