![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
ππ©π© π¦π° π΄π’π©π© π¦π« π±π₯π’ π π¬π²π―π± π¬π£ π₯π’π©π© π [FALL TDM]
Welcome to the Test Drive!
The TDM is welcome to current players and anyone who wants to play in the setting and is encouraged to be used by prospective players. If you are interested in joining the game, you will need to obtain invite from the mod or through an existing member.
For information on the game premise, setting etc, please utilize the navigation pages below. Questions specific to the TDM prompts or the setting can go to the comment thread. Anything else relating to game mechanics can go in the FAQ.
Threads in this post can be considered game canon as long as both parties agree. This TDM event occurs in between chapters I and II.
Please make sure to identify yourselves in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.
For information on the game premise, setting etc, please utilize the navigation pages below. Questions specific to the TDM prompts or the setting can go to the comment thread. Anything else relating to game mechanics can go in the FAQ.
Threads in this post can be considered game canon as long as both parties agree. This TDM event occurs in between chapters I and II.
Please make sure to identify yourselves in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.
GAME PAGES
i.
arise:
Hell is empty, and all the deovels are here.
arise:
Hell is empty, and all the deovels are here.
It begins with a nightmare, the details of which have slipped through your fingers. Only the curling echo of its dread lingers in your chest. Something has snapped you out of a catatonic state: the shudder of thunder that claps like the hoofbeat of warhorses, a cold chill running down your spine, the call of your name through an empty hall. Whatever it may be that brings you back to your senses, you find yourself in an old, moldering estate lost to a bygone time. Every chamber empty, leading to more locked and broken doors. Rain pours softly out windows jammed shut, pushing you on a path deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the fortress. Farther and farther, you descend to darkness, following the sound of revelry murmuring behind closed doors.
You are not alone.
The giggle of a woman leaps over your shoulder and you feel the tightening of a ribbon around your skull and the heaviness of a mask presses flush against the meat of your cheeks. A woman with a mask the shape of a moth spins around you, smelling of the sweetness of roses and rot, as she slips away into the flush crowd.
No longer do you stand in a decaying ruin; you find yourself amidst a dark masquerade. For this one night, the Lonely Fortress has been restored to the state of its former glory— or some echoed version of it. The devils have come to roost for a night in the Martyr's Crucible. It is now up to you and your fellow exiles to make host with them in their celebration of the spirits.
Do not fret if you were spirited away in your plain clothes; this illusion has graced you with the finest courtly attire of an older time. Gauzy silks, satins, and velvets in dark and brooding colors. Your mask fits snugly to your face, double-knotted to uphold the most raucous of partying (or determined tugging).
If you are lucky, you were assigned a π Voyeur's mask. This mask has no discernable decoration beyond disguising your features, allowing you to blend in with the crowd at no cost to yourself. You are allowed to spectate the events of this night, and none expect you to take part of it.
If you are potentially unlucky, the mask you receive plays a role, and with it bequeaths a strange effect upon its wearer and treatment throughout the masque as a whole: Removing your mask is possible, but it doesn't come without consequences. The illusion of this night resides in the mask. When it is removed, the uninvited courtiers appear like corpses of moldering flesh and open wounds. Uncovering the truth will not go well for you. Those who are caught going "faceless" will incur dissent against them by the undead courtiers. Either put the mask back on or they will designate you a better one.
Those who dissent but are incapable of running are given a new mask, made to spend the rest of their night at the mercy of monstrous courtiers.
It's a wise time to keep out of sight and keep moving, but escaping the fortress is easier said than done. The corridors have gotten all turned around, windows and doors jammed shut. Some paths, which should inevitably lead away from the festivities, somehow end up looping back into the festivities from another side. Take heed, for every risk you take elevates your chances of being marked a Wretch.
You are not alone.
The giggle of a woman leaps over your shoulder and you feel the tightening of a ribbon around your skull and the heaviness of a mask presses flush against the meat of your cheeks. A woman with a mask the shape of a moth spins around you, smelling of the sweetness of roses and rot, as she slips away into the flush crowd.
No longer do you stand in a decaying ruin; you find yourself amidst a dark masquerade. For this one night, the Lonely Fortress has been restored to the state of its former glory— or some echoed version of it. The devils have come to roost for a night in the Martyr's Crucible. It is now up to you and your fellow exiles to make host with them in their celebration of the spirits.
What are you supposed to be? A New Kid on the Block?
(cw:mood alteration, master/servant dynamics, potential elements of dubcon/noncon.)
If you are lucky, you were assigned a π Voyeur's mask. This mask has no discernable decoration beyond disguising your features, allowing you to blend in with the crowd at no cost to yourself. You are allowed to spectate the events of this night, and none expect you to take part of it.
