𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐄 ▣ AUGUST TDM

[saltburntmods]

AUGUST 2025 TDM: BALANCE

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.

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

CONTENT WARNINGS: house fire.

The day starts much like any other — at least in the first few moments of consciousness, chased to morning light by the pounding of a hangover, the sweaty night terrors soaking your sheets, or the scent of breakfast on the rise through the house. Well, it seems someone must've burnt the bacon, now that your nose wakes you up, which is highly unusual for the skilled chefs here at Saltburnt. Flutter your eyes open and see a pillowy cloud of smoke filtering under your door, something that manages to finally alert you to the danger you're in. Out in the hallway, flames lick up the walls, smoke and ash burning your eyes. The next move is obvious: grab whatever you can carry and get out, as quick as you can. It seems that place you've called home for a day or a year is going up in flames.

Outside, flames engulf one wing of the huge manor, invaluable trinkets laid out on the lawn from the help, usually invisible, running in and out to grab what they can spare from the flames. Of course, people offer their helpful services — tending to burns and smoke inhalation, trying to put out the fire from whatever means they have, be it buckets of water stolen from the lake, or magical prowess from the population of guests. Regardless, the fire rages, and only manages to cease when about half of the house has been burnt down to structurally questionable bones, ashy remains, and the occasional falling cinder of burnt wood.

Before the mess, the Balfours stand in a range of different emotions — irritation from Bunny, paranoia from Rosie. The only one who manages to attempt to find a silver lining is Portia, whose plastic smile twitches around her watery eyes, hand cinched in an iron grip around Jonty's. There's a pleading look in her eyes for all of a moment before the patriarch of the family springs (more, dustily sways) into action, calling forth, "Giles!"

The man in question appears, soot-coated and harrowed, yet still immaculately well put together, bowing slightly at the waist. "Sir?"

"The —" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."

A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."

LIVING OFF THE LAND

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes.

By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken … liberties with the lawn decor. Aside from a brief intermission spent sobbing at the manor's scorched stonework, the lady of the manor does what she does best (in Portia's very modest opinion): she beautifies. Gone is the sad, sad state of all that empty sprawling green; what stands in its place is an encampment of tents stretching from the gardens to the forest boundary. And not your mother's backyard camping equipment, either — that would be so terribly basic and blase, darling. They're much more exciting than that. Fresh out of the imagination of someone who clearly consolidated ideas from flipping through a Martha Stewart Magazine and browsing Coachella's website, the bell tents (100% cotton, Portia is too happy to share with you) come in a lovely selection of colors. Beige, buff, biscuit, oatmeal, fawn. And Portia's personal favorites: the chartreuse, and a shade that closely resembles bile.

At your look of confusion, or distress, or perhaps distinct horror, Portia announces, with a stiff smile to rival a fresh dosage of Botox: "It's fine. It's fine! I wanted an excuse to finally redecorate, anyway. We'll just— we'll make a retreat out of it, my lovelies."

Well, where else are you going to go? Outside of each tent, Giles and his fellow staff have taken the time to generously assign you and your former suitemate to a shared tent, your names scribbled together in obnoxiously joyful cursive on a bright chalkboard. Just in case your amateur eyes can't distinguish between beige and oatmeal. Of course, mistakes are made. You can't possibly expect the housestaff to remember all of your names, or who you've shared space with before the "Little Setback", as Portia has taken to calling it. Some of you might find yourselves paired up with the wrong partner in the mix-up and reshuffling of housing arrangements, while others — without suitemates, or freshly arrived — find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.

Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that — while the interior is positively spacious — some concessions had to be made. Namely: there is, in fact, only one bed. Or, in your case, only one sleeping bag. Designed to lovingly cradle two bodies in disturbingly close proximity, your organic, artisan cashmere sleeping bag comes with only a narrowed zipper for entry and one built-in memory foam pillow, so you can meditate by listening to your partner's breathing at all times. Portia's private DJ turned ex-fling turned self-proclaimed intimacy coach, Ezio, insists it helps you and your partner connect to the same emotional frequency for maximum bonding. Whatever that means.

Luckily, not all of your belongings were unsalvageable. Giles has painstakingly begun the process of transferring supplies into your tent, from changes of clothes to personal effects to underwear you're 70% sure belong to another resident. Among them, you'll find both a camp counselor uniform that looks like it was pulled off the rack from an adult novelty shop, and a pair of athletic short-shorts and white tank tops for your scheduled summertime activities.

The generosity doesn't end there — with Ezio's advice, Portia has arranged a gift bag for each tent, meant to strengthen ties amongst the House's residents. What better time to connect than in the wake of such a tragedy? Inside, guests will find: a guided erotic meditation track, mood-boosting meditative candles in scents such as Nag Champa and Afternoon Scrapbooking, a set of silk ribbons with slogans reading Surrender and Trust, heated massage oils marked for tension release, an ergonomically-shaped crystal pleasure wand sculpted from Rose Quartz meant for "grounding and release", silicone bands for your, ahem, instrument to help harness your "root chakra", and a guided positions manual for Kama Sutra with Portia's favorites meticulously circled. Happy healing!

No summer camp trip would be complete without activities. Ezio, allergic to wearing anything that isn't a breathable speedo, leads a series of trust-building exercises. A blindfolded obstacle course, set up with chairs hauled down from the attic as well as pool noodles and cardboard boxes, requires one partner to lead the other successfully to the end. Ezio's twist? You can only direct your partner through sincere, heartfelt compliments in the vein of, "you look so pretty when you're confused." If you lose patience and swear, you're forced to mandatorily hug each other — medically effective to reduce your blood pressure! For the detail-oriented, there's the Human Scavenger Hunt. Sitting in meditative circles, you're given a list of clues to find on your partner's body, ranging from locating the part of their skin that's softest to finding their ticklish points. That birthmark on your buttcheek will come to light. For the more athletically inclined, there's the honeyspoon race — with your mouth as the spoon. It's your job to transfer as much honey as you can into your partner's mouth without spilling. Or perhaps you'd prefer less mouth-to-mouth contact in the piggyback race, or a vanilla and traditional game of Tug of War, or even Bunny Balfour's strange rendition of Jason at Camp Crystal Lake. Those of you who can't outrun the killer get helped to a nice dousing of red food coloring you can cleanse off in the communal showers positioned at the treeline, with nothing blocking the rest of the camp's view of your natural assets.

Mealtimes are rigidly run as scheduled by Giles' demand, though the Balfours' menu is rather limited to simpler cuisine this month. Toad in a Hole, Angels on Horseback, Bubbles and Squeak, and what looks to be a charming attempt at S'mores served on digestive biscuits — all dutifully charred over a campfire and served with a variety of fine vintages spared from the worst of the flames. And if you come underdressed for the occasion? "We dress for dinner," Portia remarks from her place at the head of a honey-oaked picnic bench, overlage sunglasses shielding her eyes. You get the impression she's looking down her nose at your choice of wardrobe, anyway. "Black tie. No exceptions."

Eat up, gather your energy; you'll need it for what comes next.

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK

CONTENT WARNINGS: emeto, slight body horror, potential character death, fuck or die.

While you were all asleep in your spacious tents and unspacious sleeping bags, the maze has shifted form, spreading its sections along the entire grounds of the house. You wake from what should be the end of your glamping spree already lost in a part of the sprawling labyrinth, maybe with your tent-mate, or the person you spent the night with, or someone completely new. You’re only sure of one thing — it seems like you’ve suddenly developed a pesky case of allergies. It starts with an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation that crawls over your entire body as you start to move. Sweat dampens your clothes despite the towering blossoms offering a rather pleasant shade from the sun, and soon your teeth are chattering with chills. So maybe you’ve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, it’s probably nothing you haven’t dealt with before, and it won’t stop you from finding your way out of the maze.

The natural thought would be to utilize your own skillset to escape, but you quickly realize that using any magical abilities yields no results upon the thick foliage — or at least you think there’s no effect. If you try to use fire to burn down a part of the maze, not only does it not work for you, but now, in a part of the maze opposite to you, there are burning flames that other house guests will have to get past. Being big and bad, in this case, means you’re probably just an asshole now. As you stumble through the maze, you encounter more and more magical obstacles that you might begin to recognize as coming from your own friends. Looks like everyone’s desperate to get out, and you’re only making things worse. (If your character tries to use their magic, please submit it here, so others can play with it!)

Speaking of worse, those allergies are swiftly advancing into a full blown infection from — you guessed it — the foliage of the maze itself. The constant reproducing and shifting is caused by THE BOGWOOD BLIGHT, evident by the dark lesions spotting the plant stems, and white, fuzzy spores clinging to the undersides of the leaves. Your symptoms progress into searing pain as flowers, branches, and thorns begin to grow inside of you, your vomit coming up bloody and thick with masses of dead leaves. Young vines and tiny flowers seem to spool out from your own hair, curling around your throat if you don’t keep up with tearing them out. Hallucinations plague your mind, sharp desire both violent and sexual permeating your senses and threatening to push all other reasonable thoughts out.

It would be easy to succumb to this sickness, to let your base instincts fight or fuck one another until you’re all hopelessly lost and doomed to a certain death in the labyrinth. But there is a way out, for those who can hold on to their sanity and bear through the pain: participate in the trials, and earn your freedom.

