𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐘 ▣ MARCH TDM

[saltburnmods]

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 — 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 « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» 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 — 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — 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, it’s 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.

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.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

Armand | IWTV | current player/character

[nishtha]

OH, OPHELIA - mermand week — cw: body horror, sexual compulsion

[ It's not the first time Armand has been rescued from his grave, undead body transformed into something strange and hungry. But as he crawls across the frozen lawn in the moonlight, he's more and less than he was when he became a vampire. He doesn't turn towards the house, doesn't stop to think about what he should be doing; his thoughts are fixed on the smell of lake water and green, rotten ice.

The mud on the bottom of the lake is warm; the water is full of life waking up for spring. Frogs and fishes, sedge and pondweed and water lilies. Armand finds himself remembering rivers, the Seine and the Nile, the cold Hudson, the deep green of the Canałaso. Walking beside them as a man, and as a vampire. Veins of water flowing through his memories. He wants to share those memories, more than anything. To find someone to sit beside the lake with him, and never leave. He had that once, he knows -- his sweet Daniel, his fledgling, now gone. The loss is a hollow thing inside his body; he needs to fill the emptiness.

For the first week of March, Armand spends most of his time in the lake. His skin has become iridescent gold and green, covered in delicate scales; gills split his skin along the dark line that rings his throat. Trailing water plants are twined into his curls and snag on his sharp nails. His eyes have become inky black voids. Naked and glittering in the sunlight, he sits amid the rushes, waiting for the one who will make him whole.

A — Armand doesn't pay much attention to the songs he sings. They rise out of him without his trying very hard, old lullabies, hymns, prayers, harbor shanties, pieces from the two hundred year repertoire of the Théâtre Des Vampires (I don't like windows when they're closed, I want to fly where the wild wind blows). He sings in English and French, Italian and Hindi, Urdu, Arabic, Latin. There's little else to do, and he can't leave -- why would he leave? -- so he lingers in human-like form amid the lilies and fronds of greenery, watching the guests on the lawn as they enjoy their picnics and egg hunts, humming to himself. Hoping that someone might follow his voice and be drawn to him, and his brothers, in the water.

B — The little plastic eggs are scattered throughout the grounds, tucked into trees and flowerbeds -- and into the rushes and water mint at the edges of the lake. Brave manor staff hide them and then scurry away, trying to ignore the curious eyes that follow them. Armand investigates, drifting through the water to pick up one of the eggs, turning it around in his webbed fingers. He knows he's being watched while he does it; slowly, his gaze slides upwards. He extends his hand, dripping lake water, holding the egg in his palm. ]

Would you like it? Come closer.

HEAVEN HELP THE FOOL WHO FALLS IN LOVE - gen/mid-march onwards — cw: possile hunt-related content

[ Being returned to himself feels almost strange. It's been over a month since he last had his powers, his gift -- a tiny fraction of time to a vampire, but long enough to feel as though he's a fledgling again, new to his undead body. The time spent in the watery depths of the lake hasn't helped, muddying his memories even further. He remembers being ill, longing for death. Remembers being granted that wish. And then.. nothing. Whether he was sent to Heaven or Hell, he doesn't recall it. It's unsettling. And so is the scar that rings his neck, a dark line on his skin that traces the path of -- what? He doesn't know.

A vampire once more, he drifts through the manor. The rooms he's been given are too crowded with strangers. His coffin hasn't been delivered yet, required by the house for the excess dead and not returned. He's not sure if he wants it back. It would feel too empty.

When the hunt is announced, he joins the crowd at the edge of the wood, lingering behind with a cigarette in his hand and dark shades covering his eyes to watch some of his fellow guests pick through the floggers and masks. Others are already undressing, handing their clothes to waiting manor staff, baring themselves before they dart off, laughing, into the forest.

Breathing smoke into the chilly spring air, he observes to whoever happens to be nearby: ]

Let's hope they've practiced running with bare feet.

WILDCARD

[ OOC: Happy to get wildcards for these and all the other prompts! Armand will be (eventually) taking part in the hunt, though he'll hunt as a vampire rather than an animal. He'll be a Maiden for the purifying ritual and will be happy to be bathed, just don't ask him what else he's been doing in the lake lately. Find me on plurk laetificat or PM me on here for plotting or discussion! ]

b;

[unskinned]

[Finn has been mostly hiding out here. He's still not altogether sure what's going on, but the lake is the closest thing there is to an ocean and even though the water is muddy it's water, so he'll do what needs doing.