If you are potentially unlucky, the mask you receive plays a role, and with it bequeaths a strange effect upon its wearer and treatment throughout the masque as a whole:
π The Sacrifice: You represent the maiden, fair and pure. A gift worthy of giving to the gods. Tonight, you are chosen, and this celebration is for you. Your mask takes on the shape of the lamb, deer, dove, or unicorn. Unlike the rest of the unholy court, your pale colored garments leave you feeling targeted throughout every room you enter.
Those in the presence of the Sacrificed will feel an inexplicable attraction and devotion towards the mask wearer. Enamored by their perceived perfection, their presence creates a genuine, yet terrifying, devotion in others.
π The Justiciar: You represent the lord and master, strength and dominion. This is a celebration for the spirits, and you are here to see devotion is paid. Your mask takes on the shape of a lion, bear, bull, or dragon.
Those in the presence of the Justiciar will feel compelled to serve and obey their every command. Those under another's control are still limited by their physical and intellectual limitations.
π The Devourer: You represent the vices, unbidden from chasing your desires. Tonight, you are here to consume the revelry and become a true eater of sin. For the glory of the spirits, you will live a life unleashed for the entertainment of our guest. Your mask takes on the shape of a hound, boar, rat, or hare.
Those with the Devourer's mask will find their pleasure in the service of others . They hunt the party, feeding vicariously on the pleasure and pain brought by their hand. Sweeter than any tonic, the more they taste, the more they want.
π The Temptation: A representation of the devil themselves, here to pull others into the dance with the macabre. Your mask takes on the shape of a goat, bat, serpent, or vulture.
Those with the Temptation's mask can corrupt others by their touch to feel waves of bliss, catatonia, arousal, or agony. The effects of which only last as long as the temptation is touching them, building and building the longer they remain.
Drop the Act
Those who dissent but are incapable of running are given a new mask, made to spend the rest of their night at the mercy of monstrous courtiers.
π The Wretch You now represent the fool, left to the mercy of all other courtiers to entertain through profound humiliation. A metal mask moulded as the face of a gargoyle. A bridle bit fits into your mouth to prevent from speaking. This mask comes with a bell and collar, drawing the attention of others who relish in the wretch's humiliation.Those who escape are of the lucky few to break away from the echo's thrall. The hellish courtiers will continually hunt for faceless to punish until the festivities subside.
Those with the Wretch's mask will feel compelled to obey any command the other masks give them or incur the heat of the metal mask sear into their flesh when they refuse.
It's a wise time to keep out of sight and keep moving, but escaping the fortress is easier said than done. The corridors have gotten all turned around, windows and doors jammed shut. Some paths, which should inevitably lead away from the festivities, somehow end up looping back into the festivities from another side. Take heed, for every risk you take elevates your chances of being marked a Wretch.
ii.
revel:
Maggoty Malfeasence.
revel:
Maggoty Malfeasence.
The festivities seem inviting, tempting easily to get swept up into its fray. Those with a strong gut may sense the underlying foulness of deceit and malice that runs under current of it all. Perhaps you let yourself get carried away by the magic of the night, perhaps you play along for your own safety. After all, how often do you find yourself at a ball fit for a court of the damned?
In the dark before the dawn, the festivities slowly begin to turn sour. Activities grow more violent and vicious. The illusions start to fade on their own as the courtiers become gradually more and more bedraggled. The sweetness of rot grows stronger, attracting the buzzing of flies. Their façade slips away to reveal the legion of undead carousing among the living.
One masked lord rises above all in a toast to announce the culmination of the night's celebrations.
Those under the spell of other masks may be urged to lend your aid in fetching, tormenting, and processing of these sacrifices. With any luck, you can free your compatriots, or perhaps bloodlust urges you to participate in their dark rituals. Dissenters will face the risk of being sacrificed themselves or placed in the mask of the wretch to do as they're told. In the chaos, escape is possible, but not all will be fortunate enough to make their bid for freedom.
Courtiers drone in their infernal chanting. Fresh blood is used to carve runes and sigils into the stone. An opening in the floor unfurls into a giant pit lined with jagged edges like a lamprey's mouth. One by one, each remaining sacrifice is urged to jump into the maw and down the throat of the hell itself.
For most, this is the end.
For the few, surviving your fall into the stomach will land you in the Undercroft; corrupted by vines of blood and sinew that run along the stone walls. The tunnels under the fortress is a labyrinth of its own, may you wander the dark until the exit can be found. You are not alone down here, for the lost servitors of the keep meander in the dark for their next meal, but hunted by the deovels no more until you can find your way out.
Dance! Dance until you die!
(cw:nsfw, bdsm, potential for cannibalism.)