These trials? Nothing like the fun and games of a night camping beneath the stars. The verdant landscape of the neatly trimmed maze has become flush with deadly obstacles, and it’s up to you to get past them all. Naturally, your first instinct is to grab your trusty iPhone and reach out to your closest and most trusted companions — but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into I’m glad to finally be rid of you. Trying to reunite with a loved one throws you for another loop when you finally do find them — three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you they’re the real one. In order to reveal the truth and continue your journey along the maze, drive a thorn into one of their hearts. Hope you know your lovers well. Maybe a little physical touch will help?

The maze might break into a small clearing for you, a wide open space with checkerboarded grass filling from one edge of the field to the other — two different tones of the same haunted green pervasive through the labyrinth. Certain spaces are occupied by expertly crafted hedges to resemble all the familiar pieces to a chess board, while the Kings are left empty, awaiting you and an opponent. Take your positions, or wait for a stranger to stumble upon you, if you were unlucky enough to face the maze by yourself, and play the game according to all ordinary rules of chess. Following a checkmate, you have the option of how you’ll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how they’ll claim it over you — a slap or a kiss will suffice, to earn your win. Strangely, physical touch seems to relieve the worst of your allergies. These things do have a way of escalating, don’t they? Best to keep your wits about you.

For those of you prone to clumsiness, you’re probably doomed already, but the viper pits are an easy trap for even the most seasoned of the bunch. Take one step, and the ground gives way beneath your feet, plunging you into a dark, flinty hole in the earth. The injuries you might have sustained on the way down are the least of your worries. Inside the pervasive darkness of the pit, it’s time to face your vipers — that is, your worst fears seem to press in on you, terror blooming in your very bones until your own nauseating dread is all you can feel. Maybe it's actual vipers, or rough waters pulling you down, or a thousand razors cutting your skin — the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have a friend risk it all to help you out, but you can always just save yourself, clawing to the top while your greatest fears weigh you down.

If you manage to avoid the pits, they’re not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and you’ll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style — and these vines like to fondle and grope, ramping up the sexual side of your infection symptoms. The only way to get free? Turn to someone else struggling in the vine trap and get frisky — or let the vines turn from pleasure to true pain as they slowly squeeze the life out of you. Orgasm or die. It's a pretty easy choice, isn't it?

Just when you think it’s the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, you’re lucky enough to happen upon a water source — one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, you’re parched enough to drink deep despite the possibility of bird shit floating around. As you crouch over the water, your reflection stares back at you — only it’s either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear you’ve already become. Once you catch your reflection’s eye, you’re caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the water’s depths. The bird bath overflows, the pond turns dark and bottomless, and the gilded fountain statues laugh at your plight as you struggle to keep yourself from drowning. Time to face those ugly truths about yourself — fast.

After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end — a narrow pathway lined with thorn-filled hedges, too thick and solid to pry through. The only way forward is onto the path. Luckily, a piece of bright hope shimmers before you — a single strand of golden thread, hopefully leading you out into the world once more. You step onto the path, following the glimmering thread, and it seems like all is well until the moment someone enters the path behind you. The hedges rush toward you, brutally narrowing the space as thorns dig into your flesh and rip fresh wounds across your body. Looks like only one of you can complete this painfully claustrophobic trial at a time, and the other has to watch your slow and bloody suffering, waiting for the moment the walls part and you can rejoin your love without consequence. Better hurry to get there. They’re going to need some patching up once they’re done.

As you escape the stifling thorns, finally emerging on the other side and collapsing with relief to be free and hopefully to get some help for your worsening illness, you realize with a sick drop of your stomach that you haven’t made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfour’s beloved Minotaur statue should be… only it’s nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.

MATERIAL GIRLS

CONTENT WARNINGS: potential character death, loss of limbs.

It's been a long, harrowing journey, but you're here now, likely with some friendships or trauma-bonds made along the way, which is what summer camp is all about. Each of the statues before you is decorated with a marble slab at the base, detailing EYE TO EYE below Medusa and HAND IN HAND below Midas. Curiosity eventually wins out against wariness — or maybe the charms of the maze have worn thin on you through the days, frustration guiding your motion. Whatever the case, you weigh your options and choose accordingly between the two, stepping forward and sealing your fate.

EYE TO EYE — Look to Medusa for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside her, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you begin to change. It starts at your fingertips, gradually spreading from arm to shoulder to neck, and so on, transmuting your body from flesh and blood to cold, icy stone. Those affected start to lean into their darker side, turning from the hero to the villain, the kind to the cruel. To stop your gravelly fate, amends must be made — forgive someone who wronged you, love someone you hate, clear up a misunderstanding you've let fester inside, make up for some injustice you've committed in your life. Give them the knife and let them start cutting. Beg for penance, and whether or not you receive it is beside the point — the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.

HAND IN HAND — Alternatively, hold the hand Midas extends for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside him, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you too start to change, following the same pattern of those more Medusa inclined — but gilt instead of stony, turning gold from the outside in. Those affected lean further into their brighter, more pleasant sides, cheer replacing sorrow, your mood uplifted to a potentially overbearing degree. To stop your gilded fate, sacrifices must be made — reveal a deep rooted secret, let go of something you're insecure about, give away something of important value to you. Material good are nice, yes, but do you know what Midas would like even more? Limbs, eyes, flesh, blood, something you're really going to miss.

Regardless of your choice, you're out of the maze, congrats! Act swiftly and all will be fine. Dither and, well — you'll make a beautiful, statue-corpse eventually, and the maze would be happy to have you. Of course, even a successful solution will take time to settle in. Your stony, golden limbs revert as slowly as they crawled up on you, any severed body parts taking days to reform but eventually coming back as good as new, with a small memorializing token — a hand or an eye shaped birthmark to remember what you've lost.

Out of the maze, you can see the work being done on the house, renovations well underway while you were busy messing around. It was so kind of you to give the Balfours the chance to start working on the house — and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

▣ QUESTIONS?

[saltburntmods]

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

[ripher]

Is the library ok?? 🥺

▣ TOP LEVELS

[saltburntmods]

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

karlach cliffgate — bg3

[tickers]

over here!

▣ MAGIC

[saltburntmods]

Any magic your character might attempt in the maze, and any effects it might have on other people inside it. Anyone can look through these and decide to be effected by the results. Use your imagination, and be as descriptive/vague as you like!

[breeding]

sorry to anyone on the other side of the maze, but: for a period of about thirty seconds, you'll be contending with beams of heat vision slicing in and out of the hedges. if it hits you, if you don't have supernatural resilience in some way, it will cut through you like a hot knife through butter. shortly after, you may also experience your body being thrown up in the air, as if you were taking flight.

Tony Stark | MCU | current player, new character

[ingeniar]

GOOD MORNING, MR STARK — cw: house fire

[ Typical. Tony's only been in this dimension -- he's assuming it's a dimension, it definitely seems to have dimension-like properties, definitely too weird to be a dream or an alternate timeline or something, maybe a mishap from his future-or-past experimentation -- for all of five minutes, and it's already burning down. Unfortunately, he's landed in this whatever-it-is without anything useful in the way of superhero technology, so the best he can do to help is hurry his sleep-deprived body through the halls, ducking in to help scoop up wayward guests or staff if they look like they're running in the wrong direction. Not that he knows which is the right direction, but he can take a guess, and he's not going to wait around to see if someone else can help.

He ends up on the lawn in front of the burning house, barefoot and coughing, surrounded by strangers in various states of distress and undress. Without thinking much about it, he shrugs out of the hoodie he threw on back in his room and drapes it over a pair of bare shoulders. ]

You look like you need it more than I do. Might want to.. zip it up.

[ Tony doesn't hang around staring, either. He's immediately headed to the lake to take part in the bucket line trying in vain to keep the flames contained. It's frustrating to not be able to do more, but he does his best, refusing to stop for more than a few minutes, hustling between hauling furniture and guiding dazed people out to fresh air.

Eventually it becomes clear that the fire is as contained as it's going to be and Tony finally slows down enough to drop down and sit on the lawn in the smoky morning light. He coughs into his fist, rubs his sweat-and-soot smeared forehead, and looks around. ]

Well. Whoever was smoking in bed, speak up now. Come on. We listen, we don't judge.

GETTING A LITTLE IN-TENTS — cw: none

[ Camping isn't exactly Tony's thing. Okay, he can rough it just like any other red-blooded American, but he's the wrong side of forty for sleeping on the ground and he's become pretty used to his privacy, and his things, and his wife and his kid and his plans to save the world from imminent destruction, so sue him if he's a little grouchy about the whole relocation.

He doesn't spend much time in his tent, but that doesn't mean he's hiding somewhere else. If anyone needs him, he can be found trying to make a decent cup of coffee over a campfire, having haggled and engineered his way to a decent percolator and a supply of beans (which he grinds by hand), determined to perfect it even if he does nothing else. He also catches up on his reading with the Portia-supplied copy of the Karma Sutra and isn't afraid to wander around the site with his gift basket under his arm to see if anyone wants to trade their supplies for his. ]

Anyone want a spare candle? No? This one is.. [ He scrutinizes the one in his hand. ] Wow, I didn't know you could make that into a candle. Sounds painful.

