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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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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
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
Set's used to bluffing, though. The tilt of his jaw increases, as if to expose his bare throat to teeth that could, if daring enough, sink into it. The taunting little cant of his head accompanies a broadening smile and narrowing eyes. Try it, his posture dares and begs alike. It's been so very, very long since he's sampled a worthy opponent, having to settle with a bunch of mouthy diplomats who would rather settle problems with words over fists. He's overdue for another type of conversation: one of conquest, dominance and raw power. ]
I find it invigorating, above all else. There are many non-mortal entities in this place, but none respond quite as uniquely as you.
[ By that, he clearly means the balance that Sebastian strikes between his graceful power, and his desire to remain understated and unidentifiable. It speaks to a tactical mind, like his own. ]
Should you be troublesome to me?
no subject
…Well, who knows? Sebastian’s posture relaxes with a little sigh. The act drops just a little further as the prim, proper butler places a hand on his hip.
(In reality, he’s correctly read part of the taunt for what it is. Set wants a fight and to drag the truth out of Sebastian with violence first. So, he’ll deny him that opportunity. It keeps that question firmly in Sebastian’s control, so, alas, Set has yet to escape his diplomats.) ]
Hardly. What fool would cause trouble for a god?
[ …When in doubt, flattery. He may not have ever met a god, but he’d have to assume they’re rather weak to it, considering that they must be accustomed to worship. ]
…Since it seems foolish to deny it, I will admit, I am not mortal. But even if that is not so uncommon in this estate, I would appreciate your discretion, my Lord. Humans are such easily startled creatures, after all.
sighs,
Though capable of great pragmatism, he has always craved attention and praise, the adoration of people who could not conceptualize war's importance in the grand scheme of their lives. As peace and prosperity reigned, generation after human generation, his role had begun to diminish, to be kept at arm's length and denigrated as a mark of savagery, not civilization. To hear a non-human entity pander to his ( fragile..... ) ego, even if he cannot trust a word from his mouth, is pleasing. Acknowledgement, perhaps.
Part of him views the admission of Sebastian's non-humanity as a victory, and some part rankles at it. He'd known the other wasn't human, and was wholly confident in his assessment; his nose never lied, after all. Rather than be satisfied with the false reward, his expression begins to smooth out a little, red eyes narrowing with the sudden, predatory focus of someone difficult to satisfy. He's weak to flattery, but also wholly capable of living without it — being made the way he was, after all, meant he was designed for isolation. ]
Do you find it satisfies humans, to treat pre-established fact as humble concession? They are easily led, I have found. Especially the ones in this manor. They think me a harmless fool, all ego and impotence.
[ The scowl growing on his face twists to one side, transforming steadily into a mean little smile. He's played a horrid game for months, after all. ]
Is my discretion worth much, to you?
they're so back
But second and more important is the mild look of consideration, like he’s weighing whether to drop the act. If Set is sharp enough to not be swayed by those clever words, then other tactics would be necessary. Truthfully, the consideration turns for a moment to whether it would be better to treat this mysterious god like he might his brethren. It’d be foolish to keep up the meek act in front of a demon, since that would undeniably be weakness. Such conflict would be resolved with unfathomable violence.
…If he was certain he would win, anyways.
Sebastian has existed much longer than many of his kin at the same rung of infernal society, after all. He’s much more careful and prudent with when and how he exerts force, and that’s where his consideration lands. A god represents too many unknowns.
He steps closer, but his posture is still at ease and disarmed. He slips just to the edge of invading Set’s personal space, but it doesn’t fully feel like an intimidation tactic. His voice lowers to a warm murmur, a quiet tone of private deal-making. ]
A great deal. But what could such a humble servant offer you?
this really is how they flirt, these freak faebrained creatures
With Sebastian entering his personal space, Set elongates. Rather than coiling into himself as if to defend his most visceral and vulnerable points — the way an animal might naturally, when faced with another deadly animal — he lifts his chin and lengthens his spine, to look down over the arch of his cheek at the deadly thing that he has made such a bold inroad in with. ]
I want to propose mutually-beneficial alliance. Subject, of course, to equal partnership and revision of terms as the understanding of our environment evolves.
[ Trapping Sebastian in the controlled half of a relationship is a preferable goal, but not one he thinks he can do from the start; it'd take much, much more information than he currently has. A general alliance is a better start. ]
To start with, I offer my discretion: I will never speak on the topic of your non-humanity, save for to obfuscate your identity. I cannot lie, but I am quite adept at narratives. [ <3 prom jester ] In return, I would like the opposite from you: speak on the topic of my non-humanity, and support my identity as a god. This would give you quite the opportunity to hide any...
[ At that point, he knowingly leans in toward the demon, his nostrils flaring steadily as he draws in a slow, deep pull of whatever elusive, native scent Sebastian possesses. ]
Observable identifiers behind my mantle.
fae4fae
However, Set will be able to see the subtlety of expression, and it’s all carried in his eyes. He may be all perfect, amiable politeness, but his gaze is much sharper than his expression. It’s not just that Sebastian is listening to the deal—he’s taking in every tiny detail of it with meticulous attention. Without saying a word, it’s clear that Set is dealing with a wickedly intelligent creature. It’s the sort where you have to be careful making a deal at all, perhaps.