The celebrations have spread its festivities across the heart of the Lonely Fortress. Each hall feeds a different vice, drenched in a different color. All are welcome to and from hall to hall, dared to delve deeper and deeper into their depravities until the night's final hour. Each hall is full and brimming with laughter and life, men and women who don masks of every shape possible.π Great Hall: For dancing and fanfare. The candle's flame bathes all in a merry golden light. Players and singers have been forced onto the tables and the chandeliers to drum up a sleazy tune and a beat to dance to. Stacked flagons and casks wheel out seemingly endless amounts of wine that penetrate even the deepest of inhibitions. The energy in this room is infectious; some who begin to dance may find themselves unable to stop.
π Banquet Hall: The light in the banquet hall appears almost violet, sucking the color out of most of the food. Everything that can be found on the table tastes decadent: the rich cakes, succulent meats, sweet fruits. Your fellow exiles may be spotted being used as platters and furniture here, trussed up for display and entertainment as the hungry pick cakes and caviar off their bare skin. So long as the food they serve doesn't run out, no forks or knives will be turned against them.
π Velvet Parlor: For those looking for a place to feed carnal appetites, they will find a large parlor room draped entirely in lush pillows and heavy velvet curtains. Tonight, the room glows under a deep crimson light as courtiers slake their lusts in a garden of intertwined bodies. The heat of arousal is palpable through the diffusion of the egregore, a symphony of moans echoing from one end of the parlor to the other.
π Long Gallery: If it's a dangerous sport you crave, look no further than the long gallery — a wall of windows on one side let in a dusty blue light of the moon. Up and down the corridor, courtiers race each other riding on the backs of Wretches, swatting their hinds with makeshift crops. Others are made as pedestals to hold apple targets for knives and axes to be thrown at them. A crowd gathers around a game of knives, waiting to see who draws first blood. The iron of blood seethes into the air here, chasing after the play of pain.
Eyes Wide Shut
(cw:human/ritual sacrifice.)
One masked lord rises above all in a toast to announce the culmination of the night's celebrations.
"Now cometh our rise," drones the gold devil's mask. "Our tribute to the Sleeping One, our venerable host, shall be paid in blood."The deovels roar, their frenzy rising with the heat of the room. If you possess the Sacrificed mask, the blood tribute is...well you. After a long night of salivating, it's now the deovels' turn to come for you. You are hunted to be thrust atop a makeshift palanquin, jeering as you are carried to the fortress's lonely chapel as a living sacrifice.
Those under the spell of other masks may be urged to lend your aid in fetching, tormenting, and processing of these sacrifices. With any luck, you can free your compatriots, or perhaps bloodlust urges you to participate in their dark rituals. Dissenters will face the risk of being sacrificed themselves or placed in the mask of the wretch to do as they're told. In the chaos, escape is possible, but not all will be fortunate enough to make their bid for freedom.
Courtiers drone in their infernal chanting. Fresh blood is used to carve runes and sigils into the stone. An opening in the floor unfurls into a giant pit lined with jagged edges like a lamprey's mouth. One by one, each remaining sacrifice is urged to jump into the maw and down the throat of the hell itself.
For most, this is the end.
For the few, surviving your fall into the stomach will land you in the Undercroft; corrupted by vines of blood and sinew that run along the stone walls. The tunnels under the fortress is a labyrinth of its own, may you wander the dark until the exit can be found. You are not alone down here, for the lost servitors of the keep meander in the dark for their next meal, but hunted by the deovels no more until you can find your way out.
iii.
respite:
It's just a bunch of hocus pocus!
respite:
It's just a bunch of hocus pocus!
With the breaking of the dawn, the terror of the night is swept away as light fills in the shadows. The hellish court and its massacre are gone within the blink of an eye, leaving the Lonely Fortress back in its regressive state of damp and dark solitude. No trace of dark ritual or aggressor remains. The echo has come and gone, leaving the fortress in a dead and uneasy silence compared to the raucous frenzy that had possessed it a blink before.
The spirits have come and filled their bellies. Where did you end up?
If you survived the night: Wherever you are, whatever you had been doing by the end of the night, it matters not. Just like that, you jolt awake from a long and restless sleep. The morning light pierces through old, musty curtains in another hazy day in the Crucible. No traces of your courtly garments or mask remain; the events of the night echo in your body, groaning like a hangover. You may find you are tucked away perfectly into bed, fully dressed and in dirtied boots...or you may have woken to missing clothes altogether. Any injuries accrued at the hand of other exiles remain, lending to some part of the night being grounded in truth.
If you are lucky, you have awoken in a room assigned to you, but that may not always be the case. Sleepwalking is a common affliction to exiles old and new, so lets hope any unanticipated bedpartners are forgiving of the company— they too are in need of recuperation. Relish in this moment. You survived.
If you had died at any part of the night: You will not have woken in any bed (unless you were slain in one), but instead rise in the part of the castle where you fell; not a trace of injuries left, only the discomforting memory of death the strangeness of your awakening.
