𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 ▣ MAY TDM

[saltburnmods]

MAY 2025 TDM: AMUSEMENT

Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember — dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.

Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

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 isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’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 — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐘: 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.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐊𝐀: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
𝐎𝐄𝐔𝐅𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
𝐄𝐆𝐆 𝐌𝐂𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐇: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.

THE SWEETS

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

If you want to leave, you’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 he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?

Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, 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."

WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME

CONTENT WARNINGS: potential nsfw, public indecency.

Making a peculiar appearance at the breakfast table is a violet-backed starling, flitting in above your heads and making several turns before landing atop a silver tray with a mechanical whir. Upon closer inspection, the bird isn’t actually alive at all — or at least isn’t composed of flesh and blood. It’s an automaton of glittering parts, its amber gaze seemingly aimed directly at you, regardless of where you stand. Held in its tiny talons is a rolled up flyer, which the bird drops to the table, where it unfolds for the closest person to read at the chirping starling’s behest.

The flyer advertises the BASKERVILLE FAMILY CIRCUS EMPORIUM, boasting the best traveling show in the world, complete with carousel rides, ferris wheels, animal attractions, boat rides, world class acrobatics, and a full market of classical antiquities and other merchandise. PORTIA comes in at that moment, takes one look at the gilded letters of the purple and gold advertisement, and snatches the paper away, the bird taking off through the manor with a loud chirp as it escapes through a window.

From then, the Balfours act cagey and whisper secrets among themselves, a tension gripping the odd family as the day passes with no sight of the bird. Once you return to your room, you will find a copy of the Circus Emporium flyer tucked by your pillow — this time with an additional section for you to fill out if you’d like to take control of a booth yourself to show off your own marketable skills or sell your own wares — singing, dancing, cooking, magic tricks, the sky’s the limit! The Baskervilles apparently accept talents of all kinds, though the matter of compensation seems to be conveniently tattered beyond legibility from all flyers. In addition to the flyer, nestled in your bed is a tiny heart locket in your preference of silver or gold. Opening the locket will reveal a glittering gem of a random color amidst clockwork gears, slowly turning.

There isn’t any time to heckle the Balfours for answers, because the next morning everyone wakes to the sounds of construction outside, where a crew clad in purple works to set up the huge traveling emporium — tents go up with the motif of glass hearts decorating every tent wall, ceiling, and doorframe, rides are built, booths line the gardens, a Ferris wheel lights up the maze. Everyone is confined indoors while animals are brought in, clowns cartwheel across the grounds, and the smell of sugary, fried fair food sizzles in the air. By nightfall, the manor is alight with music and performers, and the doors pop open for an invitation to traverse the Circus Emporium, the Baskerville Ringleader himself ushering all in with a smile. If you’ve signed up for a booth, you will find one with your name on it along with any supplies you might need to be a successful entrepreneur for the long night — which certainly feels long. Almost unending, as the events go on and on and on. Some of you more vapid-headed types might not even notice that your newly acquired locket is now nestled around your neck and cannot be removed, regardless of how hard you try.

But never fear! There’s plenty to see and do. The lakes have been set up with romantic boat rides with a flowered archway with a wooden, very exaggeratedly drawn SANJI, lips pursed in a desiring kiss, surrounded by pink and red love hearts around his head like a crown. This, naturally, leads into the TUNNEL OF LOVE; once inside, your most hidden feelings sprout forth, both the good and the bad, unless you lock lips with your boat partner. The towering FERRIS WHEEL fits up to four in a car, and the higher you go, the more breathless you might feel, the air thinner and your body hotter, and you might need someone to quickly relieve that building pressure inside of you before you reach the ground. Plus, it has a reputation of getting stuck once you reach the top. The sweet MERRY-GO-ROUND, equipped with glimmering ponies, unicorns, seahorses, and dragons might give you more than you bargained for when the building euphoria causes you a personal (and public) moment of solo orgasmic bliss.

Too embarrassed to be yourself after all that? There are a number of shopping booths, including no shortage of clothing and styled looks as inspired by some of your very own — most mannequins on the lot seem to resemble SHADOWHEART or ASTARION in some way or another, from stylishly cut wigs, to decorative (see: cheap, mall quality) armor for your perusal. Alternatively, visit one of the DRESS-UP BOOTHS where a helpful Baskerville employee will provide you with a costume or makeup change, where you can wear as much or as little as you want. One particular booth hosts outfits ranging the gamut of stereotypical porn attire, from schoolteachers to handymen, and has an adjoining studio room for filming videos of a certain persuasion. Help me, step bro, I'm stuck in the washing machine!

Throughout all the circus, starling automatons circle overhead, perching on rooftops, in the corners of rooms, even on your head although they never bite. Delightful, isn't it? Their glassy gaze is strangely unsettling, almost like they're watching you, very closely.

PICK A CARD, ANY CARD

CONTENT WARNINGS: potential nsfw, various kinks.

Not everything at the circus is cotton candy, however. If you visit the HOUSE OF MIRRORS, don’t be surprised if your reflection goes rogue and whispers a private shame back at you, maybe even within earshot of the person standing beside you. The ANIMAL SHOWS boast ferocious beasts who are part lion, tiger, and bear (oh my), and people locked in cages, dressed and painted as animals, performing mesmerizing dances that compel you to volunteer for a cage yourself if you watch for too long. Maybe you’d like to put on a sexy show for your friends? In the ACROBATICS TENT, watch world class performers contort their bodies into magical shapes, floating high above your head. There’s even a practice area outfitted with aerial ropes and silks, harnesses, and more intimate objects that seem like they’ve been pilfered from the Otherworld if you’d like to engage in a little acrobatic bondage play.

Additionally there is a TAROT CARD BOOTH, as displayed by one MADAME PATCHOULI, a withered old woman who loves to talk about her grandkids. Come get your fortune foretold in either a 3-card or single card spread, watching the matron's gnarled hands shuffle and deal the cards, outlining your fate. Of course, there is more to the cards than meets the eye, and they are foretelling, expressing some interesting bodily and emotional changes depending on what you draw.

CLICK TO TEST YOUR LUCK

for three card spreads, characters will transition from one effect into the other on a timeline dictated by the player (i.e., in one day, in a week, over the course a month). for a single card pull, just grab your PRESENT card and have fun! all effects wrap up at the latest by month end.

SHARING IS CARING

CONTENT WARNINGS: sexual black mail, nonconsensual sex tape making, snuff films, potential character death.

The Circus Emporium hosts a large film festival at the end of their stay, a large projector screen set out inside the main tent, firstly displaying some art house cheesy films, before the mood in the room shifts as more people gather. The nature of the film shifts too, from intentional to candid, where you might catch glimpses of a person you know caught in frame, cotton candy between their fingers, enjoying the circus. Sweet, right? It seems those starling automatons were not only observing you, but actively filming you and — well, as you're reflecting on your time spent in the circus, the visual changes again. It wasn't all giggles and sugary treats, was it? The camera cuts, to flashes of bare skin and throaty moans, and oh god, is that you up there?

Even as an observer, you can feel your body heating up as if the flames of second or firsthand embarrassment are caressing your own skin. As the show goes on, these strange heat symptoms slowly start to get worse — specifically, they move to your chest, where your heart begins to beat erratically and then struggles to beat at all. In fact, your heart feels like a heavy, agonizing weight in your chest, somehow growing more fragile by the moment. A constant cadence echoes through your skull until you abruptly realize the locket hanging around your neck, now burning hot, is ticking like a clock — or a bomb? — and the gem inside has cracked, tiny shards falling into your palm, slowly draining of color.

The horror of what’s happening seems to come to you as naturally as the locket’s presence around your throat — your heart is slowly and painfully glassifying in the burning, shameful heat of your body, and when the gem fully deteriorates and the clockwork locket ceases to tick, your heart will become a beautiful, glittering stone inside your chest, effectively killing you. The Baskerville employees look devilishly pleased at this turn of events, because apparently the idea of all the guests of the manor succumbing to their literal broken hearts fills them with a wicked joy.

If you run outside to escape the terrible voyeurism, Portia and Jonty can be caught having a rather heated tiff with the Ringleader, Portia clutching the locket wrapped around her own neck with a pained expression. After a moment of back and forth insults, you might catch Portia and Jonty exchanging words of their own before sharing a rare and surprisingly passionate kiss, cheeks flaring and hands wandering, before they both disappear into a tent in a tangle of limbs and lavish clothing. It would be rude to time them, but upon emerging, their lockets are broken off their necks, wearing expressions of relief, Portia with a slight limp to her step.

Your own symptoms worsen the longer the night goes on, the pain in your chest dizzying, your throat growing raw and bloodied as you begin to cough up fragments of glass. If you stayed in the movie tent, the videos change to live performances of people — your friends, your enemies, the people you have yet to meet — choking and dying on screen. The ticking sound pierces your mind like a lance, again and again. The only solution? it seems you must snub out some sliver of purity within yourself and give a significant first to a partner — be it a few meaningful words you haven't yet shared, or a raunchy sex act you've never considered before. Your locket can’t be removed until you de-virgin some part of yourself. And if you don’t? Well, at least you know your heart will be a beautiful trinket.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

▣ QUESTIONS?

[saltburnmods]

Feel free to leave any questions you have regarding the Test Drive here.

[chokedout]

Assuming anyone isn't preoccupied by the time they get to the top of the ferris wheel, is there any interesting sights to see on the horizon / area around Saltburnt?

▣ TOP LEVELS

[saltburnmods]

New characters, feel free to link your toplevels here for easy grabs!

buffy summers — btvs

[bronze]

over here!

buffy summers — btvs, new character

[bronze]

WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME

a — ( let it not be said that buffy doesn’t have a team spirit energy — she doesn’t really kick up a fuss as she guided by baskerville employees behind a particular booth, mostly full of questioning oh, oh okay sure, fine, yeesh pushy folly work. behind the booth’s countertop, they remind her with cheshire cat smiles remember, make the smooches good ones!, which has buffy’s brain playing catch up long enough to give them a easy escape from the inevitable crash out of her disbelief. she blinks multiple times, leaning out the booth’s window to peer upwards at the sign KISSING BOOTH in big, purple letters. buffy scoffs, blatantly offended, crossing her arms over her chest. )

Well, that’s rude. There’s not even a dollar sign.

( still, this is team spirit buffy. this is go-getter, do-gooder buffy. this is, by and large, poke at her containment and figure out the gag of this place buffy.

so, it’s with a sign edited with cherry red lipstick that buffy sits behind the counter, leaning her folded arms against it, smiling awkward at passersby. it reads: KISSING BOOTH — CHEEKS ONLY (keep your pants on) )

b — ( buffy, cheeks aflame and head down, has the front of her shirt bunched into a fist as she storms away from the merry-go-round. or — she storms away for about five paces, stops abruptly, looks as if she curses the sky for how she glares at it, before turning on her heels and marching back to the ride. at it, she informs whoever is managing it: )

Hi. You have to shut this thing down. ( to any amount of resistance: a mean um duh expression across her features. ) Because if you don’t, I’m going to break it.

( to anyone at the front of the line, she says: ) Don’t go on it. Trust me. It makes you — ( very swiftly reminded of why this has to stop, her cheeks light up again, breaths a little quick, patting hands through her hair. um, right. ) Just don’t.

PICK A CARD, ANY CARD

option: wheel of fortune upright ; Sudden reversals of fortune (and roles): rags to riches, sub to dom, prey to predator. Shifting power dynamics and control. / Events spiral out of your control — chance encounters, spontaneous sex / Everything feels fated, like your choices no longer matter / Streak of random luck follows you everywhere, from love to betting games

( protestations about dipping into the arcane for all this kind of melt away once she takes a seat in front of madame patchouli, a very cute old lady. not that buffy is the type to be consoled by outward appearances, and not that she isn’t equally disbelieving and awkward in the face of magic not at the hands of willow or tara, but because she’s at the end of a long rope. she’s done all the basework, asked around, gone where she isn’t supposed to, tried to trail a balfour or two all to no avail. when sense doesn’t make sense, then there’s magic. (or reading, but. she’s not doing that.)

after her fortune is told, she walks out of the tent with a strange lightness to her step. nothing’s really been cleared up, but — you know, it’s a wonder things suddenly feel like they might be okay. to the first person buffy meets afterwards, she has a smile across her face (for once, not forced) and hooks arms with them, affectionately. )

It’s like we were meant to meet. Come on, I’ll win you a stuffed animal.

WILDCARD

( anything else! feel free to hit me up with your own prompts and/or message me over pm or at trashmouth to plot something out. )

welcome a

[degero]

[ There's something to be said about gift horses and mouths, but Angel's in no position to say anything about it one way or another, not with the sun on his face and a Buffy in front of him.

She hasn't noticed him yet, thanks to his quiet skulking and the fact that she seems to be enjoying herself, and for a moment he thinks that's for the best. For a moment, he considers turning away completely and abandoning her to whatever game she's getting herself into, but here's the problem: walking away from her is the hardest thing he's ever done in his life. He's not strong enough to keep doing it.

So, instead, as if nothing is different between them, as if there's nothing dangerous at all at approaching her with a tilt of his head and the small smile on his lips, Angel plays at being both cool and coy.