He spends most of his time with his skin on, skirting around the darker areas of the lake, blending into the bottom with a skill that only a selkie has. In the moonlight his dark eyes are practically little wells of absolute darkness in the night.

The man is weird. He doesn't feel like fae, but he looks like fae, and he looks like he could be some kind of kin. So when he turns and sees Finn in the shallows and offers him an egg-

-Finn submerges a moment, dark body flashing, and a moment later he's a young man again, a puka necklace loose around his neck. He's shirtless and it's hard to tell because he's mostly underwater still, but he's also naked. His shoulders a broad expanse of smooth dark skin, and his hair is curling a little as he comes up out of the water and just a little closer.

He has a moon-eyed look to him, a pretty thing glinting in the dark.]

What is it for?

[nishtha]

[ There are a few of them in the lake. Mortal boys turned into monsters by the whims of the manor, a lesson in "told you so" written on their bodies in scales and fins. Armand doesn't mind, though it means competing with them for victims. At least there are plenty of those to choose from. And it's nice to have company, down in the green darkness and the mud. Limbs to twine with, hands to reach for.

But there's another -- more natural, keeping himself aside from Armand and his brothers. A newcomer, unknown to them. Armand watches him, when he can. Choosing his moment.

At the question, he looks from the young man's face to the egg and back again. There's hot blood in him, salt and brine like the sea. Armand can smell it. It makes him hungry for more than just company. ]

It's a prize. [ He touches the egg with his thumb, pushing it back and forth in his palm. His nails are sharp points sculpted from mother-of-pearl, and there are thin webs between his fingers. ] I imagine it contains something valuable.

[unskinned]

[Finn’s eyes go from the egg to the man holding it. He looks so exotic and Finn is, like any boy his age, entranced by beautiful and monstrous things. He comes in just a little closer, and fights the urge to fiddle with his sealskin, which is currently the puka necklace hanging just open at his collarbone. It looks like it should fall off at any moment but it’s clinging to him with a strange tether of magic.

The closer he gets, the sweeter and more briny the scent of him gets, too. It’s like he was designed to be irresistible in the moonlight.

He reaches carefully, not afraid. His fingertips are gentle as he brushes the tip of the egg, and he chews a bit on his lower lip.]

Like a pearl?

[Finn loves pearls.]

Can eggs hold pearls?

[The question is so genuine, so absolutely innocent; he sounds a little like he’s been asea.]

[nishtha]

[ As the boy approaches, Armand's gaze slides down to linger on his throat and the blood beating beneath his skin. Even without touching him, he can sense the heat of his body, the sweet mortal warmth. He wonders if his blood will be as sweet. ]

They can hold anything.

[ Armand presses his thumbnail into the crack in the plastic egg, cracking in two. There's no pearl inside, only a small chalky heart, painted with the words: KISS ME. ]

ophelia (b)

[chipped]

[ Spike's well familiar with all manner of uglies that go bump in the night. This place has got its share, at least as far as vamps like him go: fewer demons of the slimy fiery tentacle-y sort than he's used to, though, which also means fewer opportunities to punch things in the face and blow off steam.

He doesn't get on the Easter egg hunt until after dark, when anything worth money has probably been snatched up already. Spike circles the lake with an unlit cigarette between his lips, and watches a little yellow egg get scooped by the most visibly demon-y creature he's encountered thus far.

Yeah, he's not an idiot. Part of him does want to know if there's diamonds in there, but this pretty thing looks like a one-way ticket to the bottom of the pond. ]

No thanks. [ Spike pops a squat by the edge of the water and flicks his lighter, cupping his hand around the end of his cigarette until it catches. ] Got a firm policy of not kissing frogs.

[nishtha]

[ The frog rolls the egg around in his palm while he watches Spike, black eyes reflecting the lights from the house, the glow from the end of the vampire's cigarette. Armand notes the lack of a heartbeat in his new friend, the stillness in his body where blood should be flowing. Dead, but undead. It makes it difficult to slip into the newcomer's mind -- difficult, but not impossible. He remains at the edges, observing vague shapes of memories. Decades passing like days. Hunger. Blood. Not unfamiliar.

Young. Angry. And leashed, somewhere inside.

Armand affects a thoughtful expression, soft lips pursed over needle-sharp teeth, fangs in profusion. He digs the sharp point of his thumbnail into the split in the plastic egg. ]

I don't need kisses. Not from dogs. [ He levers the egg open a little with his thumbnail, then holds it out again, within reach. ] Nor do I need eggs.

