๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
Entry tags:
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ โฃ 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 โ 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 ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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 โ 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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 โ 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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
no subject
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.
no subject
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 โ you could feed on my magic, as if that were a viable solution to his problem. Heโll 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 Armandโs reverent gaze and finds that he agrees with his pronouncement. After all that cold, the encroaching dark, itโs 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 โ 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 Armandโs gaze, caught there, on the flowers. ]
Have you been waiting long?
[ In the water, for he canโt have travelled far from the lake, in this state. ]
no subject
As the wizard settles beside him, Armand studies Gale's profile, noting the threads of silver in his hair and the lines in the corners of his eyes, loving and hating, jealous and wanting. There's power in him, a vast magic eating the man from the inside out. Armand longs to uncover it, the pearl in the wizard's core. ]
For you, I would wait as long as I need to.
[ His voice is low and resonant. He watches Gale, unblinking, the delicate fan of his gills rippling with the breaths he doesn't need. ]
There's a hole in you, Gale, that most don't notice. You hide it well. But I can see it. The boy who threw himself into his studies, burning to distinguish himself amongst his peers. The young man who called a goddess to shelter him from the world. [ His words are the steady cadence of the vampire, the reassurance of the easeful death. ] You tried to fill it with magic and power but the more you gave to it, the more it grew. The thrumming ache. The loneliness. Always with you. Always, no matter what you did, swallowing everything you could.
[ Slowly, he lifts his hand, fish-scaled and claw-tipped, fingers webbed with delicate membrane. He touches wet fingertips to Gale's cheek. Gentle, loving. ]
I can take it away, Gale. I can fill that hole as nobody else can. Because I know how it feels. I've been waiting forever for you. And I can give you what you need. What you have always needed.
cw refs to grooming, suicidal ideation
I didnโt call to her. [ a mild correction, resisting at first. ] She found me.
[ She sent Elminster, he recalls. Peering from around his motherโs skirts, blinking shyly up at the stranger that Morena hesitated to allow inside. Slinging a fireball into the frostroses that afternoon, intent to impress, and crying over their loss. Plucked from obscurity by her perfect hand and then cast out for his follies, the slap still ringing in his cheek. The orb is merely the physical manifestation of a long-gestating flaw, ruinous and ever-advancing on his person. ]
[ plaintive, ] Youโve no idea what youโre offering.
[ Because Armand isnโt himself, webbed fingers cool on his skin, palm wetting his beard. His eyes flit lower, Armandโs nakedness and strangeness equally affecting. Gale once posited that all the magic in play has had an influencing effect, from the mistletoe that tempted Armand to the ReSculpt that changed Astarion. And itโs impossible not to think of Astarion, his pale hand in place of Armandโs, on the reverb of the prettiest lie. Not I waited forever on his mind, but I waited two hundred years for you.
Clarity follows. He carries the flowers with him in his haste, a pang at the thought of having plucked and killed them like the roses, stems caught between his fingers and Armandโs slick wrist. ]
I wonโt deny what youโve glimpsed. [ In his actions, the embers of attraction when they spoke at the faire, or the labyrinthine halls of his mind, open to Armandโs roving hands despite his initial protestation. Itโs felt less invasive since, when heโs told Armand much and more of himself in the intervening months. ] But there is only one path that leads beyond the anguish of living [ Dying. ] and it carries all who traverse it over a jagged ledge.
no subject
Then let me soften the fall. Let me ease you down. It's quiet, here, and beautiful. It will be gentle.
[ He turns his hand to catch Gale's, reaching up with the other to grasp the wizard's opposite wrist so he has him in a grip that's uncanny and strong. Holding him, he half-swims, half-slides deeper into the water. As his legs and feet disappear beneath the surface, they seem to move together as one, an echo of fins and flashing scales.
