𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖘. (![[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:
𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐘 ▣ 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 — 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.
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.
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
sebastian michaelis ; black butler (current player, new character)
one. Tidying Up
two. Eggsellent
etc. (Wildcards Also Welcome)
WILDCARD-Y
The strange, dark atmosphere of the man(?) he comes across in the midst of his cleaning is far too unique to ignore. Amidst the mingling scent of polish and the rasp of a bristled brush, there is a seam of familiarity that Set wishes to pluck at. His stride, unhurried and brimming with coiled energy, slows as his sharp eyes fall upon the figure in black; the flick of white gloves, the smooth efficiency, the perfection and attentiveness. Something within his soul flexes, calling out to him in an old, black song. A sense of old knowledge, a familiarity that brews and ebbs easily. Just a hint, a fleeting taste meant to lure him in. ]
Ahh — [ He exhaled brightly, never one to wholly deny instinct. Barely was it out of his mouth before he was in motion, a blue of gold and red, lunging forth with one arm cocked back in preparation — not in malice, but in something far, far worse for Sebastian: delight. Wholly unconcerned whether his pouncing would be disruptive, he collides swiftly with the hella' butler — cracking a fist directly into the high of his back with a vigor that surprises even Set himself, as he emits a punchy little hunting cry. ]
You! You! It's you, again! Who the fxck are you!!
[ A storm of enthusiasm and claws follows his kidney punch, the sheer, confused joy in his voice betraying his eagerness to rip into the mystery-man-familiar-but-un to him, to sink into him and know what it is about him calling like siren song. ]
wipes away a single tear. they're so back. anyways 1/2
However, unlike the actual servants who tend to this manor, Sebastian looks Set’s way sooner. It’s a neutral expression at first, but as their eyes meet, it shifts to a polite, gently warm smile. It’s handsome, even, and an elegant greeting is on his lips. ]
…Ah?
[ It’s a greeting that doesn’t come out, of course. As soon as Set exhales that bright note, Sebastian automatically mirrors it curiously. ]
no subject
It’s at least an appreciably graceful dance between them, since Sebastian sticks firm to his principles of not using an ounce more of his speed or strength than necessary. In an instant, he leans up into a crouch rather than be on his hands and knees and flips the brush so that the wooden handle faces out and he holds it by the bristles. It’s all he has time to do before that fist collides into him, and Sebastian’s eyes widen, because the sheer force of it is also a surprise. His thoughts mirror Set’s here—just who is this?
It forces the (unnecessary) air out of his lungs as it winds him, but he still swings the hard wood of the brush out and up to crack against the bridge of Set’s nose in return. Even the mundane could be a decent weapon in his hands. It’s followed by a smooth attempt to sweep Set’s legs out from under him. Getting up from his position might not be something his mysterious attacker allows, so he’ll just put them on the same level instead. ]
no subject
Rather than give away his own little tricks, Set twists to fall onto his front instead. An articulate and inhuman motion that defeats the laws of physics, forcing him to drop into a loose plank position before he presses force through the heels of his palms and curls his knees to his chest. It places him in a low crouch, the same as Sebastian — allowing him to extend a leg out like a spear, aiming to drive the knife edge of his bare foot toward the other man's throat. Yay! Fun!
They're both a little too graceful to be human, and Set's own precision speaks to extensive training; the expression upon his face, brilliantly red-eyed and luminous with feral excitement, is entirely at odds with the perplexed knit of his brows, as if he's trying hard to figure out WHY he's gone in on a technical??? stranger?? to begin with. ]
no subject
His fist is just a little faster in turn as he swings the non-brush weilding fist up at Set’s ankle. It’s not meant to damage so much as deflect, but there’s a similar force in it that Set had delivered to Sebastian’s back. In fact, it’s precisely the same. Is this someone that’s very cautious or simply petty?
(It can be two things.)
He expects it’ll throw the man slightly off balance for the moment, which he tries to use to roll out of the way and his immediate reach so that he can get on his feet. It’s all an agile, quite impressive show, but it’s too bad Sebastian doesn’t seem all that amused. ]
I should be asking you that, sir. [ Yes, sir. Even trading blows and blood, he’s exceptionally polite. ] What is this about?
no subject
He tanks another blow, blood from the bridge and nostrils of his nose already beginning to stop its flow. Oddly, it even appears to be turning into flakes and granules, fading against his skin like water that is being absorbed into thirsty, arid earth. His tongue flicks out across his upper lip, licking away a patch of damp blood before he slips onto his feet and begins to straighten up. Only slightly, as he remains softly hunched into a position akin to a cat that's about to start wiggling before a leap. ]
No idea. It is just that I saw you, and felt like it.