It doesn't really work when he half stutters on his words. ]

Only the cheek? Seems almost a shame.

Rupert Giles | BtVS

[ripher]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT — cw: n/a

No, for the last time, you want the butler, not -- oh, forget it. I think it's this way.

[ This, then, is the story of Giles' life, eternally required to shepherd lost young people down endless hallways while he would rather be doing literally anything else. At least the decor is interesting, though it's hard to really focus through the hangover he doesn't really feel is justified, given that he can't actually remember the night before. He rubs his throbbing temples with one hand as he wanders down the hall, wayward teens in tow, looking valiantly for anything familiar. A staircase will do. How could this place possibly have so many rooms and no stairs?

Turning a corner, he spots another figure who seems to be somewhat less lost, or at least more confident. ]

Oh, hello! Could you tell me if we're going in the right direction for the, um, the stairs?

PICK A CARD — cw: n/a but anything's possible

[ Having discovered that the manor is not at all what it seems -- and with a headache that has, in fact, only gotten worse -- it's not particularly surprising that the circus has also arrived, just to turn an already ridiculous day into something that seems designed to test every single bit of Giles' remaining patience. He approaches the whole thing with an air of significant wariness, as if on the lookout for the least excuse to do something rash, or possibly to go back inside to hide in the library until he wakes up properly from this bizarre dream.

Having made the considerable error of agreeing to a tarot reading, he is determined to only stick to the safest possible games and prizes, keeping his eye out for any further mischief.

Unfortunately, a mixture of honest curiosity, exhaustion, and latent British politeness means he can't say no to being dragged over to the dress up booth, where he's attempting to try and persuade the stallholder he doesn't need to become a Vegas showgirl (complete with feather boa) while clearly trying to catch the eye of anyone walking past who might be able to save him. ]

No, please -- that's very kind of you, but no, it's.. it's really not my colour..

[ Help. ]

WILDCARD

[ OOC: Up for anything and everything with the prompts! On laetificat for plotting. ]

pick a card

[bronze]

( it's happenstance — or dare she say luck, which she's had in strange supply lately? — that has her crossing paths and catching eyes with giles as she walks by. very dramatically, she takes another step back to watch the horror, giving giles a pitying look. poor thing. oh well. she keeps walking.

no, obviously not. she enters in the open flap of the tent, with some flourish, grinning at the employee. )

No, seriously. He doesn't have the legs for it.

( buffy, a bit more comfortable with being rude than giles, effectively shoos the worker away, though not before they can toss the boa over giles' shoulders, a lone feather resting on the top of his head. buffy stares at him with a squinty eyed look, trying very hard not to laugh, to maintain some baseline seriousness. it is — in a certain way, very tense. she hasn't seen him in awhile. this is very much england, where he went in some small part to not be by her. buffy is the one intruding, possibly.

except, she can't really follow that thought to its conclusion, because she's abruptly laughing instead, pressing a hand to her face, shaking her head, and then crossing over to giles, throwing her arms around his neck, boa and all. )

g████ s████/ms. casey | severance | current player, new character

[chikhaibardo]

( NOTE: top level and following responses will contain spoilers for severance through both seasons. )

willkommen, bienvenue, welcome. (cw: experimentation, torture, dissociation, alternate personalities)

[ gemma eases her way into life in saltburnt, sticking mostly to the rooms she can easily identify and keeping track of their locations in her head as best she can. she keeps to herself, a little wary of the opulence on display and the people acting as if it's normal. she doesn't approach the staff, occasionally running her fingertips over a calloused spot on the tip of her finger or in the crook of her elbow when she sees them around. none of them have doctor maurer's icy blue stare or nurse cecily's soothing tone but something tells her not to trust them anyway.

nighttime draws her out to the festivities, her mind pulled to memories of her childhood, clutching her parents hands as they maneuvered through the crowds at the county fair and begging to try the cotton candy or see the animals, eyes wide as she took in the fields of flowers and different plants on display in the greenhouses. memories with mark at the ganz fundraiser carnival come up when she spots the ferris wheel and games, remembering him trying to win her a cheap stuffed snake and him clutching her hand as they rode the ferris wheel together, not letting on until they were in the beer garden afterward that he'd been terrified of the thing falling apart.

the booths catch her attention as she debates trying to see if there's anything beyond what's available in the closets to wear, and she browses through sweaters and dresses for a few moments before her eyes fall upon a mannequin with dark, wavy hair in a green sweater and jeans, and her heart leaps into her throat. her breaths go halting and shaky as her hand wraps around a clothes hanger, trying to will herself not to shake.

this isn't lumon. she doesn't know if it's any less dangerous, but it's not lumon. she's out, mark had gotten her out, she's free -

but then why does it look like her? why does it have the outfit she'd been wearing? why -

her eyelids flutter as her eyes roll back, and a shudder moves through her body before she goes still, her eyes opening again.

this is unusual. this is not lumon. it is not the severed floor.

she turns to the nearest person to her, who, if they've been watching or even just witnessed her reaction to the mannequin, may be thrown off by her sudden calm and formal tone. ]

Hello. Do you know what is happening?

pick a card, any card. (cw: experimentation, torture, dissociation, alternate personalities)

[ the same strange fluttering of eyelids and shudder passes through her as she steps through the entrance of the tent, finding a woman there who introduces herself as madame patchouli. not remembering how she got there, she looks around, a little frantic, but relieved when she no longer spots the mannequins or racks of clothing or whatever had caused her to lose track of where she'd been, the way she'd feared would happen since waking up here. the woman speaks to her calmly, encouraging her to sit, and gemma's not sure she should, but she doesn't really want to face what had lead to her to becoming someone else, either.

she sits, and the woman gives gemma a reading that she's not sure what to make of. she knows the significance of tarot in general but can't recall the specifics of the cards that are pulled and what they mean. she leaves the tent feeling less afraid but more frustrated and ends up stalking towards the games, hoping there's one where she gets to test her aim. ]

( NOTE: gemma's drawing included wheel of fortune (upright), which induces the following: sudden reversals of fortune (and roles): rags to riches, sub to dom, prey to predator, shifting power dynamics and control/events spiral out of your control/chance encounters, spontaneous sex/everything feels fated, like your choices no longer matter/streak of random luck follows you everywhere, from love to betting games. )

network (un: gemmas).

I noticed a library but I've heard about it being magic. [ which is weird to her and shouldn't be possible, but one could argue her being here at all shouldn't be possible, so it seems weird to try and make it make sense beyond what she's been able to figure out on her own. ] Can anyone specify what that means? Has anyone gone in and not come back out, or is it capable of other things, like generating objects out of nowhere or the sections being switched out or expanding?

[ she'd like to see what they have in the way of russian literature, but she's been afraid to go in and not come out, or become someone else again. she's not sure which would be worse. ]

Thank you.

wildcard/ooc.

[ if none of this works for you please feel free to choose your own adventure! gemma is also available for more neutral prompts, especially while trying to learn more about where she is and trying to learn the layout. if you have any questions please feel free to pm me! ]

Network (un: alphabitch)

[ragesagainsttheodds]

they probs mean it in the ✨️reading is magic✨️ bullshit way

magic isn't real

roza zaripova | original | new player, new character

[temporicide]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

[ Roza knows something has gone wrong before her eyes open. She jolts her upper half forward and up, squints hard enough that her vision floats little tadpole dots for a moment or two, long enough for her to recognize she is gone again. A rumbling sound starts to drone in the back of her mind in the manner of an immense object slowly nearing a smaller one. It is larger than her body, than a building, face filling the horizon of her head from top to bottom, its hum to her like the distant approach of a falling star. She is the small thing, but this stellar motion lives in her. That's half of why her head hurts. She imagines this catastrophic heat melting her veins and tissues to extinction. Blood rushes in her ears so fast her head also starts to swim. Maybe that's the sound. Maybe it's the spiritual avalanche that lives inside her, rushing and roaring, but usually only at Roza. Now it coalesces, concentrates. It pings in a manner akin to a pyrotechnic flare, like a psychic distress signal (of which she is barely cognizant). In the mind's eye, the electric-green brilliance of the aurora spans burning and bright and far, wriggling across the sky in a pulsating burst. Falling away like a million larvae of light, dispersed back into nothingness.

She made this happen.

It wasn't like this last time. That had felt like an adventure — until she put down roots. That's why this is happening, Roza thinks, faint and frenzied. The failure to believe in change as the law of all things has merited punishment. The universe is teaching her a lesson. The notion that it is probably deserved allocates the dry kindling of guilt across her gut, her brain.

But an arcane tug ripples along the dancer's muscle of her inner thigh, where a bite mark tattoo sits, perfectly placed for obvious visibility in short skirts. This feels like referred sensation, when one part of her body asks a question of another, and the response is: YES, IDIOT. Follow that feeling. So she tries. She moves along the hallway fast, aiming for Outside, which calls to half of her, even as an interior, alien want tells her to do the opposite. She is wearing hastily pulled-on boots, underwear, and a tank top, which wouldn't have raised an eyebrow back There, but Here, who knows? All Roza herself knows is hunting-dog instinct, a red thread invisible to all but her own eyes tied tight around her throat, pulling her forward like a leash. She's bumping into people. She's nearly running, turning half-around to hiss sorry and excuse me, all while barely slowing down. Twice she ends up at the dining room's threshold. At this point she is practically a blur of motion.

On the third pass, she cuts through the dining room in a different direction. The Outside here is heavily groomed, domesticated, but at least she's in it. Unfamiliar energy slips under her skin through the tenderest parts of herself when they're exposed: her carotid pulse beating hummingbird-fast, but also the wet pink of her tongue and the fleshy buccal mucosa inside her cheek when she opens her mouth to say something (and then just doesn't), the eyelids all the way to the point they meet her lashes, the inner thighs' adductor muscles. Lips, too, turned down at the corners. She has no membrane. Nothing protects her. Her body still in a taut sidelong lean, as she swivels to the nearest stranger, poised like she might really set off in a dead run this time: ]

I'm sorry to skip breakfast. But if you could, please, [ she chooses her words slow and careful, to stem the disoriented, overstimulated tide a little longer, ] tell me where the nearest body of water is. There is one, right?

WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME

[ Roza stands motionlessly silhouetted by the cascade of carnival lights. The raven's-feather black of her hair is reflective, eating up all the neon. She stares directly upward at an array of starlings, which have collected at the corners of one tent, their little artificial bodies making correspondingly small sags against its material. In the scope of her belief system, these aren't really birds, but they do have their own souls and should be treated respectfully. ]

I'm not gonna touch them. [ She may be saying this to absolutely no one. Talking to herself as much as a stranger or the not-birds is not outside the realm of possibility. ] But they should be greeted. Hello. You're called Sorrow, Joy, Wedding, and Birth.

[ Mechanical bird, mechanical jewelry. She thumbs the locket, not thrilled by its anchored nature, but maybe she can ask the not-birds about its mysteries. A wooden table has been left neglected at the outside corner of the tent. Nimbly, Roza climbs up to stand on top of it, determined to get a closer look. ]

PICK A CARD, ANY CARD

[ The aerial displays are the single most exciting thing to happen to her yet. A few minutes are spent admiringly watching the acrobats, their twisting and turning filling her head like a film she wants to watch over and over again. Before long, Roza detours to the practice area, where she conjoins herself with a set of long red silks. She has no apparent interest in safety measures: swift and keen, she winds herself up by the waist to the highest peak possible inside the tent, and then just — lets go, whirling and whirling delicately to about two feet above-ground in one heart-stopping and fluid unravel.

At the end, Roza tips her body upside down, held by the left ankle, like the man in her least-favorite tarot card. She sways in place, which feels nicely meditative. The other leg parts so that she can do a half-split, mid-air — and her flexibility is suspiciously just north of natural. Her ankle definitely went behind her head at one point, its corresponding knee bent so that she can twirl her body until she is almost dizzy.

But mostly the elation of the fall has made her laugh, champagne-spill bubbly and soft. Lit up inside with the thrill of energy expended, joy spangling in psychic sparks across her body from head to toe. Hopefully none of the real performers mind a little show-off amusing herself in proximity to their art. The minute she sees an onlooker, she points directly at them, still suspended, her white sundress dripping down against her thighs and hips, her hair flowing black toward the ground: ]

You. Come and try!

welcome

[dwelt]

[he's late to breakfast, a slow start thanks to a sleepless night. the nightmares are softer in saltburnt, detached from his heavy burden, he expects them to taper off within the next few weeks. groggy and still half asleep, he's suddenly very aware of everything, snapped awake by the crack of power as roza nears.

the untamed energy reaches him first and his own magic, sharp as knives, reaches out to hers. unpredictable clashes with unpredictable, popped like a bubble of glass as roza - a whirlwind - hurries down the halls in next to nothing.]

There's a lake past the gardens.

[narrowing his eyes at her, looking over her body not out of a salacious nature, but concern. checking for bodily harm or hints of something else - reasons why she would want water to begin with. he doesn't ask why, or assume she needs (or wants) to be escorted.]

Do you want me to show you where it is?

angel — btvs — new character

[degero]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT. —

[ Most guests probably aren't as panicked by the morning rays waking them up as Angel is, but he's quick to scramble out of the room and into the hallway instead, covering his face with his arms and looking around as if someone had just let off a gunshot. It takes what can only be described as a comedicly long time for him to realise he isn't burning to a crisp, and then...