You may be questioning if the night's events were real at all. The sourness of death, blood and bile, lingers as a bitter taste in your mouth. Additionally, you are missing memory. A cut on your palm, but no memory of its accrual, suggests something was bargained for your return. Any trace of such a devil's deal escapes your memory.
Breakfast is served for those who still hold an appetite, but the dining table remains uncomfortably quiet beyond the scraping of forks. The food tastes dull compared to the decadence of the masque, even duller for those who made their brush with death.
Rest now, relish in your continued survival, for who knows what awaits at the next turning of a moon.
The spirits have come and filled their bellies. Where did you end up?
Another Glorious Morning
If you are lucky, you have awoken in a room assigned to you, but that may not always be the case. Sleepwalking is a common affliction to exiles old and new, so lets hope any unanticipated bedpartners are forgiving of the company— they too are in need of recuperation. Relish in this moment. You survived.
Deep asleep in thy wormy bed
You may be questioning if the night's events were real at all. The sourness of death, blood and bile, lingers as a bitter taste in your mouth. Additionally, you are missing memory. A cut on your palm, but no memory of its accrual, suggests something was bargained for your return. Any trace of such a devil's deal escapes your memory.
Breakfast is served for those who still hold an appetite, but the dining table remains uncomfortably quiet beyond the scraping of forks. The food tastes dull compared to the decadence of the masque, even duller for those who made their brush with death.
Rest now, relish in your continued survival, for who knows what awaits at the next turning of a moon.
daemon targaryen | house of the fire and blood
β ( option a )
β ( option b )
βΊ REVELβ
β ( option c )
β ( option d )
βΊ RESPITEβ
( ooc; look i'm not sure which version i'm married to lol (hotd v f&b). decision coming eventually. either format, pick your fav. feel free to shoot me a pm with questions, or just hit me with whatever if none of these options suit you. )
d. two dicks, one hole, please.
Throughout the night, Daemon was just an idea when he was a figure across the room. Now, Daemon is throwing him onto a palanquin like a sack of flour. And Aemond does kick and scream, fighting like a bat out of hell against the battered calm of a man who sounds like he's long accepted his destined death. The prince writhes so vigorously in response, it knocks his mask off kilter.
Then, he's going over the edge, blinded and cursing, into the unfathomable unknown.
A boy raised to fly dragons knows the feeling of falling. He knows how to cling to a saddle to stop his feet from flying out under him, which he does so now to the man responsible. If Daemon doesn't die from taking the impact of their fall, Aemond will be certain to finish the job.
Whatever they plunge into is thicker than water but softer than ground. Chunky, slippery, foul. The light that manages to stretch down to them is dim, and the room drenched red. The prince pops up from the sludge, blood thrumming in his ears as he rips off the remainder of his mask with an unruly growl, leaving one perfect section of his face unmarked by blood.
He's doing too many things at once— wiping the blood-soaked hair out of his eye, blindly fingering for a dagger that is no longer tucked into his waist belt, and searching the ambiguous debris if his elder survived the fall. In the dark, he hears a cough or a groan. A sign of life.
"Get up," barks haggardly.
oh honneeyyyyy
Either way, what a delight that he's in reach just before the crescendo.
Down, into the creature-or-structure, in the thin, sickly light, and sicker terrain. The stench of gore, the feel of it; Daemon has walked over battlefields littered with corpses, and it feels like that. A sense-memory stretched into nightmarish proportions. In one piece after the fallβ
The boy, too? Yes, it seems. Half atop him. How charming. Daemon slides both hands up Aemond's torso, his chest, to his angular face. He can see a little in the dark, and the younger prince is haloed in the echoes of bloody light. Hellish.
"Be careful about mashing it into your hair," he drawls. "It'll stain and you'll have to cut it off."
Ask Me How I Know!
no subject
He's fucking real. Still betwized his legs, too. Look at that. It's difficult to tell beneath the surface what was and wasn't attached to a living person. It's all so unbelievably foul. They've both walked battlefields, but the prince has yet to wade himself through one. It could be the sheer shock numbing his senses to bathing in literal death. If only he could murder his uncle by crushing his thighs alone.He might still try. Perhaps his uncle will attempt to gouge his other eye out in return. He considers if Daemon has a knife to take off him that he must use instead.
The look in his one good eye must be feral, muzzled in between Daemon's hands like a hound getting its appraisal. Is he going to peel back his lip to see the sharpness of his teeth? If Aemond can't stab him, mayhaps tearing his throat will do the trick. That's how it's meant to end between them, no? They missed their chance to meet over the God's Eye. Instead, they get to be inside Hell's Mouth. Deserving, perhaps, of filthy kinslayers.
"I have greater concerns," at the present moment. He only notices then how haggardly he sounds. Heartbeat thrumming in his ears. So should he. "So do you."