[ One hand touches the center of his bare chest, as if to gentle the flexing parts of his soul that strain toward this man; the dizzying sense of deja vu has happened to him twice before, in this place. Matthew Jamison was the first, and Eddie Munson, the second; he'd never met them before in his life, but felt drawn to them as if he had always known them. Something about the man before him speaks to a part of him, dark and syrupy-deep. It flexes like a muscle awakening after disuse, sore and pleasurable. ]
Something tells me that you are fun to play with.
no subject
I see.
[ no??? he doesn’t??? that is not a helpful answer at all, set??? ]
Allow me to rephrase, then. What manner of whimsically violent creature are you?
[ Ever careful, this one. He has his suspicion about what Set might be, but only because that manner of shrugging off injury is a quality that his kin can manage. He’s counting on him also being much more of a braggart about it than Sebastian personally is. ]
no subject
The laugh he emits is an indelicate one, rich with mirth and intrinsic violence; a bright, deep snicker that pours like smoke and shadow between a row of perfectly white teeth, animal canines at full bear. There's never a reason to hide them away, being what he is and being among other non-human entities has allowed him an ease — besides, unlike Sebastian, it's better ( for him ) if he's up front about his divinity. There's no need to hide it away, nor any benefit for him to do so.
Which means that, when asked, he's quite free with his admission. And his insults. ]
How unfortunate, that the guests invited to this estate are so poorly educated! You cannot recognize a god when one is before you?
[ The long line of his neck above the golden collar arches, his chin lifted in sly confidence as he straightens his spine; with all the audacity and natural superiority of one who was made for it, he tucks his elbows in along his ribs and allows his forearms and hands to fall open, loose and inviting and cradling his presence. His soul is, well, it's not hard to see. Dark and poisonous as it was red, viscerally distinct. ]
It is a curious thing, that I see your face and find it familiar to me. I cannot recall ever meeting you before, but something about you is doubtlessly part of my extended existence. You do not smell human at all, and thus — could be a competent plaything after so many months I have spent without.
[ he is, indeed, a yapper <3 ]
no subject
…So, no. He couldn’t recognize him. Honestly, he would have expected more than simply a beautiful man.
However, any of that contemplation evaporates in an instant when Set (rudely!) calls Sebastian out in turn. His expression turns absolutely icy when Set says he doesn’t smell human, and it’s severe enough that it might even draw a shiver down Set’s spine reflexively. The mask drops a little further and makes it clear that this well-dressed servant is something dangerous… But he still doesn’t show his cards. ]
And what a curious accusation. [ …And that it’s by smell? Hello? ] Were that the case, surely a god is wise enough to understand why someone may prefer to blend in. It can be dangerous to stand out.
[ His words are precise and careful, but the tone also carries an undercurrent of implication. Is it dangerous for Sebastian or for those humans? He cants his head very lightly, clearly measuring Set’s response down to his subtle movements. ]
Does that trouble you?
(no subject)
(no subject)
sighs,
they're so back
this really is how they flirt, these freak faebrained creatures
fae4fae
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Tidying Up - II
Oh--
[She looks around, violet eyes wide, as if not sure Sebastian is truly asking her, but there's no one else around so. She pauses and straightens, rubbing her hands together and wringing them in a self-soothing motion.] There was...a snowstorm. Hungry guests arrived. [She speaks vaguely, distantly, before she shakes her head. He's clearly new and she wants to at least attempt to be more helpful.]
The snow fell so hard we were all trapped inside for the month. And creatures appeared that hungered for flesh. Everyone not bundled up in the library was fighting them out here and they were breaking in from everywhere. [She looks at the blood splatters with a small frown] They killed most of the staff, I'm afraid. I'm sure others have been trying to pitch in for clean-up efforts too. [Not her because she wouldn't know the first thing about where to begin but like. Someone, besides Sebastian. Surely.]
(please excuse the comment format as I'm being cheap and not re-upping my paid lmf)
…However, it’s not like that’s strictly necessary, he quickly finds. The surprise is clear and genuine in his expression as he sits back a little bit to take a pause in the work to speak to her. He’s not sure what he expected this all to be from, exactly, but a situation like (or involving…?) the Bizarre Dolls certainly wasn’t it. Was this all something to do with the Undertaker and separating him from Ciel? It’s a thought to consider later. ]
My goodness… I had no idea it was so… [ He glances to the blood and clears his throat lightly before he dips to start to scrub at that spot instead. It’s a bit of ingrained etiquette, since it feels correct to remove the filth from her sight. ] —I scarcely know the word for it. Supernatural even seems too light a word for such a thing. It must have been terribly frightening.
completely understandable tbqh
[She trails off, rubbing her thumb against her knuckle.] You don't seem like the staff. [He's talking way more] Are you a new arrival? It's kind of you to help with the clean up. I've been putting books back in the library when I can.
