saltburnmods: (Default)
๐–˜๐–†๐–‘๐–™๐–‡๐–š๐–—๐–“๐–™ ๐–’๐–”๐–‰๐–˜. ([personal profile] saltburnmods) wrote in [community profile] draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
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๐ˆ ๐ƒ๐Ž๐'๐“ ๐๐Ž๐‘๐Œ๐€๐‹๐‹๐˜ ๐‹๐ˆ๐Š๐„ ๐‚๐‡๐Ž๐‚๐Ž๐‹๐€๐“๐„ ๐‚๐€๐Š๐„ โ–ฃ SEPT TDM





SEPTEMBER 2024 TDM: LUGHNASADH


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, using ยซ 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 isnโ€™t, 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 itโ€™s normal for you. Maybe it isnโ€™t.

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? Havenโ€™t 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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?

EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.

That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS

๐“๐‡๐„ ๐‰๐Ž๐๐“๐˜: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
๐„๐†๐†๐’ ๐๐„๐๐„๐ƒ๐ˆ๐‚๐“: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
๐„๐†๐†๐’ ๐’๐‡๐€๐Š๐€๐’๐‡๐Ž๐”๐Š๐€: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
๐“๐‡๐„ ๐’๐˜๐ƒ๐๐„๐˜: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
๐Ž๐„๐”๐…๐’ ๐๐‘๐Ž๐”๐ˆ๐‹๐‹๐„๐’: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
๐’๐๐€๐๐ˆ๐’๐‡ ๐“๐€๐‘๐“: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
๐„๐†๐† ๐Œ๐‚๐’๐€๐๐ƒ๐–๐ˆ๐‚๐‡: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.

THE SWEETS

โ– momofuku's "cereal milk" โ–
โ– fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss โ–
โ– a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping โ–
โ– a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling โ–
โ– poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection โ–


If you want to leave, youโ€™ll 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 heโ€™s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโ€™s no reason why you canโ€™t 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 doesnโ€™t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโ€™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 doesnโ€™t 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, itโ€™s 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.

"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."




ITSY BITSY TEENIE WEENIE

CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin

It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels โ€”ย TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided โ€” that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.

Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youโ€™ve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast โ€” but really, you havenโ€™t had any trouble with that, here. Have you?

If youโ€™re thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyโ€™ve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.

As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youโ€™re snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.






FRUITS OF LABOUR


CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, gore, cannibalism.

Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather โ€” a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.

What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do โ€” from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!

In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular โ€”ย a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.

At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes โ€” steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air โ€” get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.

The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?

Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.



DIRECTORY


raro: (005)

lydia deetz - beetlejuiceยฒ

[personal profile] raro 2024-09-12 12:43 am (UTC)(link)

๐Ÿ”ฎ WELCOME TO SALTBURN(T)


At breakfast, she downs a pill along with her OJ and eggs. Then she downs another, smiles awkwardly at the person next to her and says: "Sorry, I get really bad indigestion - did you want the butter? No? God, sorry, the water, right -"

All of it is very nice, very filling. She barely eats a thing, and is on her feet with a mostly full plate left behind as soon as it's acceptable to go. "Sorry, sorry, it's just, I have a kid - a teenager, you know how they are. I have to find her, sorry - it was great!"

Astrid, as it happens, is not here. There's no sign of her, or that she's ever existed here. This fills her with a familiar dread; it fills her with a familiar melancholy. In one of the drawing rooms, where some of the family's music albums are, so sits down, draws her hands across her face and says, absently: "This isn't the afterlife, is it?" Not as she knows it, however briefly she saw it.

Later, as the sun sets, she's sitting by the entrance, checking her watch, foot tapping. Strained smile in place, arms folded across her chest, waiting, waiting. "They said they'd bring a car, but it's been - christ, two hours?" The car, of course, isn't coming. That much becomes obvious by hour three.


๐Ÿ”ฎ ITSY BITSY TEENIE WEENIE


Her cup says It's Complicated, because it is. She wishes it were as simple as taken, or single, or just flat out not interested. She dips her toes in the pool, black one-piece and over-sized sun-hat blocking out most of the sun. If you sit next to her, she looks a little frantic, asks: "Do you have a cigarette? Please, god, tell me you do."