When Set leans in and takes that showy demonstration of his leverage, Sebastian just closes his eyes and smiles breathes out a little laugh. It’s a warm, amused note, and he turns his head slightly towards Set’s ear as he opens them again. His voice is still warm and honeyed, but what comes out is surely unexpected. He speaks absolutely flawless ancient Egyptian. ]
Do you find yourself so lacking in support that you would beseech even me?
[ It’s not an answer to the deal, of course. It’s simply a smooth tit for tat response to that implicit little threat so that Set is aware that Sebastian isn’t to be underestimated. But it’s also more playful than it is serious. It matches Set’s energy well. ]
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Set begins to lean in toward the other, when he closes his eyes; perhaps intent upon mirroring the way he encroaches into his physical territory, angling both his throat and his ear a little further toward that guileless smile, a clear sign of his ego and his willingness to listen. And then, the words that next meet him are — oh, they are beautiful ones. There is only one other capable of conversing with him in anything resembling his native tongue, and even then, that language happens to be particularly archaic Arabic. No other soul knows a language he has come to learn is long, long "dead" to the world.
His head turns with a snap, the brilliant red of his eyes aglow with a sudden, inhuman vibrancy. Set's hands seize for the front of Sebastian's jacket, fingers sinking into fabric greedily. For a moment, his speed and abrupt fixation might suggest the words have enraged him — and perhaps in a few minutes, they'll filter through the veil of utter delight that's actually come across him. Because he takes Sebastian by the shirtfront and absolutely whips him around in a circle, right into a crushing hug with an piercing animal cry.
He then promptly bites the fuck out of Sebastian's cheek like an overexcited dog, and proceeds to switch over into his ancient tongue right then and there. Threat? Nah. ]
— you speak in the same tongue as I! How fortuitous!!
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However, whatever pleasure he might have drawn from his guess being correct and finding its mark doesn’t last. As he’s yanked closer, there’s a change in Sebastian’s eyes in turn that’s a glimmer of vibrancy, a narrowing of his pupils, but just as he starts to tense and draw away for another fight, well. That’s not what he gets at all, actually. How could he expect being swept into a hug, of all things?
Whatever violence he was preparing to unleash is quickly lost in a very genuine sputter of a confused, alarmed noise. He’s pinned in place and can’t avoid the bite, but it’s all so baffling and unexpected that it doesn’t even seem to matter. Is this something about people with hair so vividly red? He’ll have to avoid them at all costs from now on, since third time is not, in fact, the charm. ]
That— Is not the point?
[ It’s still said in his tongue, but the levels of ????? are just purely comical. He squirms slightly in Set’s grasp as he stares at him incredulously, but not so much that he’s seriously trying to escape it. The strength of the hug itself isn’t dissimilar to Finny’s affections, but still… ]
You bit me.
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[ There is a deep strength in his body, leagues beyond that of a human's but not quite as crushing as it would be were he fully divine; as a demigod, he's limited and constrained by his promise to Egypt and ma'at itself. Still, he's strong enough to be able to press his hands to Sebastian's elbows and pin them to his sides, holding him at arm's length as if examining a toy he's always wanted to have. ]
You are older than I thought, then! I figured you for something long of life, by your smell, but perhaps you are as untouched by mortality as I. Where did you learn my language? Are we contemporaries?
[ he is the pear wiggler now, and sebastian the pears ]
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Contemporaries, no, I imagine not… I visited Km.t at its height long ago.
[ He reaches up as far as the odd hold will allow to give Set a pat on his forearm, exactly as he might for Finny. It’s the gentlest request for him to let go, since he’s seemingly returned to the more polite mannerisms rather than deal-making and cutting words. Being an object of fascination is preferable to getting caught up in terms and conditions, after all. ]
I am simply not forgetful… [ An understatement, but why would he share the extent of his sharp memory? ] That is a mortal failing, so you are correct?
[ It’s still said as a question, but this is just because he’s still processing this baffling interaction. ]
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Mind your tongue. I know of my time's passing, but it does not mean I cannot change it yet.
[ He is, after all, the greatest protector ( and villain ) of Egypt's lands and prestige; if he has any say, it will reign forever. Being able to read of time's passing and humanity's ruination of what was established golden and illustrious on their behalf simply means he must strongly petition to ensure rule of his world never passes into mortal hands. They are simply terrible at governance and selfish in their short-sightedness. He loathes mortal monarchy. They're like gnats, claiming authority where they have none. Vultures, picking over the leavings of their betters.
The tension in his body increases as he briefly thinks such things, before he begins to drape himself against Sebastian's side. ]
You will make a fine collaborator, then. Few have the benefit of longevity, in this place. It makes them weak, easy to mold via assumption and crude perception. It is decided.
[ not that he's lacking in support ( he is <3 ) ( those who support him do think of him as their meow meow though ), but sebastian is an asset he WANTS ]
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Which is to say, he makes a little noise at the bite that’s not one of pain, but just light, confused surprise. He hadn’t even been meaning to be rude with the comment, but that’s noteworthy, at least. When dealing with a strange unknown, you take as much information as you can. Even if it comes with teeth, apparently.
…And presumption. That too feels so godly that he really doesn’t question Set’s claim of divinity at all. ]
I see that I get no say over the matter?
[ It’s a bit passive-aggressive, and yet. He doesn’t try and pry Set off him, and instead just sighs right after with a dramatic little dip of his head. He capitulates easily, though the logic behind it is a bit more complex and conniving than the surface level bother. As always, more favor is gained by being agreeable than contrary. ]
…Then I welcome your acquaintance, I suppose. Please, call me Sebastian Michaelis.