[It's not the same as scrubbing on her hands and knees, and she has the vaguest thought of if she should try, but... If her mother or brothers saw her, she's pretty sure they'd have a fit.]
no subject
Ah. [ His expression relaxes as he looks surprised to be called out, and then it’s immediately followed with a sheepish laugh and a nod. ] Yes, I suppose I am… Though flattering as it may be, I am hardly suited to be a guest. I do work in a manor not dissimilar to this one, so taking up my usual work felt a bit more natural.
[ He turns the brush over in his hands idly and chuckles as he looks down at it. There’s a moment of consideration, then he leans very slightly closer as his voice quiets. There’s no one to overhear, but in a strict world of etiquette his comment would be impolite. ]
—And truth be told, it seems like they need the assistance, besides.
[ He straightens back again with a bit of a warmer smile, then politely nods towards the book she carries. ]
Were you heading that way now? I have only done a cursory exploration of the collection, but it is very impressive.
no subject
She holds the book out for him to see, her eyes brightening] Yes, I am. I've had this one for quite a while and I was saving it from when we had to resort to burning the books for warmth. I think it's safe to return it now so I can look for another one that's more specific, like one about spiders. I've taken in quite a few so I'd like to know how best to take care of them.
You can find just about every book you can think of, and many you can't, in the library. It's been... interesting. [She tilts her head, as if trying to decide if that was the right word she wanted to use, before she nods and pulls the book back to her.] May I have your name?
no subject
Though as they get to introductions, he straightens politely. There’s an immediate sense of routine in his movement, but it’s all very elegant as he places a gloved hand over his heart and dips into a bow. ]
Of course. I am Sebastian Michaelis, head butler of the Earl of Phantomhive. [ Though as he straightens again, it’s with a little bit of a wry smile as he adds: ] …On leave at the moment, seemingly.
[ Like, he definitely wouldn’t have come here by choice… He still has work to do with Ciel, and part of giving his full title is to address that. With the recent scandal, it’s useful to know if that’s known here, but he rather doubts it. So, he nods to her book. ]
I admit, I do not know much of entomology myself, but it is a kind heart that would take care of such little creatures. Especially when they are not popular, besides…
no subject
I find them interesting, and rather... cute. Maybe I just sympathize with them. [They're both overlooked or not thought highly of-- thought Helaena knows that, for whatever reason, the smallfolk adore her. She doesn't know what and never really cared to know, as their opinion of her never mattered to her nearly as much as it did her mother.
Since he introduced him though, she nods her head and says with a practiced cadence] I'm Queen Helaena Targaryen. Much of my family is here, but we're easy to find as we all have the same white hair and violet eyes. The exception is my mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, who has red hair, and my nephew, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, who has black.
no subject
Ah, then forgive me any presumption, Your Majesty. I did not realize there were royal guests at the estate as well… Though I imagine when it is at its full splendor, it is suitable indeed.
[ Covered in zombie blood and guts… Less so… But it does make him a little more intrigued in the events of the month. Clearly, her family wasn’t exactly helpless if they were willing to burn books for survival, which is a bit of a credit in his mind. He doesn’t actually think all that highly of nobility, even if he’ll gladly pretend otherwise. ]
And I thank you for the introduction, in a sense, for I shall give them the proper respect should I meet them. Ah, and honestly, should you find yourself in need of a skilled servant, it would be my honor to provide. My Lord would expect nothing less, after all.
WILDCARD
He's not looking where he's going. It's rare for Heinrix, but he's had a poor few days, hasn't he? It's always a poor few days. He looks rather stuffed into whatever outfit he's managed to throw together, but Sebastian is observant enough to notice the little signs of hand-made alterations. One of the buttons on his polio has a wax seal implanted into it. The tag on the inside of his shirt is longer than normal. The belt he has on has been meticulously inscribed. Little signs. Little tells.
He bumps into the
demonbutler with a distracted air, and he says: ]Oh — apologies.
I didn't mean to.
[ He holds up his hands, and looks around. Had he dropped anything? He looks primed to start helping him pick them up. ]
no subject
So, for Heinrix, he quickly sees a man that he would describe as harried. And, honestly? He feels something almost like sympathy for that. It’s a feeling he knows well from trying to keep the manor smoothly operating… But there’s the other little details too. That wax seal is curious, for example, and that’s enough for Sebastian to decide it’s worth making this man’s acquaintance.