This isn't the way he wanted it to come down between them, but he'll take it. He'll take getting it over with. If that's what his uncle has also come here to do.
no subject
A furious eye set in a half-familiar face. Daemon, in his pale, borrowed attire, looks like a demon now, drenched in blood. Not for the first time. Is there some disease lurking in this, too? Will they require a scrape-down, as well as a bath? Assuming they get out. Aemond's tone, rough and strained, suggests knowledge of the locale; perhaps Daemon should pretend he has any as well.
"Am I to believe you're going to face me here, slipping madly in the dark, when you've run from me time and time again? I don't see my father's dragon behind you."
Too frightened to face him with Vhagar. He doesn't believe Aemond will do fuckall, here, alone. Maybe he'll be proven wrong, maybe a fist is even now traveling directly at his face. But he's got a hunch, or at least, a proverbial knife worth twisting.
no subject
"My dragon is meant to take yours. You are meant for me." Which is a perfectly healthy sentiment to hold for very absent enemy kin. (That's the Westerosi equivalent of a parasocial relationship for you.) Aemond's hands snap upward to divert what left of his uncle's grip away from him. Sharp and flippant as he rears back on his haunches. "I would have happily faced you, had you not sent the brute with the brain of a withered sponge and a rat catcher to do your bidding."
Did he run, or did Daemon just fail to properly find him that time? Aemond reckons he'd waited days, months, for a red wyrm to grace his skies. He had a seat to hold and Daemon to claim, so why didn't he come? Awaiting him to fall apart on his own to spare a finger for lifting, perhaps.
"I have never run, nor do I intend to nowβ" If he's falling apart here and now in this strange place, he'd be remiss not to take his elder with him.
Sloshing and squishing, don't expect him not to rise to the challenge to take his uncle out in the gore pit. Instead of a punch, his hands dart in for the throat. At the very least, he may attempt to drown him in the diseased sludge.
arise (a)
Maybe not all guys, per se. But it's nice to to follow lead once in a while. When he's held, Quentin leans into the grip like a dog having it's jaw scrubbed. With his head tilted up, it's plain that he's looking for something--anything--to define the person looking back down at him. He picks at his cuffs, more fidgety than nervous.
"Looking for something particular? I'm not from around here, so if you need directions..."
no subject
The way he leans in is either from the mask, or a tell to his profession? Curious. Daemon presses a leather-gloved thumb to the point of his chin, slips it barely higher, teasing his mouth even as he speaks.
"I have no want of a guide," he assures him. Perhaps his voice will do for a defining trait. A medium tenor, dry and drawling maybe-sort-could-it-be-English (to a local of his land, he sounds unbearably posh, with the tiniest sand grain of something else, telltale of having been raised speaking both the common Westerosi tongue and something far older). "What a waste to be coddled through an orgy of senselessness, hm? Far better to spin and spin. What are you looking for, boy?"
no subject
It could be playful; it's not. At least the warning he comes back up with is tinged with humor. "Don't call me that." He leaves the leather spit-slick, has to swallow hard to dry his mouth out. When his Adam's apple jerks against Daemon's hand, the hunger below his ribs twists so fiercely that it frightens him. Quentin knocks his chin up, fingers winding under the hand at his throat. "You don't look like you're spinning."Β
no subject
But he scrapes his hand downward after, over that dipping protrusion of cartilage, to the hollow beneath. Lower, to feel both the surge of his pulse and drumbeat in his ribcage. Hm.
"I am," he assures him. "Very slowly."
Spinning, circling the fete like a predator picking the most delicious-looking sheep, same thing.
"What are you doing, not-a-boy?"
no subject
"The same thing we do every night, Pinky: trying to stay alive." His weight angles into Daemon's hand, again, like he can pull the living heat from the center of his palm into his own heart. He wraps a hand around Daemon's wrist, thumb pushing under his sleeve, chasing that heat. "You've seen them, right? The courtiers?"Β
b.
But when was a dream ever only a dream? How horrifying to realize, then, that she may be imagining none of it. The dark, yawning corridors, the empty, insistent rain - is this a vision of things to come? A broken and lonely house? The gods are cruel indeed.
Crueler still to fit her with the face of a hare, when she was meant to be anything but. Her quick, searching hands find what must be the face of a hare: curving cheeks, the tiny heart of a nose, and tell-tale ears, fluting up. She can hear Viserys sneering in her ear, as if he were flush beside her: What sort of dragon would deign to eat a hare? Unfit even to tremble in the shadow of their sigil, the beast she was meant to embody.
Yet - there is a something flickering and restless behind her ribs, and it is no longer her frightened heart. Since emerging into this strange pageantry, a threatening twist of light and laughter in the dark, fear has guttered into something else. She knows it, even if she would like to pretend she didn't. Hunger.