[chipped]

[ Dog gets his hackles raised, despite starting the name-calling business. The Slayer and her pals make their little jokes about him: defanged, declawed, neutered. He's not gonna take it from some algae-covered twink, too.

Spike narrows his eyes and holds Armand's gaze, tapping ash from his cigarette right into the water. Unfortunately, he's both easily goaded and curious, despite himself, as to whether that egg's got anything valuable inside.

Blowing smoke in Armand's direction, his gaze flicks to the egg and then back to his face. ]

Why don't you show me what the treat is, before you try to drag me under?

[nishtha]

[ The smoke doesn't deter Armand, though it makes his eyes slit briefly closed. He likes the anger and disgust -- it seems familiar, somehow -- but he likes the curiosity more. His tongue longs to taste those ashes.

His hand closes around the egg. Tightens until it pops in his fist. He opens his fingers again, slowly, to show the crumpled egg halves and what appears to be a diamond ring -- which may be real, or may just be plastic -- and a little chalky candy heart that says LICK ME.

Armand returns his uncanny gaze to the other vampire, then slowly brings his hand to his chest. ]

for Lauralae

[nishtha]

[ It had been easy to fall into a routine with Daniel and Louis. Where Armand might have otherwise let himself drift into the timeless rhythm of an elder vampire, his days and nights had instead been bracketed by their needs, hunting and sleeping and waking again, a natural extension of their schedule in Dubai. He'd enjoyed having things to do, meals to to plan, interview sessions to attend. Now, with Daniel gone and Louis spending his time with Lestat, he finds himself, for the first time in a long time, having to occupy his hours.

He wanders through the manor, observing the efforts to put it to rights, watching the moon rise through broken windows and thinking about his new life -- his new undeath. As an ancient, he hadn't expected to die again for a long time, not until he was ready. Experiencing it again has rattled something deep within him, shaking his foundations. There's a stillness in his body and soul that feels like a pause rather than a healing, like he's waiting to see what will happen if it all comes crashing down. It's unsettling, all the more when he has to admit to himself that he doesn't know what to do about it.

After a little while, he finds himself walking in a certain direction, seeking out a heart and mind he knows will welcome him. She's lost and broken, like him. He knows she'll be mourning those have been missing from breakfast and dinner, the same people he's missing in his quest for meaning. Lucifer and Matt might have been able to offer him answers, or at least advice. They can share that, too.

Armand doesn't so much enter her room as appear within it, lingering for a moment in a shadowy corner to make sure she's alone in the bed before he approaches. He circles around, then climbs up carefully to kneel on the blankets by her feet, reaching out an echo of thought to touch her sleeping mind. ]

Lauralae.

[rakta]

[ Everything is difficult.

Lauralae feels agonised, the tugging on her heartstrings a familiar grief to her. It is not quite the same as the loss of a mother, of having that one, tangible thread of humanity taken from her, but it is an echo of it. It remains that sensation of knowing that she will likely never see them again, that she would remain bereft of the comforts that had eased her heart so carefully for the last months of her time here - that she would live in a world where that sweetness had been robbed of her.

It makes it hard to sleep, hard to find rest, to do anything except mourn her losses. That is the pain of finding someone to connect with, of finding the warmth of another's embrace; once it's taken from you all that remains is the cold, and she is so tired of the edge of ice that surrounds her and makes her feel weak.

Matthew is gone, and so is that bright flame inside of her. Lucifer is gone, and so is that tender accompaniment.

When she finally dozes off, her dreams are absent, lost to her as well. Armand's presence in her room does not stir her, his scent familiar enough that in sleep she does not hesitate to know him, and the gentle probe of his touch on her bed and in her mind brings her from her black, dreamless slumber. Slowly, eyes blinking, she looks around with flickering eyes before she realises who it is, and the tension bleeds out of her in an instant.

She trusts him. She trusts him. That is such a dangerous thing. ]

Armand.

[ Lauralae does not hesitate. She leans forward, her arms opening, shifting to make space in the bed beside her. She welcomes him, without pause, her head tilting and her expression soft. ]

Lie with me.