Or, later, she wanders through the maze. She's drawn to the rocks like a moth, curious and wildly bored on her own. Never in her life did she think she'd ever miss her step-mother this badly. Never in her life did she think she'd be holding a glowing rock and thinking, god, what if I had married that old pervert? It's been a long week - it's been a long life.


๐Ÿ”ฎ FRUITS OF LABOUR


It happens all too late, all before she really grasps what's happening. The ribbon is around her hands, then yours, and she smiles so painfully awkwardly and says: "Oh geez, no, no thank you, I'm already - oh, it's stuck, oh fuck -" as she gives a particularly hard pull and gets nowhere.

A beat of silence passes from her, and then, frantically: "Scissors - we need scissors, and I need a cigarette, or five, someone's gotta have at least one of 'em."


๐Ÿ”ฎ NETWORK


Has anyone ever made it out the gates ... I have something I'm ****REALLY**** late for ... and a teenager back home ...
dead_tongue: (profile curious)

welcome | drawing room

[personal profile] dead_tongue 2024-09-12 01:58 am (UTC)(link)
"Nope."

This answer is given with such certainty and authority that it's a little absurd. Draped decoratively over one of the overstuffed chairs, Iggy looks up from the record sleeve he was examining.

"Can you imagine if it were? Look at this, it's classical music with disco backings! That's insane. Nobody dead would keep this."

He frowns and sits up a little. "Hey, are you okay?"
raro: (004)

[personal profile] raro 2024-09-16 06:27 pm (UTC)(link)
"Oh you'd be surprised," she says in the same kind of tone a grandma might say about her day. It's muffled into her hands, and then she drags them all the way down, sits up straight and sighs, half-smiling. She leans in, shoulder knocking his: "They've got all kinds of weird stuff over there. This would be the tamest room I'd ever seen."

Correctly proportioned, clean - the cleanliness is the bigger give away, really. Death is messy, death is unorganized chaos, from what she saw. "And yeah," she says, after a beat, smile wry, faltering. "I'm just - I've left my kid alone, I think. Some mom, huh?"
dead_tongue: (floof)

[personal profile] dead_tongue 2024-09-16 09:46 pm (UTC)(link)
Iggy smiles. "I really wouldn't."

The physical contact pulls an even brighter smile out of him. Socially, he's awkward if he can't rely on flirtation and he worries near constantly that he's weirding people out. "Yeah? So what's the wildest, then?"

His eyebrows lift. "Well, it's not like you ditched them," he points out. "It seems like we were all kinda kidnapped. But oh my gosh, that's super stressful for you."

He gives her an openly sympathetic look. "And the fact that you're worried indicates that you're a good mom."

He loves a caring mother, he really does.
haggle: (Default)

itsy bitsy teenie weenie (bjbj spoilers)

[personal profile] haggle 2024-09-12 12:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Well โ€” what if she had? Surely it wouldn't have been that bad.

Mazes are perfect places for a romantic rendezvous, BJ has always thought so, almost believed in the inherent romanticism of getting lost. At heart, he's a lover and not a fighter, except why be either when you could be both? Of course, by another definition, this would probably pair the term stalking equally as nicely, trailing tongue lolling out at Lydia's perfect retreating form, staying on turn behind her, pushing a dirty hand through his dirty hair like some old Hollywood starlet before making a big move. Tough nut to crack, Lydia. All his usual charms never seem to work on her. And yet โ€” the chase makes the reward at the end all the more enticing.

Plus, they have a contract.

Overhead the fireworks start with panache, and for Lydia they spell, one booming explosion at time โ€”ย B-E-T-E-L presumably she's screaming at this point G-E-U-S. A sandworm slithers underneath the letters like an underlining point, and Beetlejuice can't pick a better time than that, popping out of his hiding place with gusto, a fistful of dead, black roses in his hands, falling on one knee. A hand to his chest, he extends the bouquet, head thrown backwards.