Then he just looks utterly confused.

A little like a dog that's been abandoned on the side of the road, waiting for their owner to come back.

Eventually, he starts to wander the hallways, a looming, depressed presence as he goes here and there, still awkwardly wincing at every window he comes across, just in case. Running into a stranger has him pausing, and he pauses for a moment before he manages something that looks like a smile. ]

You lost as well?

[ Put him out of his misery. ]

WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME. —

[ Anyone wandering by the costume department will find a very frustrated looking vampire trying to shove a pair of hands away from his shoulders without doing anything to actually hurt them.

It's not going well.

The attendant is desperate to get Angel into a costume, and it looks from the curly, afro-style rainbow wig and the giant red nose that they're trying to get him to be a clown. The look of utter horror and digust on Angel's face doesn't seem to be getting through to them, and eventually he's grabbing the red nose and throwing it as far as he can get it.

Pretty far. Go long? ]

Thanks, but no thanks. Anyone ever told you that Halloween costumes are tacky?

[ Old habit die hard, even if it isn't Halloween here yet. ]

Just - let me out of here, alright?

[ Help him. ]

WILDCARD. —

( Literally do whatever you want, idc! Hit me up on discord or plurk at aziraphale to figure something out if needed. )

welcome to saltburnt

[leavening]

[Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you talk to), Angel isn't the only looming, depressed presence in the manor. Like recognizes like or something to that effect, so Hyunsu isn't especially put off by Angel's sad attempt at a smile. Honestly he's seen far worse and more awkward attempts from Eunhyuk when he's trying to act like a normal person.

Hyunsu glances down the hall and then back at Angel before answering his question.]

No. I'm on my way to breakfast. [and then there's a beat before he adds:] Where are you trying to go?

theo price | original

[chokedout]

ᴀ: ᴡɪʟʟᴋᴏᴍᴍᴇɴ, ʙɪᴇɴᴠᴇɴᴜᴇ, ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ (ʙᴏᴏᴛʜ)
[cw: none]

[Theo's seated at one of the booths during the circus emporium, in a fun fit, with table full of chalk pastels, charcoal and paints. There's an easel set up with slips of paper on a board, and a stool for guests to sit on solo or in pairs to get their likeness sketched. Not quite caricatures but more a moment captured in time (his words!), the depth of detail varies on how long guests feel obliged to sit and chat with him. Later into the night Theo's hands are much more colorful, pastel colors rubbed off on his clothes and skin - and he wipes his fingertips clean with a rag between sessions.]

What do you think, want to be my next muse?

ʙ: ᴡɪʟʟᴋᴏᴍᴍᴇɴ, ʙɪᴇɴᴠᴇɴᴜᴇ, ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ
[cw: smut potential, tbd]

[Theo's waiting at the base of the ferris wheel, watching it go around with an idle look of interest - whether he's snacking on some popcorn or chewing on candy, he seems caught between lining up to board and staying off to the side. Seems he can't quite decide whether he wants to board, could it possibly be because he doesn't want to do so solo?]

Heeeeey... how are you with heights?

ɴᴏᴛᴇs
[Theo's permissions are here, kinks listed here and you can reach me on plurk (witchpunk) for any questions or plotting!]

( closed | cellar ) tw: breathplay, dubcon

[chokedout]

[Not exactly sure who first started spreading word of what would help them or whether or not the suggestion is even to be believed. Nonetheless, the crowds are awash with whispers and hurried motion and people, like Theo, are clutching at the locket with a hurried sense of distress. With either prospect being particularly bad for him - Theo's panic only subsides when he's able to find his way back to Cellar, eyes darker than ever and not a trace of airy, ditsy flirting in his body.

He squeezes her hand, flexes their fingers together, runs his up her arm in a nervous fluttering touch before dropping away. His brain is surprisingly blank for alternatives - the one time being a total fucking slut doesn't come in handy is when you're trying to count virginal firsts on one hand and still struggling to lift a single finger. His only hope is on a technicality, with this body, and it's easier to try and fail early on so there's still time to scramble later on should it fail.]

... We talked about this - I don't know if it'd even work, but. Do you think you could? I think I can.

august moreau | original, current character/player

[dwelt]

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒌𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏, 𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒖𝒆, 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 ( cw: kind of nsfw, public indecency, potential for more nsfw but doesn’t have to be )

[the smell of sweet popcorn and caramel. as much as august avoids sweets, he can’t resist the alluring nostalgia of a circus. he’d enjoy it more if not for the locket around his neck, heavy in its delicacy. he knows how this goes - he’ll need to wait and find another way to remove it. finding something to eat that isn’t sugarcoated is impossible - even the drinks seem to have an extra added sweetness, something he soon realizes as he goes from booth to booth and forgoes any of the food and drink entirely, choosing to wander the circus empty handed. those that know him will notice he’s grown up significantly, with shorter hair and a fuller face, and those more magically inclined may feel overwhelmed from the dark energy that emanates from him.

the rides are fun to watch. years (but really a few weeks for those who had to wait for him to wake up) passed and he’s still a voyeur. he eyes the ferris wheel as it turns and carries its passengers higher and higher, even catches a glimpse of the glass heating up as people succumb to the pressure.

it’s the hypnotic turning of mythical creatures on the merry-go-round that draw his attention the most. brightly colored animals with their golden poles and the hands of their riders clutching around them, their eyes closed in ecstasy and lips parted, cheeks flushed and dewy. someone has caught august’s eye, and as soon as the ride begins to slow and the waves of orgasm are being shuddered out, he’s there on the platform to hold out his hand to help them down.]

Are you okay?

[he got quite the show but it doesn’t mean they wanted to be in the spotlight.]

𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅( cw: drug use, potential violence, potential nsfw )
3 card spread options: 1. wheel of fortune reversed (loss of agency becomes a kink, desperation for instability, engaging in risky behavior), 2. the devil (addiction or obsession, pleasure found in extremes, forbidden desires), and 3. chariot (ruthless and focused on conquest - seducing someone who resists, strategic pursuit of goals, dom/sub, physically unstoppable, big predatory energy)

[of course he finds himself at madame patchouli’s booth, scrutinizing her hands more than her face as she shuffles the worn but loved cards. all major arcana, staring up at him from the table to be deciphered. he doesn’t trust her or the cards, leaving the booth with a feeling of foreign discomfort. hungry but not hungry, itching for a fight, heart racing with adrenaline. god, he hasn’t wanted to fight someone in so, so long.

he takes a quick trip to the coronal and a few lines of coke later, he’s back outside with more urgency. he hates how each drink tastes, but he drinks anyway—just chasing the next level of drunk. with a tunnel vision of moving forward and not around, he bumps past someone roughly. not bothering to stop and knowing what he’s about to say is going to make the interaction more unpleasant, he glances over his shoulder with a tone of certain authority.]

Watch it. I don’t want to deal with you.

[august is an experienced fighter and can hold his own without magic if someone chooses to turn this into an altercation.]

𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ( cw: noncon sex tape )

a.
[relaxing in the main tent after all the affairs is wishful thinking. august looks up at the montage of smiling faces and quirky music twisting into a loud display of skin, of flashes of his tattoos and messy kisses and his hands digging into his partner's waist so tightly bruises are left behind. there's no playing guess who with this one, not with so many obvious pointers to his identity and the attention from the crew, heads all turned in his direction.

bristling from the blatant disregard of respect more than embarrassment, august keeps his eyes on the screen and waits for his show to end. a defiant body in his seat, he's as still as ever until the warmth he assumes is from the alcohol moves into his chest, weighing him down. then he's flooded with a sense of wrongness - hot and painful and desperate. the change in him is so minute it's hard to tell when he goes from comfortable to masking discomfort, but anyone sitting next to him will see the signs: hands clenched, set jaw, pupils dilating. not that he'll mention anything, not until he sees that it isn't only happening to him.]

b.
[forget pride. he's leaving, and just in time to watch as portia and jonty embrace and disappear into a tent of their own. dread fills his heart. he knows where this is going, but someone else might not. turning to whoever is closest who may have heard more than he did, simply for the sake of gathering all the information before he makes an attempt to warn people:]

Tell me what they were arguing about.

[he's no stranger to death's ticking clock, but it isn't supposed to feel like this. not his. he knows what to expect and he's not going to let himself be taken earlier than he has to.]

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅

( or choose your own adventure. open to all prompts and i wrote so many oopsie. feel free to play around w/ timing or anything tbh. message me on plurk @ turnt or disco @ melusine4300 to plot something out or request a starter! )

( sharing is caring : semi-wildcard ) cw: gratuitous injuries, pseudo-snuff

[deadnerve]

[The montage on film flickers through different people in varied states of undress and ecstasy, but every so often shows something darker. People lashing one another, hands around throats as often as cocks - and the longer this screen rolls through film, the more graphic some of it becomes. Some people've already turned their eyes away, some are already fucking, but anyone left watching will see Devon on screen in a series of small, short flickers.

On his knees, head bowed and breathing hard. Looking up, blood running freely from his nose and mouth. Arm broken viciously at an angle. Writhing in the dirt, attempting to stand. Someone's boot crashing down repeatedly. A lifeless(?) form. Then back to lewd shots of others riding one another, like that hadn't just been inserted amongst the other filthy clips.

It just so happens that the seat next to August is empty moments later, and Devon drops into it - caked with blood but grinning like he's proud to have just seen himself on film. He cocks his head to August, thumb toward the screen. All his bones are back in place but a few bruises linger, namely around his jaw.]

You wouldn't believe what I got for letting that dickwad nut like that.

[Through the apparent snuff(?)]

jake "hangman" seresin | top gun: maverick | new player/char!

[ailerons]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

[ In the grand scheme of things, Jake is trying not to think things like: I HAVE DIED AND GONE TO A VERSION OF HELL THAT DESPERATELY LOVES THE 2000S.

He's been here for three days and had a hangover for two of them, so Jake, at least, knows that this is not his version of heaven. For one, Jake Seresin has never met a hangover he couldn't outrun with a green smoothie and vicious cardio at 5am; for another, his last cogent memory is of landing a direct hit on a Su-57, and the less he inspects the correlation between that and waking up here, the better.

The bottom line is that, on the third day, much like another well-regarded and famously charming man flirting with resurrection, he is half-naked. An incredibly fluffy towel slung low on his hips, Jake whistles as he makes his way up the stairs. Hair still damp from a shower, water beading down his neck, balancing a plate of, like, five egg mcsandwiches. ]

This isn't what it looks like.

[ He says, breezily, to another person in the hallway. Flashes them the exact bright, golden grin that got him on two different recruitment posters. He's three doors down from his room when it occurs to him to stop mid-step, pointing down at his plate. ]

We can do this, right. [ Dropping sotto-voce, he raises a hand, covering the side of his mouth to whisper: ] I can do this without having to give ol' Giles a discreet but thorough handjob?

WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME (cw potential nsfw, eventual ferris wheel aphro??)

[ In the grand scheme of things, Jake is trying not to think things like: WHO THE HELL KNOWS HOW TO SET UP A CIRCUS OVERNIGHT?

Not that that's his problem. The necklace, probably, might end up being a problem, and there is a weird amount of what the net of his attention is telling him aren't actually birds, but it's not like anybody here's freaking out. Or counting out demerits against regulation dress code. Cutting the limits of an all-American figure — white tee a size too small, jeans, a kilowatt smile — Jake doesn't look like he has much of a care in the world, mouthing some powdered sugar off the side of his thumb. One hand curled over his brows, he peers up at the ferris wheel, immediately turning to a fellow bystander: ]

What do you think? No fun riding one to a cab. [ He jerks a thumb to the towering attraction, expression pinching into something that's sharp and teasing and throwing down a gauntlet. ] Don't tell me you're afraid of heights?

WILDCARD

[ ooc | very easy to find everywhere else! head empty, glen powell shirtless. if you'd like to chat other options or for me to write one specifically for you, hmu @ virginiawoolf on plurk! ]

welcome to saltburnt.

[haggle]

( it's exactly what it looks like, ani assumes — fresh fucking meat for the banquet. the good news: he fits in with every other golden boy in the house, boys as pretty as shiny trophies and jawlines that have work harder than they ever have. the bad news: he's got a swagger that proves he knows it, walking red flag central. ani would know — she's made a living from having the most sparkle in a room, the bright, flashy thing an eye finds first. what they want to pocket, just to brag and say they have.

the difference between them is: she didn't step into this world looking like she belonged to it. she had thrown lamps at any moving object in her first nights waking up, sharp edges flying, fists braced, instead of looking like she walked out of an abercrombie and fitch ad. there's none of that aggression, now — or just some shade of it, no-bullshit aura that seeps out of her pores, from where she stands as a blockade in the hallway. not walking, not budging an inch, owning the space. forcing him into the uncomfortable position of moving around her, if he wants to try, like a golden retriever sidestepping a cat.

her mouth twitches, nearly into an amused smirk, bitten back by teeth in her cheek. the cherry-red end of her cigarette flicks ash, carelessly, more likely to put a light up giles' ass than any stolen breakfast sandwich. )

I heard you gotta suck, swallow and smile for it. Better get to work, honey.