[nishtha]

[ In the rumpled bed, Lauralae seems small and very young, every bit the sweet girl waiting for the movie vampire to come and ravish her. It would be easy for Armand to repay that trust with the sharpness of his teeth; he remembers the sweet fizz of her blood on his tongue. Maybe it would be enough to drive back the hollow cold inside him for a time. He could fill his belly with her warmth. She might even allow it.

Unsettled and wanting, he runs his tongue over his fangs and doesn't move, not until she does, opening her arms and making room for him in the blankets, a disarmingly childish gesture. After a moment, he takes her invitation, wondering in the back of his mind which part of him wants this. Ever since he came back from death, his past seems very present; he's cutting himself all over again on the edges of old memories. Did Arun climb like this into someone's bed? Did Amadeo seek comfort in someone's arms? For the first time, he wants to know the answers.

He reaches Lauralae and pauses to reach down and pull off his slippers, dropping them onto the floor, then lies down carefully alongside her, slipping beneath the blankets still fully clothed. He keeps his hands to himself for the moment, gathered up on the pillow while he looks at her.

Without meaning to, the confession comes to him and demands to be spoken. Softly, he says: ]

I don't know how to be alone.

[rakta]

It is familiar to me.

[ Turning her body, she tilts her head to look at him. Even with his vampirism returned, even with the knowledge that he could slide close to her and bite her, steal her blood and rob her of her life, she is not afraid of him. If that is what he wished, she could not fault him for it; it is his nature, as much as the craving for flesh is in her own, learning to accept it as part of who she is. It was easier, when Matthew was here, but now...

Lifting her hand, she reaches to touch his face, then hesitates. She sleeps with her gloves on, there is no way that her touch would harm him, but she is not sure of her welcome, and would wait for him to draw her close and seek her, if that is his wish. She is here to provide whatever comfort he might desire, her heart on her sleeve for a man who means so much to her. It is strange to think that it happened so swiftly, but...

They understand one another.

Voice quiet, she tilts her head up to gaze at him. ]

You have been loved for so long, and they have been taken from you. But you do not have to be alone as I was.

[ When her mother had died. When she had been abandoned, alone, to rot in a forest. When her life had been ripped from her small, fragile hands. ]

I would not let you be alone, Armand. Whenever you feel it, I will be here. I do not know if it helps.

[ Lauralae cannot erase the feelings inside of him, cannot help him adjust to loneliness and isolation - but she can do something to ease the heartache of it, as best she can. ]

for selkie twink crew

[nishtha]

[ When he arrives at the lake, he finds them, his brothers. Though he wasn't aware they would be waiting for him, somehow he isn't surprised. Like him, they've been caught by death's outstretched hand and warped, changed into something new and different. If he were in his right mind, he might be afraid or angry about that -- certainly outraged at being taken against his will, used by the house for whatever this is supposed to be. But as it is, all he wants to do is slide into the dark green waters and linger there forever beneath the surface, in the cold and the silence, waiting for someone to come and warm him.

They're alone for now, just him and them, the world thawing around them as they explore the rushes and mud of the lake. Armand makes his way to the shallows and invites them to lie with him there, where they can watch the mortals scurry around the grounds while they tangle themselves together and twine flowers into each others' hair, all sweet and enticing innocence.

He runs his hand -- clawed, webbed -- up over a flat belly, over soft scales, feeling himself being touched in turn. His eyes are big and liquid-black; he gazes softly at his brothers, leaning in to trade kisses with them. It's not as good as finding his love, his eternal companion, but it's still sweet enough to calm his hunger for touch for a little while. ]

We will show them what they're missing. [ He vows it softly. ] What they're ignoring. How fascinating and beautiful we are.

[dead_tongue]

[He misses the sea. White capped waves rolling against rocks only partially dulled by the constant flow, the smell of salt, the scream of gulls. Grey and blue and black on all sides, deep green slashing through the fog like an open wound.

But the sea is far away. The lake will have to do, and at least it's better than the pool or the too-small bathtub he'd first found himself in.

Iggy lets his fingers, unevenly webbed, pick through Armand's hair. He turns unblinking, pale gold eyes to him.]

Do you promise?

[He glances down to watch Armand's hand stroke up over his stomach. Iggy's scales fade from flesh colour to a brilliant pinkish red, his tail a soft and lovely green. It is beautiful, he thinks.

Iggy ducks his head to nuzzle Armand's neck. He stays to one side so that Armand's body can be shared. He is, he senses, the strongest of them and it would be wrong to monopolise that strength even if he wants to.]