WILDCARD

[ OOC: Here for any and all wildcards relating to the first two prompts! Tony's canon point is mid-Endgame, post-timeskip but before the time heist. Ping me at laetificat for plotting or questions! ]

good morning, mr stark!

[tickers]

( let's say, it's not a far stretch of the imagination for tony's eyes to land on what appears to be a giant, red woman, who is in fact letting off sparks from the center of her chest, where a mechanical whir bleats under all the internal goopy stuff. she tries to look very inconspicuous, but given the aforementioned height and heat, not to mention her general demeanor, it isn't exactly successful. eventually she sighs, tapping a sharp nail against her chest. )

Come on, mate! This one isn't me, I swear it. It's all ...

( roaring, fiery, angry? a little like some nearby tieflings with fire in their hearts? she gestures to it, a little flagrantly. )

Well —  ( a little more serious, ) I'd admit it, if it was me, you know. 'Course, can't exactly blame you for guessing. Old sparky's a likely culprit.

Helaena Targaryen | House of the Dragon

[honorism]

A. Goodbye to Saltburnt (cw: bugs)

[On top of everything else, now the house burns down?

She opens her door and peeks out, feeling uneasy as she retreats to grab some things she sees as too valuable to leave behind... Her bugs. It's her bugs. She opens her door again moments later and flags down anyone also hurrying out that isn't carrying too much]

Here. Take these too please. [And shoves some jars of bugs in their arms. It could be crickets or something nicer, but it's more likely to be spiders. Sorry....

She retreats for a few seconds to appear again carrying a larger terrarium in her arms, expression grim as she moves with purpose toward the exit] Please don't drop them. I spent a long time getting them.

B. Living off the Land

[Lauralae is gone, so she has no idea if this place will want her to share with someone else now. She doesn't pay any attention as she works to set up the terrarium again.

It's possible to also fine Helaena releasing some of her bugs back into the wild, or maybe she approaches you out of nowhere and reaches to you with the command to "hold still"...but it's only to take a bug off of you, cradled lovingly in her hands.] There are some good things about this, at least. [But she's saying it to the bug she just rescued you from in her hands, smiling down at it.]

C. And they were roommates...

[She didn't have a suite-mate before the house burned down, so it isn't surprising that this place might give her a replacement. She's still not expecting it though as she sits on the ground in the middle of the tent, upending the gift bag and staring dubiously down at its contents.

When someone else enters, Helaena glances up without a hint of shame or embarrassment, simply fixing them with a dubious look] I don't think you're supposed to be here. [Except maybe you are! This might be your new place to stay the night, but Helaena doesn't look particularly into it]

D. Teamwork, or: The Smut Option

[Well, yeah. Of course things go to hell immediately. Helaena is too tired to be mad about any of it, feeling an uncharacteristic anger welling up in her stomach. She's sick and tired of this! She wants to go home! She wants her friends back and her brothers and her children and her dragon and she wants to go home!!

Not that she can. She wants to scream and/or cry, but tearing the vines off of herself is some form of violent catharsis that she normally would never like to indulge in. But it feels good to be angry and violent for once.

And then the vines get her, winding their way around her body, between her legs and arms, pulling her arms tight behind her. Her nightgown ripped in all the right places to tease a show and her frustration apparent as she squirms and huffs, making muffled squeaks of alarm as the vines shift and rub between her legs.

Helaena takes a breath, trying to get her mind back under control as she looks around for a helping hand--in whatever way that might mean.]

E. Wildcard!

[For other things! Maybe Helaena asks for you to keep watch/guard/shield her while she showers, or you find Helaena's bugs, or whatever you want!]

b

[datgirl]

[ Ah. Hannah has been watching this little guy crawl up her arm, so she's delighted to see someone else appreciate the local wildlife as much as she does. ]

Yeah. At least these little guys still have their home.

[ The bugs, the birds, the amphibians... Being forced to camp sucks, but it could be a lot worse.

Oh. She's not talking to Hannah. Okay. Hannah can work with that. ]

Been interested in them long?

( finch | original )

[bloodflows]

ᴀ: ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴀʟᴛʙᴜʀɴᴛ
[cw: none]

[Finch was in one of the deepest sleeps in recent history - tensions were high as ever when his head hit the pillow but he felt secure for a change. Resting in his own bed, with his arms around his lover and their own roof over their heads... It was peaceful, it was safe. So when he was ripped from that bliss by the pungent scent of smoke, he jolted awake and became utterly disoriented by what was and wasn't around him.

People were screaming in the halls as they evacuated, making him feel a panicked flutter in his chest. He used to have nightmares about evacuating the compound as a kid, after his father made them do regular drills in case of 'emergencies'. It's been a long while since he felt that way - but not too long since he remembers a boarding house also going up in flames. Felt like yesterday. Where the hell is he?

Finch follows the lines of people - stops to help if he needs to, but he's only half dressed (pants with the button undone, shirt in one hand and a messy unshaven look about him. Scrungly, if you will. It's not until he's outside that he looks back at the manor, putting on his tunic-like top while he stares at the glittering flames.

This is not Rubilykskoye?]

I'm so fucking confused.

ʙ: ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴏғғ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅ
[cw: none]

[He's still not adjusted well - to the universe hopping (again,) not the living outdoors thing. To be honest, the whole camping scenario is the most familiar thing to Finch right now. Wasn't that long ago he was living out in the woods in a caravan, hanging laundry to dry around a flock of free running chickens and a cat with an attitude. He can deal with cooking over a fire, though he's still staring at his hands while holding a tin can of Chef Boyarde. Not something he thought he'd see again...

The fire pit he's at is more of a communal one, surrounded by tented areas; he's perched on a log turned bench, looking over some of the salvaged food (and keeping some of the junk food closer to his heel - you're gonna tell him it's 2007 again and Twinkies are in abundance?) while intermittently sipping on booze. He's dressed in boots and work pants, a long sleeve shirt rolled up to the elbows and a woodsy sort of sense about him. Those with sensitive noses will also note he smells faintly of blood.]

... You want some? I'm gonna open a can and heat it up.

ᴄ: ᴛᴇɴᴛ ʜᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ
[cw: none]

[Finch didn't have an official room on account of just arriving in time for terror - so he's not surprised he hasn't seen his name on any particular tent arrangement. So it takes him a little while to find his bearings, staying here or there for the first few nights - wary about intruding on people, doing his best not to step into any clearly occupied tents if he can help it.

But more than once he'll find himself looking up from a bed or where he fell asleep in the corner of a tent to spot someone else; wiping at his eye blearily, he already prepares himself to get up and leave:]

Sorry, was this your - uh, place?

ɴᴏᴛᴇs

[Info on Finch can be found here and content warnings about his backstory and abilities as well as an opt out can be found here. Feel free to chat with me at witchpunk if you'd like to plot something or chat about any threads! Finch comes with rubilykskoye CRAU.]

ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴀʟᴛʙᴜʀɴᴛ- wildcard

[hislittleflower]

[ Lost and confused, Peony stands at the lawn and stares at the house she most certainly didn't fall asleep in. This had to be the oddest Void Dream that she had yet experienced. Through the crowd, she spots a familiar head of hair and makes beeline for him, slipping a hand into his.

Peony appears at his side in a nightdress and robe, bare feet on the summer grass and frowning in deep puzzlement. ]

Is this your world? I don't recognise anything here, Finch.

Dean Winchester | Supernatural | current player, new character

[cholesterol]

LIKE A HOUSE ON FIRE

( There's no time to think the last fifteen-seventeen odd years are a dream St. Elsewhere style 'cause he comes to to the smell of smoke. Instincts kick in immediately, still dressed - still bloodied - (it wasn't a dream after all, Dorothy) as he shoots up ramrod straight.

In the hallway he assesses if anyone else has woken up, or needs help, if they're sputtering or coughing. Don't mind the dried blood on his chin, or on his clothes - as if something impaled him just before coming here. ) Hey, which way's the exit?

( Helping who he can - if they need it, he'll cover his mouth with his arm as he takes whomever down the stairs and out the door onto the lawn. ) Quite a welcome wagon you got here.

( On the lawn, he zips up his jacket, so as to not raise any more attention - the bloodied guy who was, yes, kind of stabbed. It's fine. He's fine. Somehow. )

Anyone got the cliff's notes to this place?

( Seriously. A/S/L. Anything, guys. )

SLEEP-AWAY

( Dean enters a tent for the night, surprised to find you )

Sorry, Brokeback, thought this tent was assigned... ( he leans back out, lips drawn into a thin line before he steps back inside. ) to me. You want to Rock, Paper, Scissors for Saltburn under the stars?

( What are the chances they'll play a movie! Probably low...

Later on, he sits on one of the benches to open up his generously given gift bag. He pulls one item out, practically dropping it back inside cause that's - definitely a cock-ring. He glances around to everyone else, then quietly digs through the bag's contents. )

Place really wants us to get our rocks off.

( Normally, he'd take charge, play camp counselor, but the Balfours seem to have done it for him, so he plays along.

