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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
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
It's a stereotype, true, but. He adores toying with the steadfast and devout. It’s why he’d stolen the name of a demon-hunting Inquisitor, after all.
Not that there’s any hint of that delight, of course. He stands straight again when introductions are given, looking curious but interested. ]
Ah, my apologies, but I am not familiar with your order, I fear… My Lord is not a religious man and keeps me busy, so regretfully, the last time I attended church was for funeral services. I do apologize for my ignorance, but what title would be appropriate? Father?
[ He imagines not, but it opens the door for explanation. Taking a look at the now re-organized little area, Sebastian nods, pleased enough, then cants his head down the hall. He won’t interrupt the flow of the more interesting conversation by actually asking, but the gesture is clear as a “Shall we?” to take a walk and that break he had mentioned. ]
—Though I do keep up with my education, so “xenos” is familiar to me, at least. Are you a minister to foreign lands?
no subject
[ It's said with a warm smile, and a polite clasp of his hands behind his back. ] Interrogator Van Calox will suffice, if you wish to use a title. As we are here, however, you are welcome to call me Heinrix. My position is of use only in protecting this mansion as I must.
[ He has no clue. Heinrix is not a particularly paranoid man, he takes Sebastian... well. Not at face value (he is in inquisitor, after all) but as much of one as he can. He approaches this honestly. There's nothing to hide here. ]
It is more accurate to compare me to the old templars, of Holy Terra. I am tasked of protecting the Empire of Man from the Enemies of Humanity. For example, Xenos scum such as the Drukhari, or Daemons. In addition, I am given a great deal of leeway into understanding their methods, their cultures, and who they are. All the better to put an end to them, lest they promote chaos outside of the Warp.
[ He's literally putting whipped cream on his body rn for Sebastian ]
no subject
Please, pardon my surprise... It is not out of disbelief, I assure you, but merely that many of your terms are beyond me. I believe I understand the gist of it, though. Templars may be a thing of the past to me, but student of history that I am, I know a fair amount, I would say.
[ Though where some people with that knowledge might hold Heinrix at arm's length as a result, since the work had a reputation of being of a certain persuasion... Sebastian doesn't seem bothered at all. Truthfully, it's much more alluring. Toying with a man of violent faith is always fun, but when he even mentions daemons? Why, he can hardly resist. It's a long, slow game. ]
I can guess that you do not get a rest even here, if the amount of viscera I have scrubbed out of the rugs is any indication.
[ He sounds sympathetic for that too, but also turns his attention ahead to large, glass doors that lead out to the garden. It seems like it's where he'll go unless Heinrix offers another suggestion. ]
...Forgive me the simplistic question, but it is where my curiosity starts. Is it difficult work, Interrogator?
[ It seems like he will use his title, though every inch of that is calculated. It's flattery, since people love their titles, especially when they might not often be used. But it's also a slyer choice, since whenever he might choose to call him by his first name, it'll be notable. ]
no subject
Sebastian seems comfortable here already, which is, at least, quite good. As much as he does not mind introducing himself, he is also disinclined to play guide, as well.
He keeps his hands behind his back, head tilted toward him with pleasant, but focused, interest. ]
Quite so, yes. Particularly for someone like me. [ A moment of consideration, but he has never hid who he is. ] I use my psychic abilities for the good of the Imperium, but they come with a cost every time I use them. I am sanctioned to do so, but that does not mean that I do not feel the temptation to succumb to the forces of chaos, should I falter.
no subject
Even so. Naturally, Heinrix’s admission catches his attention more, and he looks back to the man with surprise that seems perhaps too mild, but it’s also polite. ]
I see…
[ Does he? It doesn’t sound like doubt in his voice, so he’s trying to wrap his head around it. Truthfully, the mention of psychic abilities in particular is what gives him pause, since just like a certain god he’s already encountered, he’s briefly concerned that his true self would be revealed. However, that can’t be it, since just from what little Heinrix has said so far, he thinks that he would absolutely know if he’d been found out. So, it’s more metaphorical…?
His steps slow a little to keep a more even pace with Heinrix. There’s a gentle sympathy in the gesture and his voice. ]
Well, in part. I have scarcely arrived, but I have already realized that my circumstances are a bit, ah, dull, for lack of a better word, when compared to others. [ Says the demon to the demon-hunter, but that’s the fun of it. ] I can imagine the difficulty of such a situation even if I feel that I do not fully understand it. You must be an exceptional man to resist such a thing.