( unabashedly crass — not that she owes mister towel manners, even if she had them. she lends him a once-over, unapologetic — she's just giving him what she expects he wants, which is to be looked at. it's a distraction, in the end — the lightest brush of her fingers as she snatches the top mcmuffin off his plate. there, and free for the taking. hers now. )

But thanks for breakfast. Smells like real gourmet testosterone and cheese.

Ren Rages-Against-The-Odds O'Neill - OC - New Player

[ragesagainsttheodds]

WELCOME TO SALTBURN

Rowan?

[ Ren has been to many a party with her clan that have ended up with her with a bad head and last night's clothes. It's just deeply weird that her usual partyfiend of a packmate hadn't crashed on the floor with her. That was their usual.

Ignoring the staff, Ren starts poking her head into bedrooms, trying doors and--]

Oh, shit, sorry-- [ Glancing away when she catches doing something they probably don't want an audience to. She covered her eyes with her face. ] Hey, look, sorry petal. I'm lookin' for me pal - Rowan. They're enbie, short hair, probably passed out somewhere?

WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME

[ The circus was fun at first. Until it, like, wasn't. There were too many people and the makeup that lady had talked her into made her feel claustrophobic and like people might be laughing at her behind her back and she kind of wanted to wash it off immediately. Rage, the kind that only took flight from humiliation, rose in her chest, as she felt at her neck and couldn't find the catch of her necklace. Stupid fucking thing--

She grabs someone with a yank towards herself and a demand as she claws at the necklace;] Get this fuckin' thing off me.

PICK A CARD, ANY CARD

[ The arial silks had caught her attention straight away. Athleticism came easily for Ren and soon she was climbing and securing loops around herself so that she could sit in a nest and observe safely from near the ceiling.

That did mean she could linger and get a birds eye view of what people were up to, brown eyes burning a hole in the back of people's heads as she observed. ]

[ooc - Ren is a 21 year old werewolf from a werewolf environmentalist cult and resident tough girl of her pack. Feel free to throw wildcards at me. ]

welcome.

[temporicide]

[ Roza, only partly-dressed, startles slightly, shoulders popping up as breath shucks fast through her teeth. Her head turns before her body does, avian. Her previously more circumspect attitude toward casual nudity has not completely left her, but it has certainly migrated, siphoned away by a town that has a few dangerous things in common with this grand estate to which she has been abducted a second goddamn time.

She tugs the rest of her underwear on, low-cut around her hips. It fits, but it reminds her of the stuff her sister used to shoplift from the racks when they went to the nice mall in Anchorage, made to be worn with, and probably exposed by, a certain cut of jeans. ]

I haven't seen them. But I've been looking for someone, too. Did they get lost, or did you?

melissa | yellowjackets | new player, new character

[temujackie]

welcome (breakfast)

[ If there’s one thing you learn to do after living deep in the woods as part of a feral soccer team-slash-cult of girls (and one dude) for over a year, it's to roll with things when even when they start to get weird as shit, because playing along just might be what keeps you safe. Or, if not safe, then at least alive.

Besides, there were unlabeled painkillers on the bedside table that Melissa definitely helped herself to before she made her way down here, and after not taking so much as a single Tylenol in a very, very long time, she's feeling preeetty good as she helps herself to what looks like a straight gallon of juice and then starts cramming blackberries into her mouth one-handed.

After a while, she feels eyes on her and straightens up in embarrassment. ] What? Um—sorry, I wasn't listening. [ She’s hungry. ]

willkommen, bienvenue, welcome

[ Weird things continue to get weirder, but at least not Bad Weird. Yet.

Melissa finds herself leaning over the railing near the Ferris wheel, staring up at it in interest. It's not so much that she thinks it’ll be fun as it is wanting to get a clearer idea of where, exactly, she is, and going to the highest spot she can get to seems smart.

But it might also be a little bit fun.

Before she can stop herself, she sets her jaw and makes her way over to the line and approaches the first person who looks like they're by themselves. ]

Is it okay if I ride with you? [ Because the only thing more lame than riding with a total stranger would be riding alone, so... ]

pick a card, any card (( the lovers - reversed - torn between multiple lovers, unable to commit ; erotic fixation on taboo/forbidden connections (infidelity/betrayal, incest kink, blackmail, emotional manipulation) ; self-destructive impulses in love: craving heartbreak, craving to ruin things that feel too good, craving partners that aren’t good for you))

[ Melissa shuffles around the edges of the walkways in between the booths, looking down as she passes in case someone makes eye contact with her and tries to cajole her into participating—she's always sucked at avoiding the people selling things out of those free-standing kiosks at the mall because as soon as they make eye contact, she can't say no. She does her best to avoid the tarot card booth in particular—it seems like a bad omen be messing with cards of any kind—but as always, a brief moment of eye contact does her in, and so at the first crook of Madame Patchouli's wrinkled pointer finger she finds herself walking over and planting herself anxiously into the seat across the table.

It's not bad, though. The soft shuffling of the cards is familiar and weirdly kind of soothing, and the instinctive surge of anxiety Melissa feels when she pulls her card is quickly replaced by relief, because. Well. Because it's a tarot deck, not playing cards. So it's probably fine.

Once she’s up and walking away, she gives an awkward little thumbs up to whoever looks like they’re thinking about getting their fortune read. ]

I mean nobody really believes in this shit, right? [ ... with an awkward laugh. Haha! She definitely doesn't. Nooo. ]

wildcard
[ I'm down for whateverrrr, please hmu at errorchord for any reason!

Melissa is a weird little stalker masquerading as a teenage girl. She accidentally became important at work by wilderness dating Shauna Shipman, and she's coming in from the end of 3x07 because it's funnier that way. Because of this, her right arm is temporarily in a sling. Okay thanks byyyye ]

willkommen, bienvenue, welcome

[ragesagainsttheodds]

[ Ren is staring up at the ferris wheel slackjawed and trying to figure out how the hell they put this up in a couple of hours. They remind her of days out at the seaside as a child but casually having one on your family estate? These people have money money.

She glances back down to earth, trading thoughts for an easy smile. ] Aye sure, saves me from being a billy-no-mates. D'you reckon this is safe? They whacked it up pretty quick.

alia atreides | dune | current character/player

[preborns]

i. wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome

a) carnival games: [such a strange sort of party, this -- it reminds alia of the faire, trivial and simple and lighthearted. she has been quieter, more reserved since the turn of the year -- the loss of her powers, however temporary, had sobered her, as had the disappearance of her mother. these days, alia haunts sol * scroll and the remembrance pool nearly exclusively, choosing to visit her beloved lake in the early hours, to remain unobserved.

yet here she is, the height of the spring sun above her, dressed like any girl at a carnival might, sundress and sunlight on her flushed cheeks, hair bright and golden where it tumbles over her shoulders. alia walks slowly, pauses at nearly every booth, silently observing, unresponsive beyond a solemn, unblinking stare if spoken to, clearly seeking out something, something. when she finds it at last, her serious expression splits into a too-wide, uncanny grin, and she reaches out to grasp the sleeve of the person closest to her.

pointing, alia indicates her prize: the noble djungelskog.] Win me that. [it's -- more command than request.]

b) ferris wheel: [when the sun goes down, the ferris wheel becomes a spinning beacon of neon light, stretching up into the sky like a wayward comet, drawing alia's attention from across the fair grounds. she hurries over, light-footed and sticky-fingered, scurrying through the line in an attempt to get on the last partially-open car -- two per car, two per car, please drones the immensely bored operator. alia ducks past him, slips into the last seat, plopping herself across from someone and immediately turning her attention out to the view.

the grounds surrounding saltburnt are dark, expansive countryside in every direction, though perhaps a keen eye could see glimmers of city lights far, far in the distance. alia cares not for any of that -- her view is fixed upwards, to the stars, or out across the grounds of the place she's come to call home, as the ferris wheel begins to turn.

alia is up on her knees, both hands pressed to the window of the small, enclosed car, sandals falling off her feet as she gazes up and up and up with a look of enraptured delight on her face. the tiny car is getting warm, steamy, before she thinks to turn and examine her companion.]

Come and see. [demanding, one sandal falling to the floor of the cart with a "clunk as she reaches out, grasps at their arms, tugs.] Come, come, come.

ii. pick a card, any card

[anyone passing by madame patchouli's tent will abruptly have an indignant alia propelled into her path, bodily shoved out by the irritated soothsayer, still clutching her card -- the Star, upright -- to her chest. there's a scowl on alia's face as she stumbles a bit, glaring back towards the tent as the door flaps are unceremoniously yanked closed.]

All I said was that her performance needed work and Paul's was better. That's the truth. [huffy, alia looks down at her card for a moment, then up at whoever she'd run into, completely unapologetic.] And that the metaphysical histories of such fortunes were sacred things to be researched, not peddled as carnival sideshows for pennies and amusement. [a touch primly, tucking the card into her sundress pocket, then pushing her hair out of her face as she looks upwards.]

Don't you agree? [say yes or else :)]

iii. ota/wildcard

[nothing grabbing you? feel free to wildcard running into alia somewhere at the carnival -- no death for her, but she pulled the star: nurturing kinks like service submission or service topping, aftercare, etc. and highly attuned to the emotional needs of others, which means she'll likely be drawn to people who are at risk of crystallizing. hit me up at ceedawkes to hash things out if you'd like~]

games!

[corporeity]

[ It’s been something of a strange morning, even for Gale. Having drawn his cards yesterday — a marginal improvement on Alina’s tarot, which quite rightly pinpointed the wound of his inner turmoil and gave it a proper jab — he feels a bit out of sorts. He’s not entirely sure what it all means, mind, or whether he believes in the magic of this particular woman’s cards, but he can sense the enchantment in the air. Catching the whiff of lavender and ozone, even in moments where he hasn’t cast a single spell.

Close the curtains, murmured in his ear and then done, compliance so quick he hardly blinks. Not a sleep soft grumble to delay him. Neither dillying nor dallying. And now — this, an instinctive bow to account his gentleman’s flourish. ]

As you wish, my lady.

[ He hardly notices now, when his answer would be the same regardless of enchantments. There’s also the matter of the increased time Gale has spent by Alia’s side in the past week. In addition to his shifts at the shop, he has devoted hours to the remembrance pool, culminating in an offer to ward the space as he has his room with Astarion. It seems wise, given this place’s interest in the taboo. It may not work, with Gale as diminished as he is, but he draws the sigils all the same, summoning enough power that he needs sit down for a spell, when finished.

Today’s efforts will be much less draining, or so he hopes, hefting a light ball in hand as he faces down his targets. ]

Have you clowns on Arrakis — or court jesters, perhaps? The latter is far less ghastly than the former, you’ll find.

[ Hand-eye coordination and dexterity are a wizard’s domain as much as a rogue’s, but throwing an object and angling the curve of a spell are as alike as they are different. Still, he doesn’t think it a fluke when he manages to knock down two clowns for the price of one on the first toss. ]

caitlyn kiramman | arcane | new character, returning player

[assistives]

[She wakes, the second time, in the same bed and in the same clothes — a silky nightgown the color of her dark hair, limbs aching and her head splitting like a hairline crack. She remembers walking through the grass of the countryside, headed out and away as far as her feet would take her; she remembers the glorious late-spring sunlight above; she certainly does not remember coming back to the house, but here she is again, a furious mess.

The room is still in tatters where she had torn it apart. Cold blue eyes land on a shattered vase on the thick rug, its porcelain pieces in the exact pattern as the previous morning. A maid must have stepped over it to refresh the water at her bedside.

Quite unable to mask her exhaustion yet motivated by pure resentment — Caitlyn gets up again, this second time. She dresses herself from the closet, all in slim mourning black as if for a funeral. She goes down to breakfast, glaring mutely at anyone who crosses her path, brooding over a refused breakfast.

Should she leave to the south? ... Would it make a difference?]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐊𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍, 𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐄, 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄

[The silver, heart-shaped locket holds a bright magenta gem. She has it tucked under her collar and there's little consideration to see if it might come off now — her attention has turned itself elsewhere, and by unknown persuasion, she finds herself weaving a path through the crowded vendors and attractions.

No one seems to recognize her, which is almost a shock even if it isn't new. It feels like being in the Undercity again for the first time, so long ago. Oblivious and naive and running through the streets, chasing after...

How stupid.]

a. [The experience of the merry-go-round is... humiliating, to say the least. Caitlyn stumbles off a sleek, white-horned unicorn embossed in gold, finding that her feet fail her at the embankment of the ride where it lifts off the ground. She trips over the edge — and she'll either land on the ground with a loud oof, or if someone manages to catch or help her upright — ]

Don't touch me! [Shoving, teeth gritted.] I don't need your help.

b. [Something in her has softened, a little, after the mishap earlier. Yet it won't keep her from rifling through a fabric vendor's wares, because she's seen with distaste what her own Balfours-gifted wardrobe is full of, and most of it she would never wear in polite company.

She wraps a navy cloak around her shoulders and glances toward the mirror, then catches someone looking and turns her head, mouth thin but expression not unwelcoming.]

Too plain? ... I admit that I'm unaccustomed to the style here.

𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃, 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃

[PAST / THE FOOL (upright) — blank slate: past sins absolved, feeling carefree, full of courage/trust for starting something new/taking a leap of faith.

