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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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πππ πππ ππ ππππππ πππ πππ β£ MARCH TDM
MARCH 2025 TDM: RENEWAL
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 (THE REMIX)
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
CUPID'S ARROW STRUCK ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: possible sex, violence, a/b/o themes (pheromones, mating, heat/rut), breeding, body transformation/body horror, aphrodisiacs.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw (exhibitionism, ritual sex, orgy), dubious consent via magical compulsion.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
DIRECTORY
Helaena Targaryen | House of the Dragon | old char/old player | OTA!
[She's been so excited to get out of the manor once the weather has gotten better. She happily sits at a picnic blanket, a cup of tea in one hand. She doesn't even look up when someone is ushered to her, but the hand that had been reaching for a fruit tart darts out suddenly in a gesture of 'stop!']
You can't sit there. It's taken.
[There doesn't appear to be anyone there, though now that you look there's definitely a little jar of spiders. And there's a bunny rabbit on Helaena's other side, munching lazily on a slice of apple. There are two dragonflies on another corner, occasionally lifting up to dart about eating bugs attracted to the rotten apple bits. Helaena frowns lightly, reaching out to gently lift the jar and bring it to her lap, looking not very pleased that she had to make room for someone else at the expense of the seating arrangement she'd had.] Was there no where else open?
B. Prey (potential CW for a/b/o, breeding kink, knotting?? idk whatever your heart desires, i'm cool w/it)
[She's not too pleased to be stripped naked to take part of this, looking uncomfortable, frowning as she slips the mask on. For anyone else it might help, but how many other women are around here with clearly Targaryen coloring? She takes her time to braid her hair though, not wanting it to get caught on the branches as she waits for the go ahead and -- Ah, there it is. She stands for a beat too long, not sure the direction before she starts to run anyhow, ignoring the places where snow still melts, sticking to the dry area where her footsteps won't show in the ground.
It's thrilling, but there's an anxious feeling in her stomach all the while. Something is going to go wrong, she can feel it. There's also the idea of actually being seen and discovered, making her heart beat faster until she's sure that anyone actually hunting her could hear it.
What had she been thinking? Why did she think this was a good idea? She was the queen, for the gods' sake. Her family would have a fit if they knew about this.
She did sign up, and the whole thing is about playing a huge game of hide-and-seek basically, but maybe if she found Halsin and explained, she could back out of this gracefully and recover her clothing. With that in mind, she stands and begins carefully trying to make her way back, only managing a few feet before a cramp has her doubling over with a gasp of pain.
What the hell? Baffled, she doesn't quite understand it for a moment before she's leaning roughly against a tree and then kneeling on the ground, still stubbornly trying to crawl away-- but then, why was she trying to avoid getting caught again? Suddenly, being found doesn't seem like such a bad idea...]
C. Rose By Any Other Name
[She's happy to join in the festivities, watching from the periphery of the celebrations, laughing led to jumping over the fire, which she does without fear. Flames lick a little too close to her skin but she doesn't pay it any attention, hardly bothered.
Mostly she sticks to creating flower crowns, though she avoids making one with the provided supplies. But despite hers' lacking any magic to them, she's happy to create a lot of them...Mostly to go to people she knows. So if you know Helaena and have spoken to her, assume you have or will receive one from her!
Even if you don't, though, she may approach you, looking thoughtfully for a moment, before unceremoniously placing a flower crown on your head.] There. That looks fitting.
[The flower crown you receive from her seems to have a specific meaning that might make sense only to you. Maybe they're your favorite flowers, or your favorite colors. Maybe the flowers have a meaning to them that means something to you, or they're a loved one's favorite flowers. Either way it seems to fit you perfectly, and Helaena looks pleased, giving a little nod of finality] It's good, isn't it? Do you like it? It suits you.
D. Wildcard
[For everything else! Helaena would be a Maiden during the ritual so feel free to play with that and have your character choose you. Open to M/F, F/F, and any other. Feel free to play up breeding kink and a/b/o stuff in Prompt B to your heart's content, and if anyone wants to find her, her wish on the tree will be for a small, travel-sized version of her dragon Dreamfyre.]
rose by any other name;
it's just that the flowers are peggy's. the same ones they'd decorated her coffin, their scent lingering even hours after the funeral service, and steve's face crumples once he realises it. ]
It's a kind gift, Your Majesty, [ steve says with more evenness than he feels. ] But you really needn't have bothered. I don't know if I can look after this crown all too well.
no subject
You donβt have to. Flowers are meant to wilt and die, one day. Nothing lives forever. Youβre supposed to enjoy them while theyβre there and then say goodbye.
no subject
I don't think I suit these flowers then, Your Majesty. I'm not that great at letting go.