But not that belonging to a rabbit; this is not a shy, whiffling forage. This is something which longs to devour. Her eyes dive and climb, dancing between strangers and shadows, perfectly aware that this is a trap, all of it - the grotesque beauty of this place, with its dagger-thin edges of a dream. A premonition, a warning, a promise; she can confront none of it with caution or dignity. Her impatient gaze falls upon a figure in white, where at last it lingers.
Beware those in masks, she knows. Beware anyone who refuses to show their face, for they will be just as deceptive with word and hand. But she slips forward all the same, sleek intent, draped in black. Dark silks gather at elbow and waist, and she is aware of her bare shoulders, because maybe earlier they quivered in the dank air of this place. It had been dank, hadn't it? There's something warm glowing within it now, like a hearth beginning to gnaw open its logs. Sparks scattering, catching.
He's lovely, this proud dove, with hair that gleams like Rhaegar's. Tall, imposing, a commanding royalty. Something about him beckons, and some fading instinct in the marrow of her bones pleads with her to pause, to consider the terrible irony of a man dressed all in white in a place like this, but she will not hear it. He's quite nearly perfect, she thinks, her heart given over entirely to animal fascination. A king, the sort of king her good brother would have been, that all true dragonlords were made to be. Dressed in white, yes, but why shouldn't he be? Flames burn terrifically hot when they glow white.
It is a fluke of distraction that she does not slide her fingers up against the pale leather when she approaches, close enough to disregard humble courtesy, if such a thing had any place in this hall. From behind her mask, a hare's dancing amethyst eyes scale him up and down and up again, that sinuous hunger making her ache. There is clarity in it, despite all the rest, and though she offers her hand like a well-mannered greeting, it is a snare meant to draw him to her. An answer finally found. Dizzily, dream fracturing over memory over madness, she knows she cannot let it slip away. )
My king, at last.
no subject
Daemon tries to keep half an eye on that awareness. This magic wills him to believe. He mustn't, and yet he stole this mask to believe, didn't he?
Contrary 'til death.
And thenβ
What better trap? He sees her before she is near enough to speak, and he watches her through the delicate sweep of stolen dove wings that have settled over his face to veil it. A dark-clad woman, a comet of moonlight hair, a mask that begs excess. She pulls at him like a fishhook in his gut. Like Mother, like Aunt Viserra, like Laena. A mirage, it must be, and yet, again: surely, he stole the mask to believe. He looks at the trap, its teeth, its taught spring, and he steps firmly into it. Some pleasures are worth the pain, or indeed, the indignity left behind in the morning.
Daemon collects her hand in his, voyeur gloves left behind in the exchange, she is met with fair skin and callouses from swordwork and scales. Other suitors are rudely stepped past, ignored; they don't exist beside this woman, the glint of her eyes, the succor of My king from her mouth. ]
Forgive me, [ he beseeches, as he draws her nearer. ] For making you search for so long.
[ He's supposed to want to be king, and it's an easy desire. Power and relevancy, all that noise, even if crowns bore him, even if the vexing tedium of ruling would prompt him to slip away in the night to the other side of the bloody world. He's supposed to want it, and who doesn't like power anyway, so it's fine; it is useful, in shielding his deeper wants. The my before the rest of it.
Some other petitioner creeps close, a daunting, looming bear mask leading the way for them. Daemon tucks his rabbit-eared companion close to him, sweeps the both of them away. No thank you, to all that. ]
no subject
Why, then, is she peering up into the eyes of a dove? A fair, lovely bird, and clever, but no dragon. The palm of his hand assures her otherwise, as stark as blood against virgin linen. Smooth and rough, as only dragonhide can be - a map of past work, of violence, of ferocity and certainty. And it fits, this stranger's hand against her own. He does not quail, and he does not demand to know why she thinks she is owed the privilege of approaching him. Hesitation had not crossed her mind - what is humility in the face of such lashing hunger? - and he seems perfectly ready to meet her in kind.
Black ripples up against white, then, when she is not refused, and the aimless, reaching warmth of her body finds him as readily as wine finds the swell of the glass. Motion gathered close, the thrilled snarl of electricity. Yes, he has made her wait too long. Like a hound pacing its kennel, awaiting the master's return, dreaming of a bounty long delayed.
She responds to the sound of his voice as a hound would, everything latent within her pricking to vibrant expectation. But it is not a hound's face she wears, nor a dragon's, and she ought to resent the hare, skittish creature that it is. What rabbit has ever approached a king?
Her fingers curl, her body having decided where it must be, despite all evidence to the contrary. A rabbit and a dove - it seems only a minor madness, flickering beneath all the rest. Why not? Her eyes spring across him again, from a length of leg up to a hillock of shoulder, down to his wrist, where she thinks she spots a smear of blood. A king and a warrior both? Surely, yes; why should he have been made to choose? Why should she? )
Do not ask forgiveness for guiding me where I need to be, ( she allows in a murmur, one urged closer as other bodies are cast against them, eddying, frothing, sweeping near and away. Blind or intentional, it is impossible to tell - if there is a cadence to the frenzy, she has not found it. All she knows is what lies immediately before her, and that is the god in white, his face concealed, as any god's would be. A god and a king, and she could not have reasoned why he deserves this radiant assessment, but thankfully, she does not need to.
