๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
Entry tags:
๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ โฃ JULY TDM
JULY 2024 TDM: LECTISTERNIUM
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember โ dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, so all posters can use the title ยซ CHARACTER NAME | CANON | NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youโll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnโt dissipate, though โ this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itโs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itโs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youโll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnโt dissipate, though โ this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itโs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itโs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
WHICH WAY TO THE BACCHANAL?
CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
Itโs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities โ a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed โ a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youโll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods โ six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) โ as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereโs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
Itโs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities โ a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed โ a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youโll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods โ six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) โ as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereโs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
VENI, VIDI, VICI.
CONTENT WARNINGS: violence, body horror, gore, animal attacks (specifically wolf), potential body transformations.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day โ a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public โ a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast โ abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration โ less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day โ a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public โ a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast โ abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration โ less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
DIRECTORY
prince henry fox-mountchristen-windsor โชผ red, white, & royal blue
(bacchanal)
brian abandons his place in a livelier center floor bath to cross the room with water trickling off of him, pile of discarded clothes and towel forgotten somewhere amidst the steam and occasional moans. honestly, this man is his present salvation from sapphic distress upon his delicate sensibilities โ two girls who should fuck and be done with it, cross-legged on pillows, arguing heatedly about britney something or other and christina whats-her-name. if prince henry were a comet come to obliterate all life, he would weep from joy.
be that as it may, he's tickled pink to join him, sinking in across the pool of hot water to groan in deliberate attention-grabbing relief. his tired muscles, his bleeding ears. woe.
then as an afterthought when their eyes methodically meet across the water, he's faux-considerate. )
You don't mind sharing, do you? ( men, the bath, pick your vice. )
no subject
That depends entirely on what you wish to share. If it's the water, by all means. If it's something else, you'll have to be much more specific.
no subject
but brian has thirsted after a man of the cloth, or reveled in the debauchery (same thing), so maybe his entire worldview is skewed. )
Am I limited to one choice or the other?
no subject
Not the very discerning type, are you? We've apparently been blessed with a good deal of time and methods for pleasure. I suppose no harm can come with indulging in all of it.
[ that's how this flirting thing goes, right? he's not exactly well-versed. if it had been the year before he met alex, he'd never have the nerve to say such things. now, he finds himself lifting his hands from the edge of the pool, he brings one forward to gesture at the spot next to him. the very observant type of fellow might notice the signet ring on his left pinky. ]
no subject
he's observant enough but admittedly focused on other parts of henry's body. his fingers are hardly a factor. he wouldn't remark on a ring on the kept finger, either, though he'd lord it over later if necessary.
not one to be told twice, if ever told anything, he crosses the short distance of water and slides next to henry because he wants to. if their thighs brush and rest together, it's intentional. ) So you've fucked with an audience before?
( he fishes, not condescendingly, but like he doesn't believe it and he's raising a challenge. )
no subject
[ he huffs a bit, more amused than annoyed. if he wasn't used to a certain first family's brand of audacity, he might have been a bit shocked by brian's manner. it does seem to be a common trait among the americans he's met. well, anyone who is not part of the royal family, anyway.
he can see the way brian is unsubtly checking him out before moving to sit next to him. the brush of their thighs prompts a barely suppressed flinch, but he's gotten a lot better about his anxiety around others, so his expression only reflects intrigue and interest. alex isn't here, he reminds himself, and since no one here knows him, it doesn't hurt to explore. if he ever gets home, he tells himself, it'll be a way to further his and alex's relationship.
that's a perfectly normal way to look at a situation like this, right? ]
My exposure to the public eye was not quite to this scale, but the world already knows what my interests are, so in a manner of speaking...
[ he gestures vaguely, allowing brian to connect the dots. ]
no subject
he laughs, a more deflated chuckle than a hearty, full stomach-bending sort. it's at his own expense, not henry's. at society, if anything. the incredulity of living a double life for anyone else's measure. his shoulders tense some at that โ the world already knows...in a manner of speaking โ because as much of a dick as he is, he'd never wish that on anyone if they didn't want it for themselves first. his expression sobers from joking around and kicking the shit to an assessing glance, without filter in his questioning. he thinks: because you told them or because someone spoke for you? )
What are you, a celebrity?
no subject
[ it probably helps that his lover is american. the first son, no less. but alex isn't sure he's ready to reveal that just yet. the same goes for revealing he's fourth in line for the british throne. he wants to know what this man thinks of him outside of titles and labels. ]
Something like that.
[ time for a subject change. it's smooth and without any kind of hint that he is uncomfortable talking about himself. (he very much is) ]
And what of you? Practiced at picking up strangers to tumble?
โฎ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
hawk watches it all like his namesake, taking it in over the rim of a cup of piping hot black coffee and a daily paper dated fifty years into the future from his actual existence of the early 2000s. all of this has been...quite the adjustment, to say the least, but the idea that is some big scandal machine to nail him back in mccarthy's dc of horrors has started to wane in favor of the notion that this is some sort of reprieve, some unseen purpose no one has nailed down yet. it's why he's never tried to leg it himself, far more interested in gathering intel and spending time with the array of guests that give even the wealthiest of pac parties to shame.
he's just finished up his drink, standing to button his navy suit jacket and nod in thanks to giles as he folds the paper and tucks it under an arm to peruse at his convenience later. he's on his way back to his room to stuff it in the dresser containing all the history books that have been delivered from the library and every paper that's come before it since his arrival when he hears shouting, also not entirely uncommon these days.
the crown does not negotiate with terrorists or kidnappers.
ah, that'll be fresh meat.
it doesn't seem like anyone else is coming to the rescue, so hawk takes an easy stride towards the noise and spots a blond head in sharp pajamas and loafers that aren't at all unlike his own in the comfort of his own room. he lifts his hands like he's placating a wayward child, and if the babyface is any indication, he actually might be one.]
I'm more aware than the average joe about that song and dance, trust me. And you can cross terrorists off your list, unless you're particularly threatened by self-serve breakfast.
[his accent is pure american, and there's a light smirk that makes his eyes twinkle, even as he extends a customary bow of his head in respect.]
Is it - Your Highness? Your Majesty? The history books aren't always caught up around here, and I left off on Lizzie the II.
no subject
despite his otherwise cooly schooled expression, there's a definite hint of confusion in his eyes. he's never heard of this "Lizzie," and the man speaks with a somewhat older style. granted, his only experiences with americans have been through alex's family, and he's always gotten the feeling that they are rather unique. it's something he'll have to look into more, at a later time. instead, he takes a second to regard his settings again (not unlike his home, in many ways), and then looks back at the stranger. ]
Henry, Prince of Wales, if you please. And if I may ask, if this is no terrorist or kidnapping situation, where the hell am I?
bacchanal
Of course, no matter how careful she is, the water does slosh a bit, which probably does alert him to the fact that there's someone else in there with him. When he opens his eyes she's not quite looking at him. She's very, very naked, except for a pair of earrings with rubies the size of walnuts in them that she found god only knows where.
She raises her eyebrows.]
I tried not to be too noisy.
no subject
Not at all. I can't truly lay claim to this bath; I believe anyone is free to use them.
no subject
She smiles, then.]
You looked so relaxed, I couldn't help myself. So really, you have yourself to blame
[She's teasing and it's clear in her tone of voice, as she stretches her legs out so she's as long as possible.]