[extent]

[ nick is the perfect image of a tragic creature where he wallows in the lake, gazing out past the water's edge and to the house with wide, mournful eyes and the urge to crawl back out and find the missing piece that will fix this hole in his heart. he knows that it's out there, somewhere, on the land, and yet the longer nick spends in the water, the more right that feels too.

it's all too easy for his attention to be pulled back though, away from the shore and the house that hurt him so, and back to the creatures that keep him company here. nick had cried when he first touched his throat and found gills under his fingers, but now he tips his cheek to press against scales and it feels right. they are fascinating, they are beautiful, and why should he have to drag himself out into the cold, dry air to cure this loneliness inside of him? ]

We could stay here, forever. Wouldn't that be nice?

[ he finds a hand, webbed and clawed, and loops it with his own, squeezes lightly. but even as he speaks it's with a longing sigh, eyes already drifting away again. he just wants, nick wants, and he longs, and he yearns, so much so that he can't settle without pressing the line of his body up against armand's, without reaching to stroke his fingers against iggy's cheek.

he's just so lonely, even here, even with them. ]

for Louis - cw: dubcon mentions

[nishtha]

[ The cleansing ritual has been a somewhat welcome return to form for their disjointed little community. Sex, magic, healing -- they know this, they understand this. Armand isn't surprised to see the mortals enjoying themselves, letting themselves relax into the arms of their mysterious benefactors, or whoever happens to be behind this latest bout of mischief. But he finds it more difficult to let go and forget, too recently reminded that his body is no longer his alone to control. The last month or so has been a forceful reminder that although it's been a long time since Marius and Santino ruled him, the threads of their work remain, tied to his wrists and ankles and too easily grasped by those who want to use him.

So he approaches the ritual warily, compelled but unhappy, relying on his scant memories of his life as Arun and Amadeo to help him through it. The bathing afterwards is easier; he goes aside at first, performing ghsul in the moonlit lake, soothed by the ritual of purification of body if not soul. It feels remote, like washing clothing, a piece of furniture. Disconnected. By the time he sees Louis, he's almost calm enough to be playful, wading toward him through the shallows, water rippling around his thighs. No scales or claws this time, just the body that Louis loved and kissed all over, with one new addition -- the scar that circles his throat.

He doesn't reach for him, just lingers within touching distance. Around them, others are bathing, laughing, splashing each other. A tentative, wry smile curves up the corner of Armand's mouth. ]

Not quite the Seine.

[missed]

[ louis would like to think he wandered down to the lake to get some fresh air, but he knew who would be there. he expects to try again to coax armand from the lake, to carefully ask him to join him on shore, to no avail. this time, however, he approaches the water and pauses, seeing armand whole and hale, different from the last time he saw him beneath the moon at this lake.

part of him wants to run to the water, a boyish and relieved thing inside of him that armand has only seen in the quiet dark of libraries and museums where they laid tucked together giggling up at the ceilings. instead he huffs a little laugh, allows his eyes to burn with bloody tears. they don't fall, but they don't have to. he begins to pull his shirt off, tossing it aside, then his pants, then his underwear. it doesn't matter who is there to see. ]

Doesn't smell like the Seine, either.

[ gentle, a smile on his face as he steps into the water, right up to armand. he can see the scar here - the great trial alicent went through - and he can't help but reach to curl his hand around the side of his neck, thumb gently skirting the scar. what does he want to say here? an apology is at the tip of his tongue but instead he takes a breath. ]

It's good to see you. [ because it is. because he'd watched him dying, couldn't help him, couldn't save him. maybe armand lied, maybe the world fell apart around them and he still wants to be angry about it, but not today. not now. ]

Can I join you?

[ he steps into the lake, ankle deep. it’s cool, refreshing. he wants to reach for armand. ]

Please.

[nishtha]

[ As Louis undresses, anticipation and hope war with guilt and sorrow inside Armand's chest, a complexity that leaves him trembling, wanting to fidget with his hands. He forces himself to be still and compliant, reduced to raw and nervous clay simply awaiting the thumbprints of his longest companion. He's undone by the way he wants what he can no longer have. He wants, he wants.

He gets, despite everything. He gets Louis closing the distance, cold water sloshing around his bare legs as he approaches, familiar and unfamiliar, hands that haven't touched him intimately in too long sliding around his throat. Armand's eyes close almost automatically, eyelashes fanning his cheek as he tries not to sway into Louis' arms and fall into pieces against him. ]

Please.