Turns to a pretty girl nearby with the human scavenger hunt in hand ) I'll show you mine. ( And in passing, he might talk to someone else: ) So, where's the truth part of truth or dare? Don't people play spin the bottle anymore? Was that a camp thing?

( He's never been.

He takes tug-of-war seriously. And Jason on Crystal Lake. He freaking hides, ducks, dives, runs, (dodges,) and, because he has no choice, has no problem stripping down in the communal showers that feel like they were built overnight. He's just a shrug emoji at this point. Dead, but living. And now showering around dudes and chicks younger than him. He thinks. He has various scars, his possession tattoo on his chest - maybe you recognize a spot from the scavenger hunt. Either way, he towels off and then sits down on one of the benches, treating it like a sauna as he takes in the sun.

Finally, he scans through any of the tomes rescued from the library. Maybe for answers? He doesn't treat the books well, though, tossing unneeded ones to the side, behind him, maybe at you. )

( ooc: also here for any wildcards. his canon-point is tentatively the series finale after a thing. hit me up at audacieux if you have any questions or ideas. )

sleep away —

[flextraterrestrial]

Ever seen A Few Good Men? I'll stick to dares, they're easier when it comes to being surrounded by strangers.

[ Michael's not in the mood to bear his soul to anyone, least of all this butch military type that smacks of the same continuously hunting him and his family, but he's friendly up to a point. Logic says that he can't be an island in this situation, but boy oh boy, Izzy's mental prowess would come in handy right now.

Michael finishes off his beer and passes him the long-necked bottle with a crooked grin. ]

But there's your bottle for spin the bottle.

sarah | blink twice

[fatblunt]

CAPTURED EFFORTLESSLY; THAT'S THE WAY IT WAS (cw: recreational drug use)

[ even before the island, this isn't a state that sarah is unfamiliar with. she's done her fair share of partying as a form of networking, both on behalf of the show and for herself once the network had decided to drop it (and therefore her). during the time she was covered by the network she'd be careful not to get too carried away with it, limiting herself to a cocktail or two, maybe a line or a few hits off a blunt. she'd gotten a little more careless since she'd been told the network wasn't moving forward with all-stars and had decided to cancel the show; a crisis of well what the fuck am i supposed to do now when cody had decided to talk to her at the coffee shop. and now -

now she's here, waking with her legs twisted in bedsheets, a scream in her throat when she smells the smoke, nearly choking on it. it takes her a second to realize she's not where she'd just escaped. she doesn't know where she is, but it's not the island.

and wherever it is, it's on fire too. ]

Fuck!

[ survival instinct kicks in once the haze of recent memories and nightmares fade. if there's someone in the other beds in the room, she runs up to them, shaking them urgently. ]

Come on, we gotta get out of here. [ she rummages for clothing, tossing them whatever she can find to pull over whatever pajamas they (and she) have on before shoving her feet into shoes, tossing them pairs before running to the door, testing the doorknob before crouching and making her way into the hallway. she bangs on doors with the side of her fist as she passes them, making her way downstairs and out the door, stumbling onto the lawn and hunching over, hands on her knees as she coughs enough to get some of her breath back. she straightens once she can breathe somewhat normally, staring at the burning building she's just escaped, still having no idea what it is or how she'd gotten here. ]

This place sucks.

I FEEL LIKE NO ONE COULD FEEL; I MUST BE DREAMIN' (cw: allusions to nonconsensual restraint)

[ she's in much better spirits once the camps are set up. this is her element; surviving off meager supplies and making it work, participating in challenges, forming alliances. there's not a camera or any need to perform here, or any need to keep in mind how she'll be edited to appear later (even though that thought still rings in her mind, especially when she picks through the offered wardrobe; she ultimately picks the camp counselor-esque outfit, figuring it's less likely to get caught or tied up on anything). ]

A

[ when it comes to the team bonding activities, she ends up thriving, enthusiastically calling out directions throughout the obstacle course. ]

You got this! Crawl under, like you're Catherine Zeta-Jones in that laser maze! Let's go!

[ from then, she progresses to the tug-o-war. the piggyback rides get more consideration, but only because she's strategizing. ]

Okay, it's only for a few yards and back, right? I can do it if you can't. [ she rolls her shoulders back, then crouches down and braces her arms behind her, waiting for whoever she's talking to to get on her back. ] Come on, it's fine.

B

[ after taking a break to clean up at the showers, sarah's seated by the fire, going through the gift basket that's been provided to them. the crystal gets an appraising look as she tests the heft of it in her hand before she settles it back in the basket, clearly intent on keeping it, but the ribbons get gathered at her feet with the intent of her chucking them into the fire. they're not particularly long, but their presence still makes her feel uneasy.

she stands to toss them in before going to gather the materials to assemble herself a s'more, giving a raised eyebrow look to whoever might give her an incredulous look over what she's just done. ]

What, were you hoping to use the 'live, laugh, love' shit to decorate your tent?

YOU KNEW I COULD NOT RESIST; I NEEDED SOMEONE (cw: hallucinations, allusions to drugging and sexual assault)

[ unfortunately, the skills she'd utilized on hot survival babes aren't going to get her nearly as far in the hedgemaze from the shining. sarah's cagey and frustrated as she tries navigating on her own, gritting her teeth against the nausea and pain that are easier to bear than her mind turning on her, forcing her to relive the memories that had been suppressed, the clink, clink, clink of chains knocking against each other echoing in her ears as she feels vines snag in her hair and around her throat. her hands tear through her hair and clutch at her body, just for the reminder that she's wearing something else, of what's real.

she didn't survive the island to die here. she's not going to let it win.

someone stumbles nearby, clearly in the same harried state that she's in, and she turns to them, eyes wild but determined. ]

We need to team up. [ her voice is rasping, but her tone is clear. ] We're getting out of here, but we've gotta stick together.

WILDCARD

[ feel free to choose your own scenario within what i've set out or make up your own! info on sarah and her canon can be found here; please mind the content warnings. ]

must be dreamin (b)

[adorne]

No, but I can think of other uses for them.

[ Despite the ease with which he says it, Oberyn's not talking about things of a sexual nature. That much is evidenced by the crystal from his basket, which he's dragging along the length of a rock in front of the fire to sharpen up. He blows on it every now and then and tilts it in his hand to gauge his progress. ]

In a place where nothing's certain, everything can be seen as currency, do you not agree?

karlach cliffgate — bg3, ota

[tickers]

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

cw: n/a

( it might be a bit of an understatement to say karlach is no real help when it comes to the gathering of precious goods if the point is to not burn them, but busy, strength-inclined work? karlach is there, present, running through the burning building, as unaffected by the fire as the smothering heat of her skin would imply, although it's a bit — well, not as hot as usual. because she can touch people without burning them to crispy bits, something learned through trial and error, hoisting nearly unconscious bodies up and onto her shoulders before she races out of the fire, bringing them to the fresh air and green, green grass. apparent safety.

if you're someone she helped out: ) Heya, solider. You're alright. Take it easy, okay?

( and on the off chance you're someone else hurtling through the flames to rescue those in distress: ) Ha! That's my sixth — what about you? ( she throws up a fist in the air. ) Karlach, mighty hero of — ! ( cutting herself off, she turns to you. ) Where are we, again?

LIVING OFF THE LAND

cw: potential burns/overheating

a — ( though wary of her newfound ability to touch, kind of, karlach is not one to ever miss out on teambuilding exercises. really, you couldn't ask for a better person to be cheering you on — she hoots and hollers through piggyback racing and the honeyspoon game, whistling loudly and catcalling whenever something particularly salacious happens. to the question of if she might join in the activities, she looks a little sheepish, lifting a hand to rub the back of her head. )

Well ... only if you can handle the heat.

( this is not actually an innuendo — the shirt she's wearing (not a crop top) fits like a crop top on her tall frame, the hem and sleeves singed off with glowing embers still clinging to the burnt material. the scent of burning follows evermore in her path — not for the faint of heart. )

b — ( later, after getting shunned from dinner with her careless display of dress-code disrespect, karlach can be seen pouting babyish by the lake, tossing stones and watching them skip. her stomach growls, and from her measly pile of recused goods from the fire, she bites off the wrapper of a slim jim, tossing it in a pile with about a dozen other ones. )

How's it my fault none of that dainty stuff sticks on me? ( said to no one, or if you happen to be nearby — you. ) "We dress for dinner, Karlach." If I even look at lace, it's up in flames, mate. Come onnnnn. I'm hungry!

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. )

goodbye saltburnt ❤️‍🔥

[nightsung]

[ Shadowheart wastes time trying to save her house plants from the blaze. There's the ivy in her reading nook, a maidenhair fern in the bathroom, an aloe plant by the window. She only manages the fern, and by the time she makes it into the hallway, the way out is barred by smoke and fire.

She doesn't have create water prepared. Part of the ceiling collapses, and takes her down with it--and she doesn't know how long she's out, but when she comes to, she's being carried. Her eyes are still bleary, but through the haze she thinks she sees horns, and familiar wild hair, and-- ]

Karlach?

[ Shadowheart chokes on ash and smoke the moment it's startled out of her, coughing until they're out on the lawn where it's easier to breathe and also easier to see. Here, holding her, her body hot but not infernal-hot--it feels impossible that Karlach's arrived just like that, though Shadowheart knows it isn't.