But thank you. You made these yourself?
no subject
You should keep them for now. Throw them away later if you'd like. [Just not right in front of her face, please...]
I did make them myself though. I made some when I was much younger, but I still had to watch others for a little bit to remember it all. I don't like the materials they have, though. So I collected my own.
[She looks around, quietly observing for a moment] It's a nice place, most of the time.
no subject
[ he looks around the same way helaena does, and agrees β this place isn't too bad. there's no way to get out, and the whole setup smells worse than a wet dock when the fishing boats bring their haul in, but it's pretty enough of a prison if you don't think too deeply about it. ]
Do you paint?
no subject
[As prisons go, better an open one like this than the stifling walls of the keep closing in around her, maybe.
The question surprises her a bit and gives her pause. For all the other feminine and proper pursuits and hobbies she had, painting wasn't quite one she'd indulged in much. At length she shakes her head slowly, thoughtful]
Not as much. I suppose now would be as good a time as any to learn more of it. Do you?
c
Turning his head up, he looks at Helaena for a moment before something soft settles on his face, and he leans forward to give her the ability to settle the crown on his head without any protest. It seems he might be more than a little bit sweet on her, despite how silly he looks in the crown. ]
Fitting? Do you think so?
no subject
[She adjusts the crown a moment before looking pleased] The flowers suit you, and the color. The purple matches with your eyes. But, perhaps it shouldnβt be a crownβ¦
no subject
[ Solas' lips twitch. How perceptive she is, this sweet girl, and he reaches up to adjust the crown as he makes himself comfortable. ]
What should it be instead?
no subject
[She swishes her skirts a moment before sitting down, curling her legs to the side of her] You neither want rule or to be ruled. Perhaps to simply lie among the flowers would be better fitting. Something free and peaceful.
no subject
You know me better than most.
[ A side effect of her gift, perhaps. ]
I much prefer the flowers, and I would be glad to take a crown from you any time you wish to offer it.
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But she laughs and reaches out to touch some of the blossoms, thoughtful] This might be the only crown whose weight is not unbearable for the wearer. Thatβs what I would like for you.
[She settles back comfortably.] Iβd like to know more about your world. [No preamble, not really any was into it. Just simple and to the point]
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[ Or her powers do. Either way, Solas respects it; few people dare to see what is beyond the surface, seek to see more than the image that is presented. He is not the kind of person to push unless he felt there was merit in it, so he has not demanded to learn more of her powers, but he is curious.
He would like to share his own with her. ]
I have always been fond of answering questions, as you know. Where would you like me to begin?
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Hmm... Where was your favorite place to travel back home?
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[ Which, he realises, is likely a poor answer. ]
Iβve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I seek memories and what is left behind by those who are no longer of our world.
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[She looks at him, curious, and there's a glint of--something in her eye. Mischievous.
Innocently, she continues:] I've had many dreams of you, but you've never spoken to me in them. [And then she smiles, unable to keep up any sort of act and ducks her head with a giggle]
But in all seriousness, I can't imagine being able to do that. There's so much of history I would have loved to see firsthand, so many ancestors I would love to meet, even if only in a dream.
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[ Leaning a little closer to her, he lets himself soften, lets himself indulge in the flirt. ]
I would take you with me, if you wished it. To venture into the realm of dreams and see what memories linger here in this world.
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I would like that very much. There must be many memories that linger here. Could you show me memories from yourself as well? Places you seen? I can't think of an easier way to see where you're from. [Thinking about it, her curiosity growing, she adds:] And could it work in reverse? Could I show you things?
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[ The Veil is not here, and he is not a part of it; the Fade feels absent too, despite his magic being with him still. He's not sure what might happen if he tries to sneak into dreams, but it is something he longs to try, misses so deeply. ]
We can experiment with one another.
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If it works, where's the first place you'd want to go and see?
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[ Skyhold, perhaps, rather than the Crossroads, or the Lighthouse. A place where he felt more himself. ]
What would your first place be?
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Iβd like to see it. As for me, hmmβ¦ My home as well, I think. Kingβs Landing. The view is wonderful from the ramparts.
I wish I could introduce you to my children as well. I think theyβd like you.
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Perhaps. Children are often wiser than their parents.
[ They'd see right through his politeness, he thinks, but... Alas. ]
Tell me more of King's Landing?
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My daughter is more like me, so I think she could get along well with you. [Her son is...being taken under Aegon's wing and she's not sure how she feels about that at all.]
It's a large city. Bustling, and loud. I live in the Red Keep, where the Iron Throne is. [She shudders thinking of the throne, shaking her head.] And there's the Dragonpit, where the dragons all nest. I haven't been able to visit it as much lately, before here. [She looks a bit wistful and sad at that, before glancing at Solas with a curious look]
You don't seem fond of dragons. Do they frighten you?
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