"Baby, I love you. Aw, screw the chapel, let's elope." Jumping up, he links arms with her, pressing the flowers to her chest. "Everyone knows the most important part of a wedding is the honeymoon, anyway."
raro: (009)

GOD I LUV HIM

[personal profile] raro 2024-09-12 07:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Lydiaโ€™s a superstitious woman, now. Has been since that first failed drag down the aisle; she knows better than to think a thing into existence, but itโ€™s never bit her in the ass quite as fast as this.

Sheโ€™s rigid-tense, eyes wide, head darting from side to side with every explosive letter, heart thudding fast and hard enough it feels like itโ€™s about to cartoon pop out and explode. Itโ€™s still thumping when sheโ€™s left with the bouquet in hand, BJโ€™s arm through hers and her incredulous, weary gaze slowly turning to him, neck creaking as it goes.

The first thing she does, when she can breath, is stomp on his foot. The second thing she does is hit hin square across the face with the bouquet, black petals exploding on impact. The third thing she does is hit him directly in the chest with the stalks and paper, wheezing: โ€œYou jackass -โ€œ and, โ€œthere is no more contract!โ€

The fourth thing, after sheโ€™s stopped hitting him with paper and broken stalks, is catch her breath. Regain her composure, fix her hat, shake off her neurosis - โ€œThis is a nightmare. Iโ€™m having a nightmare,โ€ and fail at it.
queenking: ([up] ya rly)

itsy bitsy teenie weenie

[personal profile] queenking 2024-09-14 04:17 am (UTC)(link)
โ€œDo I have a cigarette, hah.โ€ Saxsice snorts, perched on the lip of the pool, swishing her legs back and forth, staring over at Portia and her wealthy friends giggling and chattering, blonde and pink and tanned. She wants to lunge across the length of the artificial, chlorine-scented water and tear their throats out.

She doesnโ€™t. Instead, leaning back, she plucks a pack of cigarettes from her abandoned, slightly damp towel on a nearly chair, shaking one out and offering it to the other woman. โ€œCourse I do. Doinโ€™ this place without nicotine or booze is a fuckinโ€™ crime, if you ask me.โ€ A pause, as she fishes out a pack of matches as well, careful to not drop them in the pool. โ€œMoreโ€™n the crime of, yโ€™know. Kidnappinโ€™ us.

โ€œYou look like you could use some relaxinโ€™, though. No offense.โ€
raro: (003)

[personal profile] raro 2024-09-16 06:33 pm (UTC)(link)
She takes the cigarette like a greedy teenager, hands fumbling to get it between her lips, to strike a match and light it up. She inhales the drag like it's oxygen, like she hasn't been breathing right since her last cigarette, which is probably true. The nicotine doesn't fix her, but when she finally exhales out, her shoulders droop, just slightly. "Thank you," she says first, because god, did she fucking need a smoke.

She chokes on a laugh next, waving stray smoke away. "Oh geez, I've been hearing that my whole life. But you can't really blame me, how's anyone supposed to relax being - being cooped up with all these rich weirdos."

She is, in fact, also a rich weirdo, but that's neither here nor there.
queenking: ([up] on the sidelines)

[personal profile] queenking 2024-09-20 02:13 am (UTC)(link)
โ€œDonโ€™t mention it.โ€ Saxsice taps out one of her own, leaning forward with it in her mouth to light it off the other womanโ€™s, with a practiced, smooth movement that suggests sheโ€™s done this exactly, a hundred times before. The nicotine hits like molasses โ€“ she wishes there was something stronger, something quicker โ€“ but she just breathes in, holds it in her lungs, then lets it waft out, slowly.

The smoke doesnโ€™t bother her; she likes the smell too much, breathing in, then swishing her legs in the pool with a smile. โ€œIf it helps, you look stressed in a real hot, broodinโ€™, sexy kinda way? Like a film noir or somethinโ€™.โ€ A wider, crooked grin, leaning back on her hands, cigarette dangling from her mouth as she affects a Bogart-esque accent: โ€œOf all the pool parties in all the world, she walked inta mine~โ€

Then, exhaling smoke around the butt in her mouth: โ€œRich people are fuckinโ€™ wild, you got that right. The amountโ€™a chintz in that house is unhinged levels of pretentious.โ€