A little weakly, once she can wrap her arms around her neck properly, ]

I always did hope you'd carry me to safety, some day.

good stab - the buffalo hunter hunter

[pikuni]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

BEFORE THE BURNING

⇒ OPEN WOUNDS

[The first dissonance: a bed that is not his own, and a man who has not really had a bed of his own for a long time. There have been beds in places where he sleeps after a real good feed, sure. Beds harder than this, made more like brick than pillowy foam. The second: a pikuni, spirited away. This is not supposed to happen. He knows this instinctively, the way he knows a man by his smell on the air. He is not supposed to be here, and he does not want to be here, and perhaps childlike, he makes it known by taking the covers from his soft bed and shredding them. He picks up the most expensive looking ornament from the side cabinets and dressing table, and he destroys those too.

Into the silk, many-threaded pillow cases he screams his frustration and sinks his teeth in like a boy into his mothers forearms. He does not cry, because he needs all the blood inside of him. He needs it to last the summer - and it is summer, he realises later, when he goes to the window to look outside. No longer winter, no longer anywhere close to what he knows. When the staff come to clean up his mess, they leave the door open, exposed wound to the air. He looks outside at you, too, and knows that you don't belong here either. This is on the air; it's in every particle, the smell of wrongness.

His nose scrunches, dark eyes squinting against the morning light. Half-way exhausted, he calls out, not sorry at all: ] Sorry about the noise.

AS IT BURNS DOWN
⇒ THE LAST GOOD DREAM

[No matter how much he wishes it weren't so, he realises Arthur Beaucarne might have been right: there is a hell. The old man's white-god has put him straight in it, cut him off from his people, his home. There's no other word for it: what else would hell be for him if not an English estate, with it's well-trimmed lawns and it's old-money iron-gold decoration.

It's a hollow shell; it wants to hollow him out too. He won't let it. He tells himself this on the first day, then the second, and so on. He won't let it destroy him, even if eventually he will have to drink from the inhabitants. Even if eventually his might go blue again, his skin pallid, his chin scruff with hair. He won't let it.

He spends the early evenings out by where the growth can't be tamed. He should be inside, he knows, at the very least to know the house and its tricks. He just doesn't want to be. He wants his hard rock bed, he wants his construction work, he wants the lazy, conspicuous life he's made for himself. On bad days, he thinks he might be glad to see Etsy Beaucarne. On worse days, he thinks he misses her grandfather and his great big ugly face.

And then, like an answered prayer: the house burns down. In its wake, you find him standing on the lawn as the tents are pitched, arms folded over his chest, sunglasses perched on his nose. He grins, he nods, he says, as he glances to you: ] This is a good welcome. I think this was just for me.

[Or, later, you find him carving his name into the bark. If he has to stay, he'll leave a mark. Old debts, old grudges; there's a mark inside him, so he'll leave one here too. He glances up at you, over the dark sunglasses, and nods, as though it's right you're here. It is, actually, because: ] If you move a little to the left - thanks. The glasses help, but the sun still hurts my eyes.

LIVING OFF THE LAND

⇒ BED MANNERS

[He has not shared a bed with someone in a long time, a century at least. They give him a tent, which is funny. The tell him he will share it, and this is not funny. He thinks he might sleep out on the grass instead, where the moon can touch him and the stars can tell him their stories.

He does take the time to inspect it, though. He also finds himself amidst the chaos of camp crystal lake, handed a fake machete and doused in red. It's funny, for a while, the chasing. If he catches you, however, there is a moment - a long moment - where his eyes seem very black, his gaze holding, longing, like he doesn't want to let go. But he does, with a grin, and a parting: ] Go, before I eat you. [There is a sense, perhaps, if you hold his gaze, that you know he isn't lying.]

[Later, as he returns to his tent to change, he strips off his clothes and half way through, you find him naked, riffling through the goody-bag with a head-tilt and idle curiosity and easily distracted. He asks, head-tilted, mouth curving as he tries not to laugh: ] Are these yours?

[The silicone beads, specifically. He won't judge - well, he will. ]

⇒ HOW TO STARVE

[Portia says black tie, and Good Stab wants nothing more than to wear anything but. So there is a dark pair of jeans, a darker pair of boots and a shirt that says SLAYER that he finds in someone else's tent, and he takes as is own. This is karma, too, he thinks. Besides, it's one shirt.

He does not eat the food, and he thinks he will not eat at all until a glass is handed to him and he knows the smell. He knows the smell and it surprises him, because blood should only smell like this while in a vein, with a heart pumping it. He stares at it, long and hard, and then turns the glass upside down and says, tight: ] I'm not thirsty, [like a liar, and folds his arms over his chest.

He knows how to starve. He knows how to hold onto his last meal, and worse than that, he knows how to be stubborn. ]

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK

cw: dubcon, nsfw
⇒ MY BODY IS YOUR BODY

[For the second time since opening his eyes, Good Stab knows he is in Hell. He knows this as the vines wrap around him, stronger than the strength he's so used to, and stronger still than the strength given to him by the Cat Man. They take his legs, they take his arms - one takes his throat, and another winds itself around his cock.

He thinks: stupid vine, don't you know that doesn't work anymore?

The vine says: stupid pikuni, you don't know a fucking thing about anything.

The last person to touch him had been his wife. Perhaps it had been both of his wives, and he had been a little high - except, no, that isn't quite right. The real last person to touch him had been Napi in his cave. It hadn't been like the touch of his wives, but the blood had been the purest kind of ecstasy you can get. Or maybe it had been a napikwan soldier with a gun, and the bullet. Maybe it had been the Cat Man, and his blood, and his curse.

The last person to touch him like this, to get him hard - had been himself, before he died. It feels like being a boy again, except all wrong. His cock fills up, leaks pearlescent pink, and Good Stab is sluggish with the realisation of it. Slow to thrash, to hiss like the Cat Man had in his cage, but he's quick to blink fat, red tears and buck his traitor hips up. He's quicker to turn, big brown eyes wet and desperate, filled with a need he hasn't felt since 1870, and he looks at you with the kind of look that says i'm sorry. A vine loosens on his wrists, and he's faster than all of that to reach out to grab you by the throat with one hand, the other in your hair.

What he does isn't a kiss: it's an open mouthed plea against your mouth, grown man desperate all over. ] Where do you want it? [He says, because it's been so fucking long he doesn't remember how to do this anymore. He hasn't needed release like this in so long, but need and wanting are two different things, and he wants, he thinks. He wants, and he needs, and he wishes it were home, or with his wives, and that it wasn't here. But he wants it anyway, like he had wanted it as a boy. Juvenile chasing pleasure like a gasping wolf.

He squeezes tighter, asks again: ] Where do you want it?

Open Wounds; i googled the title, read the synopsis, and immediately bought this book so thank u

[honorism]

[It's not the first time someone's reacted badly to waking up here. It serves as a reminder that new people must be arriving, actually, though startling. Time just keeps on passing on, huh.

She pauses as the door opens, one hand on the door to her own room and she peers back at the man, purple eyes blinking slowly as she tilts her head and takes him in before she averts her gaze.]

It's no bother. You must be new?

roza zaripova ⋆⭒˚.⋆ current player/character

[temporicide]

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT
( cw: fire, first-degree burn )

[ You can learn a lot from people based on what they take from the fire. These are the elements of existence that matter most, and their associated spirits wear that investment, like anything well-loved — a little worn, a little proud. They fit their owners. Good or bad, they fit.

Sometimes it's a piece of jewelry. A book. A photograph. In Roza's case, an assembly of hand-crafted figurines, a ring she wears all the time anyway, now, and her best boots. Given she's made at least fourteen of those small clay representations of animalhood, by the time she makes her way out, she's injured the outer layer of skin on the back of her right hand, resulting in a raised reddish welt. The rest of the ordeal she manages in underwear and tank top, which has inadvertently become her uniform at the manor for times of distress: if something fucked up is happening, Roza probably doesn't have any pants on.

She fires off a few check-in texts, makes slightly panicked inquiries about a hedgehog, and then sets about combating the deluge. The best way to do this is through no body at all, so hers is left to slumber behind a hedge some safe distance from the flames, and her spirit projects outward. She appears as a semi-shimmery representation of herself, mostly opaque, that moves soundlessly and steadily. Some of her natural emotional resonance has been subtracted from her whole being; if one didn't know any better, they might think she were a ghost. At least at certain angles. ]

If you forgot anything inside, or you haven't seen anybody, [ she offers this to virtually all and sundry, even-toned in a way she rarely is, ] I'll run and look for you.

Okay?

LIVING OFF THE LAND
( cw: piercing mention )

I. [ As it pertains to camping, this is easy mode. Roza strings her little shared tent up and makes a great big swimmable bath of the lake, from which she emerges, dripping, fearless, all her joie de vivre thrumming in her poisonous veins. Her sloe eyes glimmer. Water forms beads at her throat and collarbone, weaving gravitational paths along the warm color of her skin, staining and darkening what little fabric she wears. On the lawn, she does a ballerina twirl, laughter shaking her voice like wind through leaves: ]

You see that big branch there? I'm going to make a serge post, so we'll be safe when we sleep.