She is only broken from her thrall by the approach of another, a creature whose eyes seem to have fixated upon him just as her own did, and there may well be bared teeth beneath her mask, mismatched to the hare's cheeks and nimble ears above. But she is not going to be chased away from what she has found, and she will never be made to search again. It feels possible right now, like this, being fetched and ushered, guided by a king. Finally; her fingertips slip against his palm, envisioning the steel wielded, the blood won, the dominion seized. It's glorious, and she must covet it. For a lifetime, for a night - the line dividing the two winks from sight like sand turned in the hand. )
no subject
And you are needed.
[ Firm assurance, and praise. Water on dry ground, kindling to fire, all of it. Daemon feels full of perfect pleasure receiving the attention he sought out, and all thoughts of picking and choosing his way through it, dancing away from committing to any particular outstretched hand, have vanished. This is the one he was looking for. Now, he can let himself fall, and put off being exasperated at himself until some later time, if indeed he does wake from this spell at all.
Into the banquet hall, and guides them to some seat with a view, where he can sit and pull her down with him. A figure in a serpent mask falls to their knees and crawls after them, radiating some seductive pull, but Daemon doesn't feel moved at all. ]
Stop, [ he tells this anonymous person, and because he has been granted this power of adoring compulsion, they stop. ] Stay there and don't move.
[ And so, here they are, he and his night-clad rabbit, unbothered. Daemon slides a hand to her shoulder, then higher, cradling her by her neck and jaw without trying to pry at her mask. They are playing their parts, they are indulging; he has no need to break the illusion. ]
Stay with me.
[ Selfish, with no reason now to pretend otherwise. ]
no subject
What matters is how she is taken: decisively, precisely, with a glossy smooth ferocity. At no step does she resist, and when he chooses a seat, she glides down with him as easily as sunlight against glass. Strange, the light in this ravenous room - violet. Something in her rears up, startled recognition, but it has no time to take shape. Her famished senses do not allow it, given the fact that the banquet laid before them seems to have been made for a punishing god. Voluptuous meats appear to bleed against real human skin, living tables and platters, but there is no room for horror to take shape, either.
Her chosen god speaks, and she delights to find a serpent bent quite literally to his will, paralyzed by his command. Her fingers, open against his chest, climb higher with approving warmth. No mercy.
A dip of her hips answers the weight of his hand at her shoulder, at her neck, and a silky impatience turns her head, baring paler skin, searching for what attention he cares to give. She purrs beneath it, some faraway and mostly forgotten part of her knowing that no man deserves this sort of sacred fascination. No one, unless his hair be molten silver and his eyes split amethysts and his blood made of fire and he must be more god than man. The dream alone has made her breathless. )
Put them all on their knees, my dove.
( Because there are more, she can already feel - more yearning petitioners hoping to lay a hand upon the idol. Lions, unicorns, hounds, goats, all waiting to be made into a menagerie for their pleasure. She wants to see what sort of congregation this god-king can preside over. She wants to feel the force of that command as living muscle against her, a god at last made flesh. )
respite
It's why she walks through the forest, searching for an old tree or a trail of shrubbery, some kind of landmark to bring her back to the campfire, to her friends. Hell, she'll even take Mr. Springtrap at this point and his creepy security rooms. In the end, she doesn't find the comforting warmth of a bonfire, but rather a spooky lake and what appears to be a functioning ferry, not like a certain decrepit boat in a certain bayou.
There's a man that sits close by, and she assumes he is the ferryman. Naturally. No one else is around... She approaches him cautiously, lest the ferry leaves without her because she cut this poor man's break short.
"Hi. Sorry to disturb you on while you're, um, on your break? Do you know what time you'll be leaving, approximately, and β" Claudette gestures at that mirror thing looming in the distance. "What is that?"
no subject
Daemon looks at her. Doesn't respond right away. Finishing up his breakfast, feeling no ill-effects about the nightmarish half-life of the night before. Or simply refusing to acknowledge any. Who's to say. He takes stock of the young woman, considers her unusual attire, her accentβ that somewhat nasal tone several people he's interacted with have had. She is stunningly beautiful, but of course she is; of course a young woman wanders out of the woods to speak to him and she stands a chance of reminding him of Laena, as if he is not haunted by every fucking ghost that means anything to him already. Just a funny little joke of this place, he supposes.