He’s in the process of tidying up one of the hallways, having spent the majority of the morning scrubbing at the walls to remove the remainders of violence. So, artwork has to come off the walls, vases on pedestals removed, et cetera. It’s a marked improvement from the last time Heinrix would have come this way, certainly, though he might not notice it at the moment. With a few trinkets in one hand and a vase in the other, Sebastian turns Heinrix’s way and—
As if he hadn’t realized that Heinrix was there, Sebastian stumbles very naturally, and the vase slips from his grip. It’s a show of very quick reflexes as he’s quick to drop the less fragile trinkets and lunge for the vase instead, catching it gingerly in his silk-gloved hands. The decorative books and candles spill across the hall, but Sebastian just sighs in relief. ]
Goodness— No, please, it was my error in not paying proper attention…
[ Similarly, there’s a good bit that Heinrix can learn from Sebastian’s voice alone—or at least of the impression that Sebastian very much wants to give. His voice is polite and accented in a way that implies wealth, though clearly, not personally. It’s gentle and pleasant, and while not warm, the coolness is that of a seasoned professional. This is a man who is a servant, but the sort that would be at the highest echelons of society.
He sets the vase down safely on a nearby little sconce (not quite its proper place, but it’ll do), then returns to start picking up the pieces that he’d dropped alongside Heinrix. ]
I was in my own little world there… I shall take it as a sign that it is indeed time for a break after all the morning’s work.
no subject
His lips curl into a friendly, warm smile. ]
Ah, well. I'm afraid it is my fault. Not that I would discourage you from a break if you feel it is appropriate, of course. I often wonder how much this manor must be running the staff ragged, after all.
[ With the chaos, the magic, the warping. Ugh. His fingers tighten just so on the book. He has opinions about the people here, after all. That much is obvious. ]
Where were you taking these? I can assist you. After all, I diverted you from your work.
no subject
[ Sebastian laughs, pleasant but sheepish as he gathers up a few of the little books. They're all the sort that are meant to look nice on a self rather than be read, so the topics are diverse. It's everything from serious and dry history, to, well. The sort of smut that you'd absolutely expect in the manor, of course. Does Sebastian notice that? It's hard to tell. ]
I wondered the same, and before I knew it, I could scarcely help myself... I hope the Lord of the house would not think it rude, but it felt far more natural to get to work than to relax, as it were.
[ It's only a few things, so once they've both gathered them, Sebastian stands again with a nod. He looks down the hall, since there's not an immediate location for them. ]
I do not know where they properly go as a result, but making a tidy little pile seemed well enough for the staff to put things back to where they should be.
[ And, with a lack of better options, a little table down the hall will have to do. He looks to Heinrix and nods towards it before he starts to lead the way. ]
Thank you for the assistance, sir. Whether it is needed or not, I shall at least take it as a timely stopping point for a rest.
no subject
He sighed, as they started to set them down, and ran a hand through his unruly hair, letting it fall into his face, with a soft sigh of relief that at least he's rectified one problem. ]
Ah, you're a... new arrival? [ He blinks, surprised. ]
Then please, let me make it up to you. I hate that I've given you such a poor welcome, or that you felt it necessary to assist the staff.
no subject
[ He sets down his little pile of books, and apparently in the time it had taken to walk to the table, he'd also neatly organized them into a pleasing gradient. As it's all set down, it looks intentional rather than like a mess, honestly, and yet, he doesn't pay it any mind. It's like it's second-nature to him. ]
So, I will gladly accept your hospitality. Though...
[ He trails off as he turns his attention fully to Heinrix, and though it's still polite, there's just a tiny bit of wry humor in his smile and his tone. It's a playfully conspiratorial criticism. All perfectly deniable, of course, and very charming. ]
I would not say you have given me a poor welcome at all. That would land firmly as a responsibility of the one providing the poorly laundered bedding and far too strong "medicine", hm?
[ It's still putting it lightly, but it seems like that's just how he is. After all, he certainly doesn't seem bothered by cleaning up, since he really does blend in with the usual staff, save for the fact that he's clearly much more personable. ]
In any case. [ Sebastian places a hand on his chest and dips into an elegant little bow. It's not a full, formal show of it, but his eyes still close as he dips his head respectfully. ] Sebastian Michaelis, head butler of the Earl of Phantomhive. It is a pleasure to meet you.
no subject
Quite so. The Belfours have been hardly adequate hosts, but I have been here for several months, and they have done little to convince me that this will change. Although, perhaps with your direction, I will be more pleasantly surprised.
[ A soft little sound, because he is a butler, of course he is. No wonder he was so moved by this place. He wonders if the mansion will be displeased with the man?
He nodded his head, at the bow, his own show of respect, although from one a touch higher on the totem pole. ]
The pleasure is all mind. [ A beat, and then: ] Heinrix Van Calox, of the Holy Ordo Xenos, at your service.
[ A beat. ] Should you ever have need of my services, of course. It feels as if I am of little use here, I'm afraid. My particular skills are... singular.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)