II. [ Most of the fauna in whatever part of the world the manor approximates as home are common ones seen all across the globe, including the semi-elusive lizards that bask in the sun, brown and tan and skittish. Their wide mouths open and take in color and sound, like Roza's does, too. Sometimes if she is very still they allow her to come close and listen to their little spirit-voices witter about flies and ants and rocks and territory and sunshine, sunshine, sunshine. They live for warmth.

She tells a baby with her own spirit, I will warm you up, and does something she hasn't since she was a girl, growing up in the village: she takes this slightly chilled baby lizard and gently places it under her tongue, inside of her mouth. She closes her mouth. She waits. The baby lizard goes to sleep for approximately twenty minutes of cozy, uninterrupted slumber, which is a good amount of time when you're extremely small and don't live for very long.

When asked why she's holding her mouth that peculiar way, Roza reacts like a dog that stole something it shouldn't. She only reluctantly opens her jaws, lifts her (pierced; the metal ball gleams under light) tongue, and reveals the drowsy face of her new friend. The reptile double-blinks at the onlooker, and emerges just far enough that its front feet hang on the plush edge of Roza's bottom lip. Spit makes his head wet, but he seems pretty contented.

Muffled, she says: ]

Thorry. You wanna meet him?

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK
( cw: magic-oriented self-harm, needles? )

[ Speak, says the cosmic creature at the root of her brain. Green hedges chase her like hunters in hot pursuit of injured doe, bidden by the smell of her shed blood, which moves wet and strange from the place she opened a vein — up toward the crook of her elbow, where a phlebotomist would insert a needle — with her fingernails. Said fingernails carry the red underneath them. Another stain. She can't get clean here, Roza thinks. Everything wants to leave a mark on her: a cut, a kiss, a tattoo. A bruise on her face or body.

Speak, it says again, but the maze is willfully silent. As though it were punishing her, or she had failed to earn its trust; accustomed to implicit relationships with spirits, this rejection feels bruising and bracing all at once. Maybe she needs the humility. Roza's psychic call instead beckons the distant minds of strangers, also shuffling hopefully through the labyrinth that binds them. She hears the rustle of vines, but no little voices. The spirits say nothing.

Slightly more despairing: speak. Please? But her call keeps gliding through thickets. Her want and hope takes a shape in her mind's eye, earthbound, low-down, legless. It creeps fast across the soil like a King Cobra, the kind she has tattooed on her arm. Today the snake is winning. The mongoose has grown tired. This is not unlike how she felt while she was the Other Roza, except then she didn't know that her senses had been so badly diminished, and now Roza feels it acutely.

She thinks she hears something. But it's a human, or at least a mortal voice, and she rushes toward it, boots crunching dirt and twig. As she rounds one corner, a shifting green vine finally makes its grand appearance, snagging her firmly by one ankle and one wrist and dragging her back into a spider's web of foliage, where she realizes, rather swiftly, she is not alone. ]

wildcard

( roza can be found all over the makeshift camp, especially by the water, or trying to build serge posts! feel free to hit her with something random. her time won't get distressing until nearer to the end of the event. )

living off the land (i)

[fatblunt]

[ sarah's reminded of some of the contestants she's lived with over the years, back when the show was still running. she might have found it showy and annoying back then, but that was when the other women were her competition, both for screen time and the grand prize, but now it strikes something inside her. there's something to be said about someone who can effortlessly find joy in a less than ideal situation. ]

What's a serge post? [ genuine question, she's got no idea. ] And what's it meant to protect us from?

Hannah Finch | Yellowjackets | new player

[datgirl]

that was in-tents!

[ A handful of clothes are all Hannah was able to grab before running out of the manor. (Edwin's compass is tucked beneath her shirt nearly always, and boy is she grateful for that right now.) She had really liked having a bed to sleep in, in a building designed for human habitation. The simple luxury of safety now stands before her in half-charred, all-too-dangerous silence. She stares at it for a while, then heads for the tents. Are they safer than the huts in the Canadian wilderness? Will they keep out the rain? The cold?

She stops when she finds the tent with her name on the chalkboard. Her new (old?) roommate is there, or just about there-- close enough to hear her. ]

I'm tired of camping.


a day at summer camp

[ Look, she's over all of this. Yes, she does still feel horny sometimes, but she's able to think herself out of that state by getting a firm grip on reality: she's in a weird place, with total strangers (some exceptions apply), and there are more important things to think about that getting laid. (Though, really, it wouldn't be too difficult to convince her to go for it.)

She doesn't want to participate in any activities, but she can be volunteered if you're fast enough. That, or tug of war sounds fun.

For dinner, she'll be in a dark green dress and classy black flats, her hair up in a bun. If anyone looks lonely, she'll sit with them. If not, she'll sit by herself, but she won't shoo anyone away if they want to sit with her. ]


a-maze-ing days (cw light eye gore)

[ She coughs up the occasional leaf or clump of runny mud, and she keeps having to tear vines off her neck, but Hannah persists. Since when has she felt this physically lonely? It would be so easy to just reach for the next person she encounters in this maze, assuming the vines growing out of her scalp don't choke her to death first.

And then there are those other vines. Her hair got caught in them, and now they're slithering around her limbs, seeking ways to get under her clothes. Shit, this is driving her crazy in about five different ways. When she notices someone nearby, she reaches for them. ] We can help each other!

[ Her reflection on the pond is a killer. She's got blood on her face and hands and clothes, no emotion in her eyes, a crooked smile on her lips. She holds up a knife dripping with blood, an eyeball speared on it. Hannah falls into the pond, splashing around wildly as she does her best to swim to safety.

If she sees you struggling, she won't hesitate to help you get to dry land. ]


eye to eye

[ The golden thread led her to these statues, and Hannah chose Medusa.

Her stone fingertips brush against your shoulder. ]

An eye for an eye, right? [ Oh god. ] A black eye, at least. Please. I-- it won't make up for what I did, but I need to feel some of his pain.

[ Or ask her to help you out. She'll be quick and precise, but only if you convince her to do it. Hannah will not want to harm you. She's done enough of that. ]


wildcard

[ throw a starter at me, if hmu punnyinpink to plot o/ ]

in-tents (hehehe)

[katharma]

[ if jackie had thought life with the cabin as shelter was difficult, she can only imagine how life with the huts had been. honestly, she still thinks it's a little ridiculous that everyone but her had been able to adapt so well - she knows not all of them were girl scouts and that most of them probably weren't.

still, she's trying to adapt. she's trying to do better here than she had in the wilderness, even though there's less of a need for survivalist knowledge when the camp still has a chef and you're still expected to dress for dinner. she's sorting through the items in the gift basket, trying to determine what might be useful if things go to shit, when she hears the woman's protest. it draws her attention from the scented candle she's trying to determine the scent of and earns her a sympathetic smile. ]

It kinda sucks, right? [ no matter what the form. ]

faith | buffy the vampire slayer | current player, new character

[stake]

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

[ Faith wakes up and doesn't know when or where she is again. This, even more than the thick smoke curling in from under the door, is what makes her sit up in bed with a vicious jolt, both of her hands clenched in white-knuckled fists around the comforter. She breathes in deep, realizes too late what a dumbass move that was, and waits for her coughing fit to subside before surveying her immediate surroundings. The sheets are silky smooth, woven from a finer fabric in a higher thread count than Faith has ever touched. The comforter is actually a duvet, and a plush squeeze reveals that the insert is filled with real feathers. This is luxury. This is rich.

It ceases to matter, then, that Faith has no idea what this place is. The only relevant factors are that it's going up in smoke and she is perfectly positioned to seize the opportunity, so she does. She strips a pillow of its case and starts stuffing it with the most expensive-looking objects she can find. When she's finished, she moves on to the adjoining room, and then the next one. The fire doesn't concern her yet; Faith estimates at least a few more minutes before the near area becomes structurally compromised.

Now shuffling through a drawer in what she assumes to be another abandoned room, she whips around, startled, when she hears a distinctly human sound. A snore, or just as likely a cough. Faith squints in the dark and makes out a shape still in the bed. She stands there hesitating for a moment, then her reflexes kick into gear. She catches it in her peripheral senses at first, the telltale sound of splintering wood, a crumbling rain of charred particles from overhead, signs the ceiling is ready to give. Dropping the pillowcase at her feet, Faith leaps across the room, landing in exactly the right position at exactly the right moment to block a falling beam from crushing the bed and whoever lies in it. ]

That better have woken you up! [ She means it as a shout but the words sound more like grunting as Faith channels her strength into pushing the beam away. It takes her a bit to find a safe way to drop the beam, time that she hopes the other person used to get out of the damn bed because it is past time to go now. She calls out to them, cleanly dodging falling debris as she struts back. ] Hey, Sleeping Beauty! You ready to run?

LIVING OFF THE LAND

[ The trust exercise doesn't worry Faith, probably because it isn't much of an exercise for her. Her senses are heightened enough to compensate for the blindfold; she can tell exactly where she is. Maybe that's what makes it almost fun for her.