[ He echoes Louis' request as he opens his eyes again. His brows knit above his eyes; he could go to his knees in the water and beg. He would do it, if Louis asked him to. He would reach into his chest and pull out his heart if Louis asked him to.

Unable to stop himself, he lifts one hand, ghosting his fingertips over Louis' arm. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths he doesn't need any more. All his control crumpling around him. In a voice barely above a whisper, he makes his confession. ]

I remember it. I remember dying again, Louis.

mermand b

[kobes]

[Koby’s not hunting eggs, per se – the lake has thawed, the world is waking, and he very much wants to try to return to some sense of normalcy, so he’s heading down to the chill water to see what sort of aquatic life has returned to it’s depths. And it seems he’s got his answer – albeit an unexpected sort.

Crouching down to sit on his heels, safely out of Armand’s reach, Koby rests the makeshift fishing pole over his shoulder, lets his bucket dangle loosely from one hand. He notes the webbed fingers, the new scar, nudges out his energy just slightly, brushing his mind to this, the least familiar of all the vampires in Saltburnt, seeking out the edge of familiarity. Once upon a time, in a dark, snowy village, Koby had experienced his own change, his own alteration of his mind and body, his own transformation into something unearthly. His came with a sealskin and a taste for herring – he wonders how similar Armand’s may be.]

No, you found it fair and square. I wouldn’t want to take that away. [Light, cheerful, not close enough to grab.] But I’ll see what’s inside it, if you feel like opening it?

[nishtha]

[ The eyes that watch Koby are black and glassy, pits of awareness that take in everything and betray nothing.

He's not unknown to Armand, the pink boy who longs for the sea, sweet Koby with his lonely soul and his fragile bravery. In some ways, they're very much alike, both of them trying hard to be something else, both of them hurt too deeply and too young to ever recover. Fragmented and full of sharp pieces. Armand sees it in his thoughts, reaching back to touch the mind that searches his. Salt water meets the brackish green taste of the lake; there's very little of the vampire left, at least on the surface. It's as if he's always been here, in this place.

Armand folds his hand over the egg, baring the points of his teeth in a brief grimace of unhappiness -- too many points. ]

It would be better if we could share it. What's the point of having something, if it's not shared? [ Sadness drags at his expression, a deep and terrible grief. ] I'll show it to you and then you'll leave. Like everyone else.

[kobes]

[Armand’s response confirms a lot, and Koby’s expression softens even more, something like recognition bright in his eyes. He sighs, sets the bucket down, already holding three or four fish – he’s been up since dawn, which maybe Armand knows, maybe he’s been watching all this time.]

I won’t leave. But I won’t get any closer. You aren’t yourself.

[Spring had brought with it the return of Koby’s extra senses – nowhere near as honed as Armand’s, months of practice, rather than years, but he’s aware enough to feel the presence that flicks through his thoughts, finds the ever-present ache for home, for the sea. The deeper thoughts, the boxed-up, painful ones – Koby nudges Armand away, points him towards more recent thoughts. A place before Saltburnt, a village of ice and snow and bloody, bloody magic. A transformation, an alteration of self, of identity, a plush pink sealskin across Koby’s shoulders, the slow slipping-away of his humanity, replaced with the embrace of cool water and a quiet, animal mind.]

I know it feels good. I know. [A sigh, a settling-in, carefully out of reach, still.] It’s okay. I’ll stay here with you if that’s what you want.

🧜🏾 — mermand, a

[corporeity]

[ The return of the sun is altogether lovely, even if the breeze stays cool. The thawed lakeside reminds him of the harbour view from his tower, ever farther from his memory. He tries to conjure it now: Waterdeep in spring. In the end, the air isn’t salty enough, the breeze too meek. He walks the shallows, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled to his elbows, dress shoes in hand, skipping the occasional stone across the blue-green water. Over the course of his morning wander, he pockets an egg or two that will likely be gifted to Astarion later, magpie that he is.

Gale hears Armand before he sees him, naught but a glint of scales in the corner of his eye. Enchanting echoes in foreign languages — he recognises the Italian that Caroline’s been practicing, studious even in this exile — and decides then that he ought learn the tongues of this world. Without realising it, he follows the sounds along the shoreline until he stands within reach of Armand, gaze sliding along the length of him, dreamy expression turning quizzical. Any number of creatures take such forms, but not vampires. However the House has seen fit to warp its inhabitants a great deal recently, between the ReSculpt and Emmrich’s ill-advised experimentation, so it’s not surprising, exactly — merely intriguing. ]

Armand? [ They’d not spoken much while he was human, but he’d looked poorly. Now, well, Gale can’t be certain this makes for an improvement. Ever intrepid, he’s quick to crouch near Armand, ignoring both his nudity and the slight prickle of his own skin, hairs standing on end. ]

[ gently, ] You’ve a lovely voice, my friend.