Armand's eyes stay locked on Gale; his mouth is full of pointed teeth, one row behind the other, serrated. No longer little kitten fangs. Still, his voice is the same, resonant and musical, speaking as he continues to move back, a little at a time, into the lake. ]
There will be no painful end for you. No sudden flash and thunder, taking countless innocents along with it. Just we two, together. And no more hunger. No more wanting. I will be yours, always. You just have to trust me. Have I not earned that much? Just let me show you what lies beyond the garden. It's so peaceful. Come. Come on.
no subject
Gale followed him into the bowels of the manor, so why not take to the water?
Because this isnโt Armand. Or perhaps it is, only every trait has been sharpened, refined to the point of grotesquerie. Beautiful hands encircling his wrists. Sharp teeth razored and multiplied. Voice, ever timeless and canorous, now a mesmeric timbre. The promise of dying peacefully (in his sleep, in the water, instead of in an explosion that splits him in two, searing his flesh from the inside out). The assurance that he neednโt go alone. That the yawning hunger and unerring pain will end โ
It tempts him. Of course it does. It has for a long time now. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Protestations catch in his throat. Before he realises it, theyโre treading water, his trousers sopping. Waist-deep, then, shirt sticking to skin. ]
Armand. [ an uncertain note, eyes pleasing (though he couldnโt say for what). ] Iโm sorry I left you before.
[ Under the mistletoe and in the cellar. He ought to have stayed then, as Armand promises to do for him now. ]
Iโm afraid Iโm still โ afraid.
[ His ultimate inadequacy, made obvious by his juvenile, repetitive phrasing. For all Gale thinks the world would better off without him, he fears the end. The dark. The nothing that will come after, Elysium lost to him when Mystra cast him out. ]
no subject
He looks into Gale's eyes as he walk-swims backwards towards the middle of the lake, leading him on over the slippery weeds and rocks, into the cold sticky mud that slopes suddenly away into the depths. Fish dart around them; bright eyes watch them from the shadows. Armand ignores it all. His attention is fixed on his poor lonesome boy, his hollow love. ]
Shhh. [ He murmurs softly, soothingly, moving in closer to touch Gale's face with his wet hands. Stroking his cheeks with his thumbs, mingling the salt of his tears with the green water of the lake. ] Shh, my love, it's okay. It's okay to be afraid. It's okay, I'm here now. We're together. It's okay. I will always be here, with you. I won't leave you. I promise.
[ He means it, or at least he believes he means it, with every part of his body and soul. The hunger in him is great and terrible, filling him, becoming harder to bear the closer he becomes to finally ending it. His grip tightens on Gale's shoulder, one hand stroking the wizard's hair. So close, he's so close to it now, the thing he wants most in the world, the thing he has always wanted. An end to his loneliness.
Shark's eyes slide closed across two sets of eyelids as he leans in to kiss Gale, a searing kiss with a mouth full of teeth -- and in a sharp ripple of his body, throws himself backwards, arms locked around Gale to pull him down, down, down. ]
no subject
Everything blurs behind his eyes, shuttered to endure the tidal wave of overwhelm. Astarion and Armand. What Mystra has asked of him and what Armand begs of him now. To die for Her would guarantee him eternity at her side. I wonโt leave you promises the same. Of course he wonโt. An end to his loneliness. A reprieve from the pain of living. Armand understands what it is to be violently left, so Gale believes him when he vows to stay.
โ a dream shattered by the rows of teeth under his tongue, the water filling his nose and throat, the pressure in his skull from the drag below. Sunset dapples the water overhead, the horizon of Astarionโs warm gaze. He struggles, finally, forgetting his abilities in his panic. They say drowning is a peaceful end, for how the body accepts its fate and goes. Gale would argue otherwise, shocking them both with an unwisely deployed cantrip, low level electricity fizzling through the water. (Surprising even himself with how badly he wants to live, for all heโs contemplated the end, of late.) Kicking, clawing, screaming โ for all the good it does him, taking on more water.
And then heโs on his back, ashore, the trick of teleportation second nature, to a wizard cornered. ]
You โ [ Any condemnation snatched from his lungs as he rolls onto his front, water spilling from his mouth. Limbs still twitching, thanks to his haphazard casting. ]