She senses her activity partner approach and spins around to face them, but before she can introduce herself, Ezio clears his throat to announce his special twist. When Faith hears the words sincere, heartfelt, and compliment, her smirk snaps into a disgusted frown. ] Wait, what?

[ She'll be a much better sport in the honeyspoon race, turning to her partner with a wicked grin to ask who will be taking whose mouthful, and a serious challenge during Tug of War, capable of holding one side alone against multiple others.

Later, at dinner, someone might want to step in before things escalate when Faith's attire draws Portia's thinly-veiled judgment. Fixing Portia with a dangerous look, she points down at her leather pants — ] These are black, [ — then she reaches over her shoulder to tug at the straps of her backless halter top — ] and this is tied. So what's the problem?

Wildcard & OOC

[ Wildcards welcome for any TDM prompt. Canon point is Angel S01E18 after arriving in Los Angeles but before Lilah finds her. Faith has recently woken from a coma with no support system and is deep into her downward spiral at this point. She will be unstable and prone to violence but she also just wants to party. Contact via PM to this journal or cosmology. ]

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

[advertising]

( Another sleepless night gives way to him falling into a dead sleep near dawn. Being in pain and slowly healing from the werewolf attack rocks him to sleep eventually. Normally, he'd be up and downstairs. He'd be running his morning workout - if not trying himself - but unfortunately, his human body that's weening off of his super drugs needs rest.

Smoke catches in his nose first and invades his dream of the Initiative being destroyed all over again.

He awakens too late, the beam dropping down - but it's caught.

Sucking in a breath from surprise, he coughs - stupid move, Riley. But, it's Faith, isn't it. He only remembers her voice when Buffy was in her body - but she looks just like her as she shifts the beam and turns away from him.

He throws the covers off, modesty be damned because the house is on fire, and scrambles out of bed in boxers and a t-shirt. He winces because of the aforementioned pain he's still in, but adrenaline has always been a good motivator. He takes the big blanket with him in case they need to smother fire on the way.

Riley doesn't know what to say, can't, but nods with purpose. )

Go, I'm right behind you.

( vann: the second rider | original - new character, current player )

[dividera]

ᴀ: ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴀʟᴛʙᴜʀɴᴛ
[cw: none]

[Shit's on fire. Literally. Vann's just there to admire the chaos, walking down the halls with a lot less hurry than most people who have woken from their beds in fright, pushing past or around him to get out of the building. The smoke doesn't seem to bother him either, why would it - he's got a cigarette in the corner of his lip as it was. He is making his way to the exit, but slowly, heavy boots on polished wood floors as he peers in to rooms and knocks doors further ajar to see what else is inside or left behind.

The screams of people, the smell of smoke, the hint of death on the horizon? They're all terrible aphrodisiacs to him. He's having a great time right now. Which is why he'll nod to anyone who makes eye contact; does he look familiar to you? Maybe, if you've met someone else here before... but unlike Sullivan, his skin isn't covered with tattoos. And there's something much more openly feral in his eyes.]

Hey kitten, you lost? Everyone's getting out of here.

ʙ: ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴏғғ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅ
[cw: sex, etc]

[Tents are all set up - all the easier to traipse from one to another, eating people's stashed fruit and crawling into as many beds as he can along the way. Were you one of the ones who invited him in? Because just like the silent breeze he waltzed in with, he's gone just like that soon after. No harm, no foul, right?

Shirtless and walking around in a pair of unzipped leather pants, he's eating an apple as he walks through a set of communal tent coverings - peering into strangers' claimed rooms again, staring and leering, winking and rolling his eyes if he's told to get lost. Mouth full of apple flesh, he grins:]

C'mon, you know how many people fuck around at Coachella every year? It's part of the vibe.

ᴄ: ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟ ɢɪʀʟs: ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀɴᴅ
[cw: potential for a lot ok]

[You go through all that work in the maze and your reward is two statues - something about the split of two choices being there instead of one pings something in Vann's brain. Just a little wriggling feeling deep inside the meat of his brain, something he can't put a finger on but makes him more agitated than he is already. He fought his way through for the feeling of victory and he's not about to be let down now; he steps toward the statue of Midas because something about it beckons him too.

And now that he's out of the maze after a single handshake, what could go wrong? Besides the glitter of gold creeping up his skin, starting with the whites of his eyes and the tips of his fingers. One of his teeth was already gold to start, but when he smiles it seems to glitter brighter. His whole demeanor is friendly, but there's something dangerous in the edges - he was already much like this before, playful and teasing with a knife's edge underneath. But here he is, invading space, hands around strangers and chin on their shoulders.]

Have I told you you look ravishing today?

material girls (cw: smashed skull)

[expulsion]

[ The body he chooses is stiff for a moment, rejection running right through skin and muscle like a shockwave that quickly subsides and becomes fuel for what comes next. Eve detangles herself from his uninvited, invasive embrace, turning around to look up at Vann. Hers is a dark-lipped smile that doesn't seem to speak the same language of emotion every other resident would, eyes blue yet as dark as the moonlit ocean, searching his features. Pinpointing the right spot to put her fist right through his fucking face for daring to touch her.

She's quick enough to make it seem as though the rest of the world froze around her. Strong enough to make Vann's head about as solid as a block of half-melted butter. Her knuckles make it all the way to the nape-side of his skull when she's done, caked in gore, bones stuck to her like splinters. Eve removes her hand from the hollowed out face, grimacing and clicking her tongue at all this inconvenience, staring at the lethal weapon attached to her wrist with mild surprise, then disgust.

The blood spattered all over it — and what's left of his head — is black. She looks back at his should've-been-corpse, posture sagging slightly. Now it's an inconvenience. ]

Fuck.

( devon rex | original - current character )

[deadnerve]

ᴀ: ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴀʟᴛʙᴜʀɴᴛ
[cw: fire, burns]

[Devon doesn't wake easy or fast, and he certainly doesn't snap to attention without some real good reason. Which, for him, doesn't include fire - because it doesn't inspire any fear in him. At least not until he thinks about his belongings, something that slaps a little attention back into him and makes him take longer than most in trying to secure his devices and favorite manga, his sketchbooks and a lot of other junk into a duffel bag. He gets it outside and goes back in at least twice, the latter time in which he lights up like a candle; fire burning his shoulder and arm, put out once only to relight as he stumbles back outside. He doesn't feel pain, but he does feel the heat of it, annoyed as he tries to slap it out again when out on the manor's lawn.

Probably not a fun sight to see for anyone who doesn't know he heals, either, because his skin - where exposed - is blackened or pink and glossy, depending on the stage of healing. All the while, however, Devon's content to try and look through his stuff.]

Fffuck, I don't have my charging cable. Motherfuuckkeeeer.

ʙ: ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴏғғ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅ
[cw: none]

[Most of the time, Devon's sleeping - at least whenever he can. It makes living with all the flies and yattering people a little more bearable. But he does have to move tent to tent, invading the beds and sleeping bags of the people closest to him and then a few strangers after that. You don't mind, right? He's out cold. No biggie.

But when he is awake, he's wearing a little athletic number just because he likes attention - and he's participating in some of the weird little games. He falls on his ass a few times during a tug-o-war and seems oddly engaged in finding someone to play the other games with him. If he can't charge his goddamn laptop, he has to stay entertained somehow. Familiar face or not, he reaches out to grab their arm, elbow or wrist:]

C'mon the next race is starting. You in?

[Piggyback or honeyspoon, they both start again in ten.]

ᴄ: ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟ ɢɪʀʟs: ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀɴᴅ
[cw: tbd]

[Devon's walking around looking a little moodier than normal (which for those who know him might think is laughable - his usual moodiness was enough to handle as is,) and it pairs with stony fingers and a stiffening up his left arm that he's tried to ignore this long - but can't, not anymore.

He wears a baggy hoodie to keep it from view, and avoids eye contact, even when he shouldn't.]

You gonna like, stand here all day or are you gonna move?

[Sorry not sorry?]

B

[datgirl]

Piggyback.

[ Hannah isn't interested in the more suggestive ("suggestive" more like outright sex-focused but she's trying not to think about it) games. She's still so new here, gosh.

She's also on the small side (a solidly average 5'5"). ]

I think we can win this.

stefan salvatore. the vampire diaries. current player.

[interpersonally]

🇱‌🇮‌🇹‌🇹‌🇱‌🇪‌ 🇫‌🇮‌🇷‌🇪‌🇸‌ 🇪‌🇻‌🇪‌🇷‌🇾‌🇼‌🇭‌🇪‌🇷‌🇪‌

( After ensuring his brother is okay, Stefan uses his amplified vampire senses to hear if anyone is still inside, trapped, and needing help. But, one by four, everyone seems accounted for on the lawn, including the balfours.

He approaches his established CR to check in on them, to ask if they need anything - seeing if they're hurt or injured. He's survived a fire before, and has had close calls before, so he's there for anyone that might need a shoulder, or someone to rant to.

Always with one eye on his brother, he introduces himself to anyone new he doesn't recognize. )

I'm Stefan. I'm sure that was a rude awakening. If I can be of any help, or answer any questions you might have, I've been here for two months. Not - here on the lawn, but in there.

( Always one to follow the rules, he does show up to dinner in black tie. For anyone without access to a suit, he might offer a spare one to someone that looks like they needed it.