[ He’d like to ask: Are you all right? Instead, to start — ]

What language was that? [ A vague gesture, free hand settling at his jaw. ] Long in the vowels.

[ In the hymn that called him close, so like the sounds of the temples across Waterdeep. Praise for Mystra, Sune, Lathander. ]

[nishtha]

[ It's only been a few days since Armand clawed his way through the soul-drenched soil of the graveyard, but it feels like far longer. His memories of his life as a vampire and a man are vague and slippery in his mind, as if he dreamed it all while he was sleeping down in the mud of the lake floor, as if he's always been this way, and always will be. The scraps of recollection that remain are odd things, thoughts occurring to him without awareness, a puppetry of memory. Faces, names. But mostly songs, music rising in him that Armand-the-vampire has long since forgotten. Amadeo would have recognised it at once, having learned it by rote in the vaulted palazzo of his master, boyish voice lifted in praise to his Lord.

The naked and glittering creature Armand has become turns his head to watch Gale approach. The wizard looks younger than his years, sleeves and trouser legs rolled up, bare ankles and wrists betraying his humanity. His thoughts are full of gentleness and the pleasures of a new love; Armand feels a roiling of jealousy and desire and grief, the yawning hunger within him matched in the man who crouches at his side. He knows they can help each other, far better than that other vampire. Astarion doesn't understand loneliness like Armand does.

Armand's eyes are black and empty, a shark's eyes. He smiles softly, his hands playing idly in the water that laps around his legs, stirring the ripples. ]

Latin. Pange lingua. Glory to the body that turns blood into wine. Glory to God. [ He lifts a clawed hand, watching the water that runs from his fingertips, dripping bright and gold in the sunlight. The scales on his forearm are small and delicate, shimmering in rainbow colours as he moves. He looks out at the lake, a gentle awe in his expression. ]

Isn't it beautiful, Gale? It's so peaceful here. Come. [ He stirs the water again. ] Sit with me.

[corporeity]

[ Like recognises like. The endless dark of Armand’s eyes begs him forward, tempting as the abyss at Moonrise, the depths of the sea. Armand has always appeared unreal to Gale, an ethereal sort of beauty, touched by the gods (as all immortals are), but his present loveliness is the staggering kind. The corners of his eyes glisten not with unshed tears but shimmering scales, brilliant aquamarine and rarest opal. An unfamiliar magic runs invisible rivulets down his skin, lapping at the orb like the ripples at his ankles.

His hazel eyes wander in turn, lingering on the places where Armand has been marked by man or magic (the thin, uneven line rounding his neck; the gills that split scaled skin beneath his ear; the water pooling in his defined collarbones). Like merfolk and merrow. Gale leans into the cup of his own hand, as if that will soothe the hunger that threatens to rend him open and unsightly. He thinks of August first, then Nick, heart panging — you could feed on my magic, as if that were a viable solution to his problem. He’ll not stoop so low even if the manor robs him of sustenance again. ]

To God. [ A thoughtful rumble. His words come salt slow, ] You might be mistaken for a waveservant, chosen by the Queen of the Seas herself, as you are now.

[ Admiring, as ever, of any proximity to divinity. He follows Armand’s reverent gaze and finds that he agrees with his pronouncement. After all that cold, the encroaching dark, it’s a wonderful thing, to witness the light dapple the water. ]

Souls aweigh and anchors still. [ not quite singing, voice lilting to mimic the rhythm of the shanty. ] Wavemother, wavemother.

[ Agreement in the refrain, Gale does as asked, perched atop a flat rock, legs bent and feet sinking into the shallows, the silt. One tanned arm loops around his bent knees, hand flexing and curling. Quick to set his shoes aside and bring the other to the narrow space between them — not to touch Armand but to quirk a finger under a cluster of water forget-me-nots, blooming blue. His eyes dip below the horizon of Armand’s gaze, caught there, on the flowers. ]

Have you been waiting long?

[ In the water, for he can’t have travelled far from the lake, in this state. ]