Caitlyn has worked over to a more isolated area of the festivities, sort of drifting the outer reaches of the crowds, searching. Eventually she'll pick someone out and approach them, an easygoing smile on her lips.]

Need any company?

[PRESENT / STRENGTH (upright) — quiet, irresistible dominance; soothe, tame, or subdue others through sensuality, patience, or confidence; beast/beauty kink, erotic power over something monstrous or dangerous.

She can be found wandering between the large cages of the animal shows, cool eyes assessing, an even confidence to the set of her shoulders. Perhaps she finds you in one of the cages, or perhaps you're looking from the outside as another spectator — in either case, she isn't subtle about the angle of her gaze.]

Something catch your eye there?

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃

[Wide open to other scenarios! Caitlyn is coming in mid-season 2, episode 5, in her Angry War Leader/Breakup Rebound phase because I'm here for maximum drama.

F/F only for smut or romance since she is a huge lesbian, but I hold my hands out for gen of all kinds. I would be open to the SHARING IS CARING prompt with discussion first; I'd love to have Cait give over a first, smut or gen, to keep from dying. I also have another tarot card draw if anyone would be interested in this prompt: FUTURE / WHEEL OF FORTUNE (reversed) — desperation for instability: you’re drawn to situations where things spiral out of control. engaging in risky behavior (fighting, drugs, gambling, unsafe sex).

Hit me up through PM or in the comments 💙.]

Arrival

[ragesagainsttheodds]

You gonna eat that?

[ It's an innocuous enough question from another fresh arrival. Ren hadn't bothered changing clothes for breakfast, still in last night's booze and regret soaked dress, her shorts hair sticking at angles that hair shouldn't be able to and the only fresh addition - a thick pair of sunglasses that covered her eyes.

Caitlyn might be ignoring her food but Ren had already put away three plates piled high without ever really thinking about it. Want not waste not, right? ]

Ignatius "Iggy" Melville | OC | current character

[dead_tongue]

WELCOME WAGON

[Iggy's been here long enough that he's gotten used to the pattern: new people are gonna wake up here and be confused. Maybe run for the gates. Get dumped back anyway. Be grumpy or confused or scared.

So when he sees someone at the breakfast table who looks particularly upset or confused, he'll take his cigarette out of his mouth (because somehow after all these months he's still smoking at the table) and smile at them, bright as sunshine.]

So which is it: you're from the past or elfland and you can't work your phone, or you're from a normal year and you can't believe we don't have Chappel Roan yet?

CIRCUS

if u seek amy
cw: nsfw potential

[Oh, Iggy loves a carnival. The lights, the energy, the food that seems designed to kill you. He makes a beeline to the fortune teller early on in the month, awed into silence as they are turned over: Temperance, The Hanged Man, the Empress reversed. He tries to remember what his grandmother had ever said about any of them, positive that they really are going to be relevant.

Throughout the duration of the circus' stay, he can be found all over the place. He'll accost strangers and friends alike at the The Tunnel of Love, pouting prettily.]

Come onnnnnnnnnn! It'll be fun! Don't tell me you're scared of boats or something. Plus you gotta help me overcome my mermaid trauma.

[Wut.

He can also be found on the Merry Go Round, which he has apparently decided can double as a series of stripper poles. He's very flexible. He'll catch the eye of anyone watching as the ride goes round and round, smiling his usual sunny smile and beckoning.

As a natural extension of this obvious exhibitionism, he's also frequently at the Acrobatics Tent. Sure he's there for the twists and turns but also...]

Hey. Would you tie me up? These silks are really nice. And I feel like... I dunno. Don't you ever just want to not to be able to do anything? Not even think?

shattered glass
cw: nsfw potential, gore

[As a cultured cinephile (read: he likes Jodorowsky films) Iggy of course attends the film festival. When he sees himself up onscreen, fucking, he is unbothered except to wonder who was holding the camera.

But when the lockets start to crack...

He manages to keep calm enough not to fall to hysterics. He wanders the circus grounds, eyes wide, blood speckling his chin from coughing. But he's not going to panic. Not this time. Instead he watches other people and gradually pieces things together.

Shakily, he approaches someone.]

Please, please, we gotta... I think I know how to fix this, but I don't know if I can... oh, please help me, I don't want to die again. It's so much worse than I thought it would be.

wildcard

yoooo hit me up. will match format - brackets, prose, morse code*
*- not really

a touch of the welcome wagon just for funsies

[bloodflows]

[There's just this... vibe that he hasn't been able to shake since waking up face down in a foreign bed, feeling hung over and even more disoriented than he remembers feeling the whole week before. But someone despite it all, he made it to the breakfast table, shadows under his eyes and crumpled clothes retrieved from the guts of his armoire.

Finch has an edginess to him, a nervous energy not quite let out by sipping grape juice and warily eyeing the wild spread of food. His gaze shifts sidelong and he looks at Iggy for a long moment, feeling like he just had a memory at the forefront of his brain that faded away, and no matter how hard he searches for it - it's gone. Anyway...]

More like big tables like this remind me of awkward family dinners.

[More juice. Wish it was stale beer.]

Can I have a smoke?

clarisse la rue • riordanverse • current player, new character

[areou]

💪 WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

( clarisse dresses for dinner, but only because she can't find anything less presentable in the closet. the dress, she'll have everyone know, was not her first choice. it was her only choice. feels an awful lot like a "dress up for dinner where we'll fatten you up enough to eat later" — trusting the kindness of strangers doesn't come naturally to her, especially when she's been ostensibly kidnapped and the strangers are suspiciously filthy rich. honestly, waking up somewhere she doesn't recognize isn't the weirdest thing that's ever happened to her. and if her stupid siblings and the rest of the idiots at camp really have been messing with the labyrinth ... well, nothing good can come out of that. but it might explain how the hell she got here. )

i. ( she dresses, but she doesn't shave — which is obvious to anyone with eyes, especially considering how dark her hair is against the stark contrast of the white fabric. the balfours make a face as if to say how uncouth when she enters the dining hall, but it's much too awkward to point it out. maybe one of their beloved guests will, though? not that clarisse cares. in fact, she's practically daring someone to say something, her gaze pointed at anyone who makes eye contact with her as she heads for her seat.

after the first course arrives, clarisse pokes warily at whatever's on her plate with a utensil, glancing at whoever happens to be sitting next to her. )

Yeah, so how sure are we this shit isn't gonna trap us here forever if we eat it?

ii. ( is that a candle on the table? yeah, she's grabbing the candlestick and pointing the flame directly at the scrap of food on her salad plate. it's not exactly a brazier, but — )

Lord Ares, hear my prayer — ( unfortunately, the candle isn't hot enough to do much scorching. in a huff, clarisse blows out the flame and breaks the candle in half, grumbling: ) Fuck it. Dad, if you're listening or not too busy fucking Aphrodite, it'd be great if you could throw me a bone here.

( he won't, but that's because he's an asshole. and because he probably is too busy fucking aphrodite. )

👊 WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME

ferris wheel • open • potentially nsfw

( clarisse hasn't ridden a ferris wheel ... well, ever, actually. carnivals weren't the sort of thing her mom took her to as a kid — she preferred rock climbing or jungle gyms — and then coach hedge showed up and going to a carnival after that was pretty much out of the question. unless one happened to pop up on a quest. but any demigod knows that a too-good-to-be-true time-wasting distraction is exactly that. or it's run by monsters who want to lull you into a false sense of security by showing you a good time before they brutally murder and eat you. then again, she's been itching for a fight ever since she got here, so right now a monster trying to kill her would almost make her feel better. at least that she knows how to deal with.

but this? pretending to be a normal person who knows normal things like how ferris wheels work? she's a little out of her depth. what is even the point of something like this except to trap a bunch of strangers together in a rickety cage? annabeth would probably have something to say about it not being up to code or whatever the fuck. still, it's the tallest structure on the grounds, so, if anything, she can at least get a better sense of her bearings from the top.

or she would, if she didn't feel like she'd just gone several rounds in the arena against — )

What the fuck are you looking at? ( snarled with an equally vicious glare at whoever happens to be in the car with her. she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, causing the car to sway slightly, and does her best to ignore the heat searing under her skin.

then, abruptly, the car jolts and the ferris wheel grinds to a halt. clarisse scoffs, rolling her eyes, shouting to no one in particular: )

Come on! If this is your idea of a demigod death-trap, I could name, like, twenty guys who at least had the balls to fight me first!

shipping prefs | f/f for crosscanon, m/f or f/f or canonmates!

tunnel of love • closed to annabeth

( running into annabeth doesn't come as nearly as much of a surprise as it should. frankly, clarisse half expects to turn around and find percy looking windblown and annoying as ever, but so far — it's just them. seems pretty stupid to her to kidnap two war kids, but if that's the odds the dumbass running this place wants to bet on, who is clarisse to stop them? she's been itching for a fight ever since she got here.

and she'll probably get one, eventually, if she hangs around annabeth long enough. sure, they've come to find some sort of balance — clarisse would even go as far to say they're friends (best friends?) if the thought didn't terrify her so much — but that doesn't mean they won't still find ways to piss each other off. or, annabeth will need an outlet as much as clarisse does, and they'll beat the shit out of each other for fun and stress relief.

of course, annabeth's idea of fun beyond sparring is boring as shit, so when clarisse gets tired of wandering the grounds looking for clues (nada) and doing pretty much everything that isn't riding rides at a carnival, she grabs annabeth's hand without really thinking and sprints off in the direction of the tunnel of love. which, obviously, is supposed to be a joke. get her on a boat and push her overboard. classic. so what if percy and annabeth had almost died on some dumbass tunnel of love ride when they were kids? as far as clarisse is concerned: it can't be as bad as that! c'mon, we're not gonna die!

yeah, famous last words.

she doesn't even mean to say it, but when she knocks her shoulder against annabeth's and annabeth looks back at her, whatever smug quip she'd been about to make dies in her throat and what she blurts out instead is: )

I missed you. At school. Honestly, I fucking hate it there. I almost — wrote you a fucking letter, I felt so crazy and angry and stupid all the time. Probably should have just Iris-messaged you, but it's not like I know your schedule and I don't wanna know about whatever the fuck you and Percy get up to because that might actually make me fucking feral — ( fuck fuck fuck. she grabs the side of the boat, nearly cracking the wood under her grip. gods, she's gonna be sick. just shut up, clarisse. ) Uh. Yeah. Forget I said any of that. I don't — I think this ride is fucking with us.

( it better be, or else she just made a fool of herself completely on her own for no reason. )

🐗 WILDCARD

( feel free to throw me a wildcard scenario or chat with me on plurk ( poohsticks ) if you'd like a closed starter for any of the other prompts! she would definitely wander into the acrobatics tent and she's got plenty of firsts if you'd like to help her not die. ❤️ )

welcome i

[temujackie]

[ Melissa's dressed up, too, and feeling pretty miserable about it. It's not like she gives a shit about dressing girly, really, but: she doesn't know anyone here, her right arm is wrapped up in a sling that a) makes this entire outfit look stupid and b) is making just existing really freaking annoying, and she's missing the familiar comfort of her backwards hat, which has become a sort of security blanket for her but is definitely Not Appropriate for this whole black tie dinner thing.

At the stranger's voice beside her, she looks up from taking a bite of chicken, the fork frozen halfway back to the plate. The idea of this shit trapping her forever clearly hasn't occurred to her until this second, but now that it's occurred: yikes. ]

Um, [ around a mouthful of food. ] What?

katherine pierce | the vampire diaries | new char/current player

[impersonation]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

[ it's not all that often she wakes up disoriented and unaware of her surroundings. sipping vervain every day for a few months took care of that after the nasty business with stefan and damon's father back when the confederate was still...a thing. it feels like she's been raked across the coals, spent months lying in that boring, dumpy tomb desiccating and feeling every inch of her body squeeze itself dry from the inside out. this house, on the other hand well, it'd put plenty of the southern gems she lived in during that decade to shame. this is a proper estate, calling even further back in her long lifeline to the days of knights and castles and peasants and open gardens and forests with myths and fairytales, when she was still human and wild and free.

not the kind of memories she wants to revisit. but she will get to some exploring once she's dressed. not much makes her bat an eye these days, so the poor unfortunate souls and the goings on with the carnival at breakfast don't have much of an impact besides an idea of what to expect as she walks around the palatial grounds, listening to anything of value and taking note of the general atmosphere.

she tries a few of the staff - or maybe you - with whispered questions about the surroundings and if they've served a man named klaus, followed by intense eye contact and the command forget that we had this conversation.

by the end of her first day, she's no closer to any answers, but she also hasn't encountered anyone looking to rip her heart out, so...wash? actually, a hot shower sounds divine. and normally she'd have to find some poor sap to compel and get her way with a private room and proper accommodations, but this place is chock full of rooms that are better than the next. easy enough to do some snooping while she's at it, so she picks one closest to the hall leading away from these quarters in case she needs to make a hasty escape. not from shame or shyness--but old habits die hard.

she doesn't bother locking the door, dropping trow and slipping into the shower seemingly without any shame or concern for who it might belong to. so naturally when she hears someone approach, she keeps rinsing out her hair, unbothered and not making any efforts to cover up before asking nonchalantly and almost a little coyly over one shoulder: ]

Hey. Pass me that towel, would you?