"Mmn." He bumps his nose with the back of his hand, taking a moment. Mannerly enough not to spit crumbs anywhere. A moment, then another, in no hurry to answer despite the potential urgency. There is an ominous creature over there, after all.
"If it deigns to get closer," he says, sounding almost bored about it, "We shall both find out."
Perfect comedic timing for the thing to spring into action, but nothing happens. Alas.
"You are from the keep?" Their grim fortress, he means.
no subject
Claudette shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze, all while he eats the rest of his bread. She opens her mouth to say something before finally deciding not to. Maybe he doesn't understand English, she thinks to herself just as he confirms that he does speak it. Perfect English even, almost old-timey but not quite? There's something else there, but it's probably just the fact that he looks like someone straight out of a Tolkien book. She's used to being around people from the past, or from a different time altogether.
His wit is met with a cringe paired with nervous laughter. "Oh. I hope not."
Although he doesn't seem too concerned with it yet. Maybe it is just some harmless, freakish mirror.
"I mean, I came from there, but I'm not from here if that's what you're asking. I'm trying to find my way back home, and usually if weβ if I walk far enough into the fog, I can get back to the campfire." She's rambling, a little bit. Sorry, Mr. Handsome Elf. "But every path, except this one, leads me back to the castle."
A pause. "Wait, when you said that we'd both find out... So, you're not from here either?" A bit of a delayed reaction, but how does she tell a complete stranger that he looks like he fits right in?
no subject
His eyebrows (pale as they are) go up. Fog? Campfire? Alright, young lady, whatever you say.
"I live in a castle on an island," he concedes. "Most of the time. But not this castle, and nowhere near here. I have been to near every corner of the world of my birth, and seen no land like this. Nor creatures like that."
Their menacing boy, over there. Which his gaze moves to briefly, but finding it still stationary, seething, almost laughing now, he shifts his attention back to the young woman. Not ignoring it β he would prefer not to be mauled, and will move quickly if it gets too close for his liking β but if it's not going to politely join the conversation, he won't bother to include it personally.
"I mean to see the view from the other end of the chain. Merely preparing myself for the potential of swimming back, should the ferry be shit."
no subject
The one knight she knew was an absolute piece of work, and in the worst possible way. "I haven't seen anything like that either backβ" She catches herself this time, doesn't say home. She has to remind herself that home is where her parents are, and that home is not where she dies over and over again. "Where I'm from, but we have all kinds of monsters. Though they're a lot more proactive."
Claudette wishes she could just not look at the creature, but she looks over her shoulder out of instinct, as if it'll run up on them if she doesn't. She also doesn't want to stick around if he's on the first train out.
"Do you mind if I join you? I'm a pretty good swimmer! I know CPR and I can hold my breath for, like... three minutes?"
a.
The high walls with their grotesque designs, the masks made of bone and sinew and elegance and iron, the lingering edge of something not unlike death and rot at his periphery. There's desire, too - a hunger that Will has only ever felt in the dark depths of his own mind, facing down the towering ravenstag with its empty eyes and laughing maw. Funny, that they gave him a vulture mask.
Funnier still that no matter how much he intends on staying at the edges of the party, people see him. The hand on his spine tells a different story - power, comfort when it isn't earned, entitlement.
None of them want to be here, but its the people who flourish in the horrors and call themselves heroes and warriors that should be watched.
"You're walking around with your eyes closed," he says, low and pointed, as the hand skirts up his spine. He catches it as it moves, fingers snaring the wrist of the masked curiosity. A warmth blooms under his palm. Interesting.
"You might want to be more careful."
You look like prey, is what he wants to say, but doesn't. Easy prey.
no subject
Beneath his own, his mouth twitches. Amused.
"What danger does a party hold?" He flexes his hand, spreads his fingers. Gloves on, thin leather, the kind one wears to hold harsh braided reins or move splintering wood, protective, but still dexterous. "Will I twist an ankle? Will I find my heart broken, by some false suitor?"
A step, and another, coming around him. Daemon moves with lazy authority, as if he is too egotistical to think anything a threat, or as if he is so confident in his own capabilities he has no need to fear. (Though, there's always the possibility that he just doesn't give a fuck.) A bit of a sway, seeing if the man will move with him, teasingly lightly. Mm? Feel like playing?
respite.
She spots a wisp of blonde hair and thinks, for a moment, that it's Lestat, but his is a deceptive honey and this one is white like alabaster, like satin spar. Still, she stops a few feet away. He looks like he doesn't want to be disturbed, and Claudia β ever aware of how she must appear to others β is familiar with the precise irritation of being bothered by someone who looks like a child. But she has questions to ask.
"Are you new?" There's nothing about his countenance that suggests it: in fact she thinks he's doing a very good job at looking like he fits in. But she figures it's a reasonable assumption to make, given that they're both new here, and the first thing they've both done when given enough freedom is get as far away from that crumbling old ruin as possible.