[honestly, she's probably the hottest thing they've seen all day. you're welcome!]

WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME - TUNNEL OF LOVE

cw: n/a - open to nsfw
[well, after a few rounds around the fair, katherine can definitely tell she's not in mystic falls anymore. honestly, half the residents would faint before getting up to some fun, naughty or otherwise. including her dull-as-dishwater doppelganger, elena gilbert. the very same elena gilbert she's been introducing herself as all day. her hair is straightened (ugh), and she's been fiddling with the extra long sleeves on a charcoal henley pulled tight over a purple tank. the heeled boots are the one thing she refused to give up, trekking along through the grounds and hunching a bit in on herself like the annoying, self-conscious, "don't-look-at-me-but-please-do" damsel routine she's so good at. god, she can't fucking stand her.

and...it is kind of giving her a twinge in the back. so when she slides into one of the tunnel of love seats unceremoniously without even looking at the person already sitting there, the practiced persona slips for a second, replaced with a huff of irritation.]

Do you ever get inside someone's head so badly you make yourself sick?

[she flicks at an invisible piece of lint from her skinny jeans before sighing and reverting back to her pouty, forlorn look, softening her words.]

Sorry...that was rude to spring on a stranger. I'm just...getting out of a really bad breakup with an ex.

[a strained smile pulls across her lips as she glances up through her lashes before extending a hand limply.]

I'm Elena Gilbert, by the way.

[she's actually the baddest bitch of all, vampire katherine pierce - but how would they know anyway?]

SHARING IS CARING

cw: blood, violence
[a film festival. sure, whatever. might be a good way to figure out exactly where the hell she is and what year it is at the very least. even losing her composure and draining a maid, leaving the sorry little bitch for dead in one of the halls near the dungeon didn't do her any good at getting out of here or getting a better handle on what the hell is going on.

at least she can drop the stupid elena act for a minute, slumping into a seat in the back and kicking up her legs, crossing her arms and waiting for the show to start. a couple trailers run first, movies she's heard of but been too busy running for her life to bother seeing.

and then - she realizes with a start that that's her on the screen. her draining that snippy little maid this morning.

what the hell?

and then it's - kind of blowing her cover, actually, scenes of her rolling her eyes and snarling behind people's backs before reverting back to her girl-next-door facade and big brown eyes. thankfully they don't seem to drive home that she's already compelled a few people around here, especially since it just looks like they're willing to take a lady at face value. i'm bored listening to you. be a dear for me and go. away.

when it fades to black, katherine has a good front up--mouth twisted in annoyance. she gets up and storms out, feeling like there's a spotlight roving over her, waiting for her reaction. and the damn choker she'd been given earlier is at her throat, cutting into her skin as she stalks out of the theater and nearly bowls over into someone. eventually she speaks first, without the bite of compulsion and instead channeling the hysterics that elena gets herself into.]

That wasn't me up there! I don't know - what they did, how they made it look like it, but I swear I'd never hurt a fly.

[she's literally just a girl. 🥺]

((ooc: katherine is a decades old vampire on the run from bad decisions to save her own skin. other vamps are welcome to pick up on similar vampiness or call her out for pretending to be a human. she is spending most of her time here at salt impersonating tvd's protagonist elena gilbert.

also: if you are interested in having your character compelled - mostly on regular humans or magic-susceptible individuals, feel free to let me know or i can roll with that. basically anything she tells them to do, they'll oblige - go away, forget she spoke to them, slit your wrists, get naked...u know, the normal stuff. OR if you have a magic-user/supernatural char who can resist compulsion and wants to comment on it being a neat trick, please feel free!!))

willkommen—sorry not sorry!

[blooded]

[ the eyeroll she's met with probably isn't what katherine hoped to see, but damon very much is relishing it. ]

Kitty Kat, the act would work better if... [ a pause, considering, and then he smiles— ] well, no, we always see through it, don't we?

[ katherine's bad luck to run into someone who knows her as intimately as damon—or maybe it's damon's bad luck to run into someone he hates as much as katherine. and here he was, hoping to get a quick nibble on some unsuspecting human in the tunnel. ]

You've got to pick up a new schtick. What are you even getting out of this, anyway? Elena's not here.

[ not that damon's been looking (except for how he absolutely has). ]

Harry Goodsir | The Terror | current character

[mygoodsir]

welcome

[Goodsir is not one of the manor's flashiest residents. He is quiet at meals, not speaking unless spoken to. He is frequently found in parlours or the library, reading, or walking the grounds with the general demeanour of a skittish prey animal. Although he has shaved and is wearing era appropriate clothing, he still somehow gives the impression of not belonging to this time. (The place, yes - he's definitely British.)

But if someone looks upset he will approach them. His voice is gentle and soft, his eyes kind.]

Excuse me. A-are you alright? That is, you looked out of sorts, just now. And I believe you may be new here?

carnival
cw: ptsd, panic attacks, immolation

[He hears the flapping of the tents from outside as the circus sets up and he pauses, listening, face gone pale. The ripple-snap of canvas is familiar, so familiar, and he feels a sense of dread fill him as if it were ice water and he merely a glass.

It's fine.

By nightfall, when the circus officially opens, Goodsir has convinced himself that whatever it going on outside will be enjoyable. After all, most everyone around him seems excited for it. People he cares about. It's all in good fun.

It's in this spirit that he eventually attends. The lights are a marvel, so bright and colourful, and the smells are delicious. He stops at the fortune teller and pulls a single card as a jest. Still, as he walks past tents and booths a cold terror begins to gnaw at his nerves. His hands feel numb. His thoughts feel flurried.

He starts seeing people in costume, courtesy of the dress-up booths, and suddenly he can't breathe. It's that simple - he can't draw air into his lungs. The cheerful glow of the electric lights seems hotter, flickering, and he swears that when he does pull a desperate breath he can taste smoke on it. Goodsir stumbles and then just sits on the ground, trembling all over and clutching his knees, panting in shallow gasps. His eyes are wide but unseeing, streaming tears.

It is not fine.]

hierophant (reversed)
cw: sexual shame, impact play, age gap

[Harry Goodsir keeps a diary. It is full of notes on other guests at the manor, observations and feelings jotted down in language and penmanship that might make it all a little hard to decipher.

There is a fairly recent section devoted entirely to the practice of sexual flogging. It was a topic that had come up naturally with the vampire Armand, leading to a "most enlightening" demonstration. That was more or less supposed to close the chapter on his research there, but he finds as the month wears on that he returns to the idea more and more.

He also finds himself wondering, frequently, just what the hell he thinks he's doing engaging in sexual congress with multiple people, some of whom are considerably younger than himself!]

It's unseemly.

[Muttered aloud, when he's not as alone as he thinks he is.]

wildcard!

[For all your victorian surgery needs! will match format - brackets or prose are both fine.]

carnival

[holyposition]

Harry?

[ Tim doesn't dress in costume, but he does attend the carnival. He'd have let Harry know that he would be, in fact - "demanding" flirtatiously that he save a spot next to him on some of the rides. He doesn't think too much of it when he can't find him immediately. It's crowded, after all, and there must be all kinds of changes from the carnivals he's used to in the 1840s for him to be distracted by. Tim takes a leisurely stroll through, tries his hand at the ring toss, gets some cotton candy.

It's near that booth where he finds Harry Goodsir, sitting on the ground, unresponsive. ]

Harry? [ A gentle nudge on his shoulder. That's when he notices that he's crying, and fear prickles through him, assuming that the house is up to its tricks again. He puts the cotton candy on the ground - must be laced with something. ] Hey, it's me. What's going on?

julian bennet | original | current character

[docmartens]

ᴛᴅᴍ ɴᴏᴛᴇ!

[Thanks to the efforts of the Westcreek coven's failed ritual, for the week of May 2-9 their respective sigils will be leaking influence on those around them. While they have to be near them at some point for that influence to affect their behavior, they don't necessarily need to interact with the coven boys (Julian, Felix and Dom) and can handwave being in close proximity if you'd like to make use of this mechanic in your own threads for the duration of the week. (It should be less prominent by the end of the week however, as they'll have taken steps to mitigate exposure.)

Julian's sigil is that of greed; he and those around him will be motivated to obsessively hoard whatever catches their eye with a sense of entitlement, be it objects or people alike. General info about Julian can be found here; you can reach me on plurk at witchpunk if you have any further questions!]

ᴀ: ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴀʟᴛʙᴜʀɴᴛ
[cw: none]

[A hurt dog will lick its wounds and you could say the behavior Julian has this week resembles that - at least in a moodier than normal way. He keeps quiet, haunts the halls late at night and in the mornings? If he shows up at all, he's still a bit hung over and prone to lighting up cigarettes at the breakfast table. Hope you don't mind a little smoke in your face - ask nicely and he'll share his pack.

He stabs at a piece of melon with a shiny silver fork, eating it slowly as his eyes flick side-long to whoever's thought it wise to sit near him. Hopefully you're unbothered by being leveled with a stare, neither unkind nor friendly, it's just... a very blank stare.]

What?

ʙ: ᴡɪʟʟᴋᴏᴍᴍᴇɴ, ʙɪᴇɴᴠᴇɴᴜᴇ, ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ
[cw: knives and teen boys]

[Julian's avoided the sweet treats but has had a bite or two of the savory ones - turkey legs were always an unaffordable carnival treat growing up, so he leaps at what he can take this time around. Even more ravenously than he would ordinarily; there's something about having things he wants that's crawling in his skin, almost burning through his sigil.

This booth is one set up with paper targets and Julian is standing by the line, two knives held in one hand and a third in the grip of his left - he's sizing it up before letting loose the knife in a clean, quick throw. Center target, right on the mark. He smiles, taking another knife to his good hand and replicating on the second red target mark - the third though, he pauses before throwing:]

You know, this feels a little too easy. You a fan of danger?

a

[temujackie]

[ Melissa has been quietly watching anybody who hasn't been paying attention to her, which is pretty much everybody here, but now that she's been caught her cheeks redden and she looks down at her plate with a muttered, ] Nothing.

[ She's a couple years younger than him, blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders, with her right arm wrapped in a sling. She pokes at the fruit on her own plate with a fork and almost chooses to let that be the end of the interaction, but on second thought decides that she might as well use the opportunity, and glances up to see if he's still blank-faced in her direction. He is, so. ]

Is there... always this much food here? Like, for breakfast and stuff.

shauna shipman | yellowjackets | current player/character

[diarists]

i. pick a card, any card | cw: cannibalism, infant death, canon-typical violence

[in middle school, shauna had a catholic phase.

it feels embarrassing to think about, in retrospect –- trying to fill the hollow left by her father packing up one night and disappearing, trying to find some sort of misery to sink herself into. for a while she'd found it, in the tragedy of the saints, young girls like her given a bad hand, who'd remained pious and faithful and noble to the end. jackie had made fun of her, her mother had sighed and rubbed at her eyes, reddened with exhaustion, with back-to-back twelve hour shifts at the hospital, when shauna had asked about confirmation. and eventually she'd given it up, because she wasn't wearing white, burning at a stake, her eyes lifted to heaven -- she was a thirteen-year-old with a flair for the dramatic in fucking new jersey.

and yet she'd kept the fascination with the canon of saints, the countless who'd bled and suffered and died, the odd reverence that echoed worship for each gory patron, the sense of ritual in following something so ancient, so mysterious. in the early days in the wilderness, lottie's circle of worshippers had felt similar, confident in their strangeness, connected to something bigger. it's this same fascination that drives her into the tarot tent, sitting in front of the elderly woman as she shuffles the large, gilded cards and yaps about her grandchildren for so long that it's almost a shock when she finally pulls one and lays it facedown in front of shauna.

The Empress, madame patchouli says solemnly, the jangle of her bracelets like bones against stone. A card of motherhood, of fertility, of caring and warmth. shauna doesn't mean to recoil, but she does, thinking back to the root of everything, to the void in her soul that had sent her hurtling over the edge. her son's loss, like a rot in her bones, inescapable, cloying, choking. what sort of queen would she have been if she'd become it with her baby in her arms, with his safety, his protection to consider? would she, could she have been good then? or was it all doomed from the start?

stepping outside the tent, looking down at her hands, thinking of them holding her knife, them stroking the long dark chunks of hair over her regalia as her team, her kingdom ate, shauna nearly stumbles into someone. she jerks back, jumpy as a wildcat, looking upwards at the stranger and letting out a shuddery sigh.]

God, you scared me. [jerking a thumb backwards, towards the tent:] You going in? You really believe in that kind of thing? [it's too shaky for her to really mean it scornfully, because -- because maybe she believes in it too. a little.]

ii. sharing is caring| cw: cannibalism, dubcon likely

[several hours later, it’s significantly more than a little. shauna has the glimmering, gilded designs around the empress burned into her memory as she wanders through the fair, something odd building in her chest as she tries to remember – was it that the card just reminded her of her antler queen robes, with the sweeping robe and the crown and the sense of majesty or...or had the card actually been of her, as she sat in the snowy wilderness, holding court over the remains of mari, wearing white, veiled and mysterious and unstoppable?

the longer shauna wanders, the more she thinks it's the latter, and the more she understands: the others simply didn't understand. they didn't see what she had to become, to keep them all safe and fed and free. what sort of life awaited them all, back in the real world? lying and lying and lying some more, enshrouding themselves in normalcy like that hadn't all touched divinity in that bloodstained snow. shauna was trying to protect them. she was trying to be a good queen.

the warm twilight comes, and shauna ducks into one of the many, many tents holding costumes, reaching out and running her fingers over the racks of clothes until she finds white fabric, finds a dress and headpiece that's a softer, summery version of her ceremonial garb. she's still queen, even here -- it's high time she reminds people of that. she dresses quietly, thinking of hannah, of melissa, of tai and van and gen paying tribute between the torches, their hands still bloodied, their bellies full -- because of her, because of her. she thinks of lottie, her scarred face smiling, approving.

there's a building heat in the air when shauna slips back out into the night, her locket bumping gently against her breastbone as she wanders deeper, deeper into the dark, towards the glimmering main tent, towards the sounds of gasps and moans and whimpers, projected up on the screen. people are murmuring, trying to escape now, stumbling away from the sight of their debauchery, but shauna shipman killed the last of her shame a long time ago -- she reaches out to someone clawing at their throat, face stricken, breath ragged, touches their shoulder.]

Tell me what you need. [an aura of calm, of comfort, of protection -- whatever torments them, she's here now. she's here and she'll make it all better, stroking a hand up to cradle their face, turn their gaze up to her. shauna smiles, and it's the sweet, benevolent smile she should've given jackie (come inside) all those months ago, it's her topping off the hot water to help nat thaw out, it's her tearing pages from her journal to give to javi and her sleeping spooned up behind tai to protect her from herself. it's everything good that shauna shipman once was, everything that was dead and buried under the ice, come back to life at last, at last.

she cradles their face, her subject, her supplicant, and repeats:] Tell me what you need.

iii. ota/wildcard

[any other ideas, come at me!! shauna pulled the empress as her card, so she’ll be wandering around being benevolent dommy mommy antler queen for most of the event. but!! she will eventually move into a more fragmented, frantic state of mind, so if that grabs you, hit me up at ceedawkes to brainstorm more~ ota, f/any, canonpoint is end of s3.]

sharing is caring

[longlegs]

[ ooc: Using Death: transformation through surrender, drawn to intense, life-altering experiences, shedding old identities to become someone “new”, darker aspects of sexuality like bloodplay, masochism, or the celebration of death in an eroticized way. Let me know if any of these work! ]

—

[ She catches the face of a woman who held her close, once, who smiled and moved to music designed to make every thought go under so their impulses could take control. There are no elaborate dresses here, there is no social butterfly leading a shy girl to the middle of a dance floor — instead there's a queen with her hands on a lost piece, staring down at Shauna with the guilt of someone who knows she's left all her innocence behind. Cellar has the guilt of abandonment, punished by finding herself missing entirely.

Cellar parts her lips, embarrassed and clinging on to hope, because hope is so beautiful today. How can she be anything less than good? ]

I think — I think I need to know who I am. But I don't know how to do that anymore. She's gone.

mickey 17 | ...mickey 17 | new char/current player

[brickedup]

i. welcome to saltburnt

[he's definitely not on niflheim anymore.

and that's so okay, mickey is sooooo fine with that, because when he left things were still kinda messed up and weird after the other him blew up marshall. like it was really good that the creepers didn't want to make their brains blow up anymore, and that nasha was okay and marshall was blown up. but mickey 18 was blown up too. and there was still a big mess with the government and ylfa was still around and the printer was still there but any version of mickey from now on wouldn't be mickey 18 too and that wasn't fair and.

and so when he wakes up in the fancy room in the fancy house and wanders down to fancy breakfast, mickey sort of drowns his sorrows and bewilderment in fancy eggs and stuff. he steers clear of the meat (just in case), but there's plenty of pancakes and waffles and toast and eggs and fruit and other stuff and there's syrup to pour all over the top, so mickey does, stuffing his face all the while. when someone sits down close to him, he instinctively scrunches away, used to the borderline-cruel teasing of the other crew, missing nasha's protective presence to keep them from bugging him too much.

but then, swallowing his mouthful of eggs, mickey glances over and manages an anemic sort of smile.] Uh. Hi. Good...morning? [nailing it, good, keep going.] How are you, um...finding the...weather? [eh. not his best.]

ii. wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome

[logically, mickey knows what a circus is. he's seen movies, he reads. he used to read. these days he's busy working and dying and being reborn, but he read when he was a kid! and there were circuses in what he read, sometimes! he knows there are clowns and animals and food like churros and things like that. and he likes at least three of those things (clowns are weird). so when the tents and rides appear almost overnight, mickey finds himself wandering over to see what it's about.

and he finds his favorite way to spend any time: food. candied apples and popcorn and cotton candy and elephant ears and yes, a churro -- though mickey's shaky with oversugared excitement by the time he gets to that last, and he ends up dropping it on the ground and frowning down at it for a long, woeful moment before sighing softly.] Well. Okay. [then he carefully picks it up to throw away so like -- a dog won't eat it and get sick or something.

later, mickey tries his luck and loses six times in a row at the ball toss, where he'd been trying to win a stuffed elephant and had instead walked away with a bouncy ball consolation prize. he immediately loses it in a bush, rummaging around fruitlessly for a moment before sighing and heading over to the merry-go-round. it's largely empty, which is weird, but mickey finds a cool-looking dragon and climbs on up, absently sucking cinnamon sugar off his fingers as the ride starts. and it's -- cute. it's silly. it's the kind of thing nasha would like, probably.

and maybe it's because he's thinking about nasha, or maybe it's because of the steady rise and fall and slight rumble of the merry-go-round, but mickey's starting to feel a little...well. hot and bothered. which is insane. that's insane. he's on a merry-go-round. he cannot be getting hard on a merry-go-round.

trying to angle himself away from the person perched on the swan beside him, mickey clears his throat and half-yells over the merry-go-round music:] Is there like a -- emergency brake -- for this thing? I-I gotta get off-- um, off the ride, I gotta get off the ride...

iii. ota/wildcard

[ooc: none of these click? feel free to wildcard, mickey will be wandering around the carnival and eating anything he can get his hands on. m/any, very easily susceptible to any magic/compulsion, incurable sub through and through. hmu at ceedawkes with any questions~]

ii-ish. 🎪

[haggle]

( ani doesn't do charitable donations, as a rule. but — it's fucking sad, watching the tragic saga of a dumbass who doesn't even know the game is rigged to bleed his pockets (tickets, whatever) dry. he looks like a kicked puppy still wagging its tail by the time ani makes her third lap around the colorful booths, watching the groundshog-day loop of his ball bounce off the rim, the loanshark flash of teeth from the barker. the kind of fake cheer from a con artist that knows when they have an easy catch on the hook, delighting in watching him fetch nothing but his own goddamn humiliation.

on cue, the dipshit reaches for another ball — a case study in how many times a guy has to touch his finger to a flame before it clicks that it burns. pathetic enough that it threatens to break her out in hives, allergic to that brand of exploitable sincerity, all bleeding-heart persistence. she rolls her eyes at herself by the time she's following the irritated tug in her gut to the booth, a swinging swagger of daisy dukes and audacity, stepping up in line like the game owes her something just for showing up.

maybe because she knows what it's like to be rigged out of a win that's meant to be yours. maybe because she's better at fighting back than a puppy tht's all enthusiasm, no bark, no bite. maybe because he's drowning her in so much secondhand embarrassment that it's making her sick. doesn't matter — she just taps her pink claws against the grainy wood, flicks her other hand at him. a dismissal from a reigning champion at fucking life back when it tries to fuck you. )

Scoot, Bambi. I'm feelin' violent and generous.

( she doesn't wait for him to step aside — just crams herself in front of him, plucking a ball like it's a stolen good. her other hand pulls gum from her mouth, grinds it into the booth's counter, all narrowed eyes and full focus. the first ball pings off with a sharp cuss — the second lands perfect and petty. on and on, 'til the bell dings, smug and shrill, and the barker looks like she stomped his nuts into a pulp.

she doesn't pause to ask him what he wants. ani's got a sixth sense for people's hidden desires, x-ray vision for where a wallet bleeds best. she just clicks her fingers at the stuffed elephant until it's being loaded off into her arms, then mickey's — pushed aggressively into his chest like it's a bomb primed to explode. )

Dumbo for a real Dumbo. Don't say I never did nothing for you.

sebastian michaelis ; black butler (new character, current player)

[cutlery]

i. Welcome To Saltburnt

[ You may have noticed Sebastian in the manor in the past two months, since he’d actually already stopped by and immediately taken it upon himself to help out with the, uh. Mess. To put it lightly. Maybe he’d been offered the work mostly in jest, but he’d still taken it up in earnest, so while he hadn’t joined the festivities like other guests, it’s all at least much cleaner! No more Revenant viscera, hooray!

So, it’s also with little preamble that he finally joins everyone else for breakfast. If you watch him for a bit, it’s clear that he’s looking over every offering with a critical, curious eye, and finally settles on… Having quite the appetite, seemingly. The shakshouka, cereal milk, and cinnamon bun are all set out before him, but he only takes the smallest of bites before seeming to mull it over seriously. He’s a chef himself, after all.

…But one whose sense of taste is nothing at all like humans, hence his curiosity here. These are all quite different offerings than would be expected in Victorian England. ]

Do pardon me for disturbing your breakfast— [ He starts to anyone nearby, giving an apologetic little nod. ] But do you know anything about these dishes? They are rather novel to me, so I am curious.

ii. Willkommen, Pick A Card ( cw: smut possible )

XIV - Temperance (UPRIGHT) — Complete inner peace and emotional control; unshakeable calm, immune to stress or chaos ; Intimacy feels transcendent; perfectly synced with partners, slow, deep pleasure in every touch ; Emphasis on patience and discipline: slow-burn seduction, edging, orgasm control, etc

—

[ Honestly, the rides are a bit of a marvel, and Sebastian stays just watching the ferris wheel for a while with curious fascination. He’s heard of these as one of the inventive marvels of a past World Fair and seen some of their more simplistic predecessors, but it’s impressive to see in person. Humans really are quite interesting in just how inventive they are!

He very much gives the impression of someone wanting to give it a try, but not committing to it for whatever reason. Maybe you’re about to offer, or maybe you’re just nearby taking in the sights yourself, but his attention turns towards you. ]

Ah, apologies. I am not in line, should you wish to ride it. [ A little nod and a kind smile, and he looks back to it with a laugh. ] It is a little marvel, is it not?

i. Bienvenue, Any Card ( cw: smut, impact play/bdsm, filming )

V - The Hierophant (REVERSED) — Sexual guilt or shame; driven to punish yourself or others ; Anti-authority streak — compulsion to challenge beliefs or leaders ; Blasphemy kink: subverting holy/sacred things becomes intoxicating

—

[ Or, later in the month when Sebastian’s tarot-told fortunes turn, he returns to some of the booths that he had passed by earlier. They’re all curious, certainly, especially with the persuasions they all take, and he was fairly content to just take it all as amusing diversions. However, when a Baskerville working a dress-up booth had struck up a conversation, a pleasant chat turned into personal curiosity with their suggestion. It’s the sort of irony that he just can’t resist.

Styled handsomely as a priest and/or teacher, they’ve already taken up their respective roles, whether you’re a parishioner or a student. The riding crop in his gloved hands is a little more indicative of the sort of scene at hand. He brushes the leather across his hands like he could feel the texture through his gloves, and it comes with a knowing smile. ]

Come, my child. I will hear your confessions.

etc. (Wildcards Welcome)

[ You can find an info post for Sebastian here, but quick blurb is that Sebastian is a perfect gentleman and the head butler of a noble Victorian household. Oh, and also, he’s a demon. If your character would be able to recognize that about him, feel free!

And as is hopefully obvious but to be clear, I'm combining his Tarot effects with prompts 2 and 3! Otherwise if you have questions/ideas/etc you can hit me up through a PM or runthejewels ]

welcome!

[unapparent]

[ The Madame pulls her cards, and Alicent fights the urge to scoff, lips pursing. Despite her skepticism, she has learned to accept the magics of the place — the vampires, her daughter’s own visions, death and resurrection — but this woman hardly seems credible. Judgement, she names the card, but Alicent would argue a woman of her station is judged at all times and ruminates on this instead, as its true meaning is illuminated. She doesn’t need a trickster to tell her of her family’s doom or her inner turmoil; she’s known it since she was a girl. The Lovers and The Tower interest her even less, for how they call to mind the black brides of Maegor the Cruel.

And so she proceeds as if nothing has changed, her dress glittering in the evening light. A woman out of time. Her big eyes widen a fraction, when Sebastian addresses her. She also both is and isn’t in line for the ferris wheel, on account of, well. ]

Oh, I — It is impressive, to be sure.

[ She hesitates, fluttering a delicate hand to her cheek. Her waterfall of curls swing behind her as she turns to face him, and she twists her hands before her. ]

I’ve a sudden burst of nerves, at the thought of the height.

[ Her brief jaunt with Homelander in the air had been preferable to riding dragonback, but she isn’t eager to repeat it. ]

travis martinez | yellowjackets, current character/player

[psilocybe]

WARNING: potential mentions of trauma, drug use and cannibalism per his canon throughout, but will warn when necessary.
𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒌𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏, 𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒖𝒆, 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆( cw: drinking )

[after too much fussing in the mirror and the annoyance of dealing with too much hair, travis goes to nat for a haircut, long enough to run his hands through but short enough that the weight of the wilderness isn’t clinging to him any more than it already does. he can shed himself of that much, he thinks — a deserved relief given by natalie, one he watches in the mirror with undivided attention.

travis finds himself by the lakes and holding a bottle of some alcohol he found while scouring the kitchens. champagne? prosecco? it’s sparkly and bubbling and he swigged it too fast so his hand is wet from the overflow. one of the circus workers waves him over in an attempt to coax him to the boats.]

Oh, no. I’m all set with that. [pointing to whomever is closest without an ounce of guilt (albeit with a slight slur to his words):] Take them instead.

𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅( cw: n/a )
3 card spread options: 1. the hanged man (kink for surrender, yielding, unable to say no, compulsion to submit), 2. the high priestess (increased intuition, prophetic dreams, quiet and confident sexuality), and 3. the devil reversed (craving autonomy, pushing others away, questioning their influence, denial of own darkness, repression)

[he’d like to say he doesn’t believe in all this stuff and the cards don’t matter, but he knows what he saw in those woods. knows that he’s one of the only ones to see a miracle right in front of his eyes. a secret he’s never letting leave his lips. it might ruin nat and her ruthless certainty and it might ruin everyone’s idea of truth after having time away from that place.

leaving madame patchouli’s tent feeling less inclined to drink and more inclined to to find someone to tell him what to do (which he attributes to the lack of order and consistency around the manor and not the emptiness that has begun to grow inside of him) he finds someone who looks like they’re having trouble deciding if they have the skills to win the toy they’re eying.]

I can win that for you if you want.

[because he’s spent so long having to pretend to fit in (sometimes he wasn’t pretending at all) that there is a pull inside of him that craves a form of order and guidance. even if that guidance is telling him to win a prize. he only wants to please.]

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅

( or write your own adventure/play around w the tarot options :) he’s got his canon update to the end of s3 so he’s going to be a lil more unpredictable and also drunk …a lot. so sorry. but he’s open to all prompts, including locket things. hmu over at plurk @ turnt or disco @ melusine4300 if you’d like to plot out something specific! )

closed — ani

[psilocybe]

[travis sticks to his word. he calls ani and sets up a date and time instead of having everything done last minute and day of. he doesn't know her plans and doesn't want her snapping at him about how he can't manage to figure out something so simple. he can't tell if it's nerves making him so aware of everyone around him, but the nerves soon smooth over once he begins dreaming about her. nothing too detailed, but enough that he questions why he's dreaming about ani and not nat. why he's seeing pretty pink ribbons and laughter bubbling from ani's chest and curls of smoke tangling in the air.

why he feels like he's looking at a secret and he knows her more than he should. he wants to keep her separate from natalie, somehow - so he doesn't pick her a bouquet with flowers he thinks she'll like. travis just knows, somehow, to bring her one (a starlette lily) when he knocks on her door. the flower is in a special vase, the bulb of it still in dirt. it's meant to come on their walk with them so they can plant it together.

he's less rugged than when she last saw him, with a new haircut and clothes that are fit for the weather (t-shirt and shorts), muscled arms only a bit tensed as he waits for her to answer. less puppydog and more confident, he's not the same boy she interrogated at the host club. when she opens the door he offers a soft smile.]

Hey, Ani.

will graham | hannibal, current player/new character

[disarrayed]

𝑊𝐸𝐿𝐶𝑂𝑀𝐸 𝑇𝑂 𝑆𝐴𝐿𝑇𝐵𝑈𝑅𝑁𝑇

[ at first it's easy to think that this is a fever dream, that this is something lighting his whole body on fire and everything is made up. it's easy to think that as staff pass him and he doesn't know their faces, and he can't see anything but a terrified shadow in all of them.

but it's breakfast that makes him second guess himself. people of all types bustling around the room, talking as though they've been here before, as though they've been here a long time and his stomach bottoms out. this isn't a hospital bed - and he wonders very quickly what kind of drugs they'd tried to sedate him with. ]

Sorry - is this - [ a little stuttering, a little uncomfortable, quietly approaching someone with a plate full of eggs. his stomach turns at the thought of food. ]

Have you been here before?

[ he wonders, idly, if he'll see the stag with its bloodied antlers, or hannibal waiting for him outside the glass, tapping on it, smiling. ]

𝑊𝐼𝐿𝐿𝐾𝑂𝑀𝑀𝐸𝑁 - 𝐹𝐸𝑅𝑅𝐼𝑆 𝑊𝐻𝐸𝐸𝐿 - cw: n/a, potential smut!

[ the ferris wheel by all accounts would be a good place to scope the manor, to see the grounds as far as they will stretch. he's already found out that calling a car doesn't work, and that walking out the gate only brings him back to his bed, hazy and unsure. so it's the ferris wheel he slips onto, unknowing, sitting across from someone else in the car as it slowly, slowly creeps up.

the light-headedness that comes with altitude does something to calm his mind - a dull pressure in his ears to quiet his racing mind. ] Have you been to the top yet?

[ not that he wants to talk to the person, but everything is about information now. everything is forcing himself out of the husk of himself and trying to understand. but he's feeling strange, now - and without thinking his eyes absently move to the mouth of his fellow rider, and stay. ]

Sorry. [ a huff, an uncomfortable shift, but he can't take his eyes away. ]

𝑆𝐻𝐴𝑅𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐼𝑆 𝐶𝐴𝑅𝐼𝑁𝐺 & 𝐶𝐴𝑅𝐷𝑆 - cw: nsfw, maybe dubcon, violence, blood, gestures at hannibal thoughts

[ the crude films shown in the tent are enough to make will hot under the collar, and are enough to prove to him that something sinister is at work. (idly he thinks hannibal would find this place both vulgar and lush, and he can almost hear the thoughtful click of his tongue in the back of his head). but he doesn't have any time to think about it - not when the people in the footage start to die. not when he watches their necks snap, their bodies contort, blood pouring from their faces. he's seen enough senseless death to know that this is malice through and through, pure and true evil with no direction.

at least, not yet.

but his own locket burnts hot, ticks loudly in his mind and he all but stumbles into someone on the way out of the emporium skin flushed and sweat stippling his temples. he can't think - his stomach still aches from a bullet wound, his mind burns white-hot, and before he can make sense of what is happening to the tight and squeezing thing in his chest, he reaches for the person's face, cradling it. ]

You can't go in there. [ stern, insistent, his hands trembling, fingers maybe a little too tight. he remembers the toothy old woman who handed him cards earlier: you are drawn to your darkest desires - embrace the hidden parts of yourself. ]

Come with me. [ it isn't a question. ]

𝑊𝐼𝐿𝐷𝐶𝐴𝑅𝐷

please feel free to find will at any of the locations in the event! he's going to be snooping for a lot of answers, so you can find him nearly anywhere!

he had some wild card pulls if you want to incorporate those:

Past: THE HANGED MAN (kink for surrender, bondage, sensory deprivation, immobilization, compelled to agree/submit)

Future: JUSTICE (need for control, domination, correction, punished unjustly, punishment as retribution)

Present: THE DEVIL (darkest desires, pleasure in the extremes, obsession, forbidden desires)

if you have any other ideas, go for it!

𝑂𝑂𝐶

will is coming into saltburnt just before the season 1 finale of hannibal, just after he's been found at abigail's home and shot by jack crawford.

if you're not familiar with hannibal, well - you should know that will can come with some big warnings: cannibalism, blood/gore, dubcon, violence, dissociative episodes, etc! he's most notably a pure empath and can get into the minds of others and interpret their feelings and motives. you can choose to opt out here.

hit me up at cyclical if you want to talk through anything!!

welcome adjacent, cw violence mentions

[relished]

[the manor has a maximalist nature that hannibal finds unnatural. the decadence stretches into every room and corner, waiting to be discovered or filled. some rooms, he finds as he passes by, are completely barren. he eavesdrops as he makes his way toward breakfast, listens for clues of they why and where that are more helpful than the maid that scurried away from him. he hears of time and lack-thereof, of revivals. revivals and he thinks of the broken tea cup shattered in pieces on the floor. of will's eyes wide as he gutted him, hand on his throat, pulse beneath his thumb.

the dining hall is expansive. full of scents - fresh bacon, popped champagne and their cheap corks...the nervous sweat that no matter how many showers one takes they'll never be cleansed of it.

then there is will and his brown curls and stuttering voice and he turns to look him over. head to toe, tracing his outline, catching the air around him.]

I don't believe I have, even in my greatest of dreams.

[answering from behind, gaze sharp into the back of will's skull. tipping his head at the stranger will approached, it only takes one look to signal for them to leave.]

So, what dream have you strayed from today?

[where are you compared to where i left you.]

domingos choi — original

[wicka]

TDM NOTE, mini plot!
[ Because of a ritual gone wrong, from May 2-9 Dom's wrath sigil will be affecting the people he interacts with. From the mods: «Dom’s presence becomes unbearable to anyone in the vicinity, enraging whoever is in his close radius. Every reaction in his presence becomes combustible, constantly on the edge of violence - often over trivial matters.»

This is 100% opt-in and I will be limiting its exposure to the designated prompt for it, but if you'd like to have your character affected for one of the other prompts please feel free to plot with me first! I can be reached at gucky. More info about the mini plot here. ]

---

A WEEK OF WRATH ( cw: likely violence )

I. [ The day after the ritual, Dom walks over to get breakfast — a little later than most, but with enough people around that he can notice the looks he's getting, can sense the way various heart beats start to change when those at the table glare him like he's done something awful. He doesn't like it, and he's also in a bad mood after their magic spell went seemingly nowhere, but it's not until something is thrown at him — a drink, food or something more substantial or hurtful — that Dom rises to his feet, shoving the chair back with his legs. ]

What was that for? The fuck is wrong with you?!

II. [ Alternatively, he tries to go to the zoo, but even non-humans are reacting badly when he's around, and have no choice but to take it out on each other. Freaked out, he passes by the pottery studio and hears things being smashed after an argument breaks out; sees a couple exchanging flowers until one throws them in the other's face and follows that up with their fists. ]

III. [ Everywhere Dom goes, the world seems to go fucking mad, irrational anger taking over even those who pride themselves in never succumbing to something so basic. Dom ends up closing himself in his room, clutching his head, fresh bruises from all the fights he got into, still tasting blood in his mouth. His teeth are sharp when he tests them with his fingers, something that simply should not be possible. In a snap, he grabs a chair and breaks the Balfours' decor when it's thrown across the room, then produces a scream that sounds dangerously close to a growl: ]

I fucking hate this place!

[ Thankfully he doesn't have a roommate — or at least he hasn't had one so far. Who knows, what with the new arrivals. ]

---

THE TOWER REVERSED ( cw: mid-fuck oop, see note below for more )
( For his card I'm using: Drawn to re-enacting past pain; fetishizing and revisiting your own emotional trauma, opening old wounds + Unable to finish—emotionally, sexually, physically; caught in a loop of edging. Looking to explore Dom's trauma with the night he was attacked and turned into a werewolf in particular, but open to other ideas! OTA, Dom is 18. )

[ Somewhere in the outskirts, Dom ends up fucking someone against one of the trees — maybe they're in his arms with their legs wrapped around him, maybe they're bracing against the trunk while he snaps his hips from behind, maybe they're the one lightly shoving him into it with each thrust, listening to him sigh and moan to a build up that goes — nowhere. They might not be the first person to finish while he stays hard, tired and increasingly desperate; they probably won't be the last, either. ]

Sorry, I — I don't usually take this long. I don't know what's wrong with me.

[ Head hanging, palm on his forehead, he wipes sweat and sighs. Then his hand comes down to touch the massive scar on his side — the malformed bite of a (were)wolf — not because he's suddenly self-conscious about it, but because it's been on his mind the whole time. Worryingly so. ]

---

[ ooc: Dom is an 18 year old werewolf + witch. He has the sigil of Wrath on his body, which can influence characters around him to have a shorter temper, be more impulsive, etc. But I won't use this mechanic unless you want to play with it. Kinklist is here. Contact me at gucky for plotting, closed starters, questions etc! ]

THE TOWER REVERSED

[deadnerve]

My blowjob skills have never been more insulted.

[Devon's a little out of breath - he's been really giving it his all here, if only to find that he just can't make Dom cum. They're out in the woods - which, sure, is enough of a dick limper experience (and yet he's not limp, just-) and there's dirt all over his knees as he stays kneeling, one hand on Dom's cock and the other wiping spit and pre from his mouth. He may not feel pain but he knows the pressure of a tired jaw, massaging it before looking up at Dom with narrowed eyes.]

Here, switch.

[Hand on Dom's side by his scar, he pushes him back a bit so he can stand and turn around - putting his back to Dom as he loosens his pants. If he has to find a way to milk this guy, he will, if only for his own pride. Talk about picking your hook ups.]

Just fuck me, don't worry about prep. I'm fine.

[Maybe he'll be the one to cum, at least.]