He invites anyone who doesn't know where to sit as well. )

I don't... think I've had Toad-in-a-Hole in - I can't even remember.

🇨‌🇦‌🇲‌🇵‌ 🇳‌🇴‌🇼‌🇭‌🇪‌🇷‌🇪‌

(

— for klaus

night one is hard enough, at the end of the second day, he retires to the tent he's been assigned, knowing he's been paired with someone. it can't be worse than his resentful brother (it could, there's still lingering awkwardness from that month as stefano), but he tries, anyway.

something tells him klaus knew about this. or, he claimed this sleeping bag like his own. he would. he is a man of creature comforts. but did portia or another balfour tell klaus he wouldn't be alone tonight? maybe he made the assignments himself, or nudged portia. he looks all too comfortable in the single sleeping bag they've been provided.

he decides that, likely, klaus would claim it for himself. and probably didn't know stefan would be sent over.

he resigns himself, stepping inside the tent, and eyeing any other options for seating, or a bed. the ground? )

... I've never been, but I doubt this is what glamping is supposed to be.

— open

( the next day, he doesn't return to that tent. things are complicated enough with everyone, now, from home, so he stakes his claim to an empty tent.

but he's not alone for long. )

It's okay. It's best to play by the Balfour's rules.

( Someone, or maybe it's just the house, has set up a bracelet braiding station. And, compared to all of the games, it's a relaxing, therapeutic idea.

Stefan takes a seat at the table and contemplates what colors he might combine.

🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇿‌🇪‌ 🇷‌🇺‌🇳‌🇳‌🇪‌🇷‌

( Stefan isn't always a hero. But, today, he tries. Whether he zooms and tackles someone out of the way of red lasers, or catches someone else if they raise up off the ground randomly and fall back down to Earth.

If he sees someone drowning, he wrestles them free, pulling them back from Narcissus' pond.

He comes upon the Chess board, and thinks before acting, not daring to take a spot as king.

He will also take a partner to find the exit, if he finds them. ) There's strength in numbers.

( ooc: hit me up at audacieux, but also feel free to wildcard him, especially from established cr. )

😀

[poppycock]

( in an unbelievable turn of events, klaus did not sway their hosts one way or the other regarding this tent-mate situation, though clearly he didn't have to exert any of his charming influences. he has his preferences, of course, but stefan's funny head of hair ducking into their shared space for the night is both a welcome and amusing sight.

klaus is lounging back into the stack of pillows he's already claimed and put to use. he bookmarks his page in one hundred hears of solitude—he might have nicked it from the pile of saved books—with his index finger. )

Some war tents are surprisingly comparable, in terms of luxury. Though, like you, I've more more experience with the latter. Come to say hello?

riley finn — btvs — current character.

[advertising]

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

( On the lawn, he recovers (physically and emotionally - Faith), dropping to the grass. He brings his knees to his chest as the manor burns. He finds himself transfixed with the flames as they lick up toward the sky.

Once he gathers his strength again and catches his breath, he picks himself up to see if he can be of more help. Or any help.

He personally appoints himself to the position of organizer. Anything saved from the fire is categorized - or connected with who they belong to. He focuses on the books, too, as they make it out because someone he trusts also cares about the books, so he cares about the books. Also, books don't weigh a lot one-by-one. (They weigh a lot in boxes. That will come later.)

Tired from the first day, he doesn't care about sharing a tent by the time he lets himself into one of them, pushing through the pain. He even pushes away his feelings about it being a guy - if it is a guy inside - everyone needs to sleep somewhere. )

𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏

( Still recovering and in pain from maneuvering out from the fire the day(s) before, Riley helps with cataloguing the saved books and any remaining belongings that haven't been claimed. He sits in a chair most of the day, because it doesn't hurt - just stiffens his body.

He also decides to be referee the games - or score keeper. The Balfours want him to participate, so he is okay? He tries to be objective as he can. Some of it is uncomfortable, like watching people pass honey between their mouths, but other activities are cut and dry.

He finds an umbrella during the Jason game to block any red paint - he tells himself it's paint.

But, someone ends up dousing him when his back is turned so he needs to take one of those communal showers. After his month's events, he keeps his eyes to himself and cleans himself efficiently. Shouldn't be a big deal, but, apparently, he's still in a crisis. It's fine.

He shows up to dinner with the tuxedo jacket on his shoulders because he can't get his arms through. It's tight. And not -- his, he thinks. But, he shows up. Hopefully it's good enough? )

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 — FOR BUFFY

( The maze is more traumatic than his month as an emotionally unavailable guard, which is saying something and it helps put some things into perspective. He hallucinates, and then realizes he can get himself out of this, or help someone else to.

He's lost, falls into a trial he doesn't know he's a part of, his worst fears wanting him there in the dark with himself. He could be alone forever. Hard-edged. Isolated. A soldier and nothing more.

But, he fights it like he fought Adam's chip and claws his way back up into the maze.

He thinks of Buffy before he finds her - maybe that's why he finds her? It feels like he manifested her. Like he might be saved, but, she turns - and another Buffy steps out from behind her, and then one more. One Buffy is a handful, but three is too many. He can't save three Buffy's. They could all save him, but he assumes that isn't how this works. This whole maze has been harrowing - and it can't be that easy.

Still aching from pulling himself out of his nightmares, he tries holding himself up. He might have bruised a rib. Or, is it still bruised from before? He holds a hand to his chest, not moving closer.

A thorn-like sharp blade is in his hand, suddenly. He looks down at it and then back at the Buffy's. )

Buffy, what's happening?

( get me at audacieux if you have other ideas or want to plot! )

[bronze]

Riley.

( coos buffy one, her expression breaking into tangible relief upon seeing him. while there's no real evidence of a struggle anywhere on her, there is something harrowed in her gaze that cracks into genuine joy once she spots riley. she bounds up to him, a hand on his bicep, squeezing, maybe somewhat — overly friendly. but, well. there's no telling what she's been through thus far in the maze, and he is her ex-boyfriend. some habits are hard to break, like reaching up and cupping his face warmly, eyes twinkling while she smiles at him. a little like how she used to.

buffy one glances over her shoulder at the other buffys, stepping into riley, tucking herself into his frame. )

I don't know what's going on. They just came out of nowhere. Talk about creepy. ( reaching, she hooks her fingers in riley's free hand, squeezing it, looking up to him. ) I don't have a weapon. Can you take care of them? They'll probably start attacking soon.

"stack" — sinners, ota

[jukejoint]

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

cw: n/a

( he arrives in saltburnt pre-heartbroken, so there's nothing much a house fire can do to worsen his mood. then again, fire as he learns it is something that can hurt vampires, so he has a healthy dosage of fear, and doesn't dawdle while the building lights up. he's unattached enough from all the fine things in his new room that he doesn't grab any of them, just a pair of pants that he hops into while running downstairs, bare toes tucked into the plush green grass as he gets some distance, before turning around to eye the mess of the house behind him.

only, it's not the house he's looking at. behind, the sun is high up in the early morning sky, and while it hasn't been long enough that stack's been relegated to the night, the sight still packs a punch. he looks down at his hands, before patting his bare chest, seeing himself altogether in one piece. not lit aflame, as he'd felt from remmick, on the dawn of the first day of his new life. so — what? stack felt the burn of the sun, even felt suffering and dying from it. this? warm sun on his cheeks, more of a blanket than a burn?

he pumps a fist in the air, incongruous to the morose feeling around the grounds, at watching the house go up. ) Woo! That's what I'm talkin' about! Shit! ( he calls out, grin bright, light from the fire glinting off the gold in his teeth, hands clapping several times in a row. uncaring in the mismatch of tones, he whistles at whoever's closest to him, with a pointing gesture. ) Hey! Got a light?

( he fishes out from the pocket of his pants, loose tobacco in a holder and papers. he mimes flicking a zippo on. )

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK

cw: he will nearly kill your character if you let him

( the actual trials aren't necessarily bad — or, well, they're not difficult is a fairer way to say it. stack's been a soldier in trenches men wouldn't let their dogs sniff around, so he's no stranger to the rough life all great war vets lead, even if the supernatural elements are all new and unsettling. the empty space at his left side is equally new, an eternally bleeding ache — but even that, missing his brother like you'd miss a limb, is nothing compared to the hunger cramping his insides.

stack's a new vampire, a life measured in days rather than years. babyish, in that way. he could probably drain a few dozen people and still have room left over for dessert — no impulse control, no understanding of true starvation suffering, no idea how to live with it. it's not easy to ignore, but for the first day or so he's capable of backseating it. now, several days in? his fangs refuse to suck back into his gums, distended and painful and begging. blood, they plead. we need it.

lucky then, that he stumbles on someone trapped in the viper pit, yelling for aide. looking down at them, his eyes are catlike in the moonlight, reflective. stack licks his lips, grinning. )

Sure, I'll help. Fool's a man that says anything comes free in this life, you hear? ( crouching down, he bobs his head, pointing at them. ) I'm gonna need something for you, if that's alright. Weigh your options, go on ahead. ( he tucks his lips to the side in a mock pitying way, tongue clicking. a shrug to his shoulders. ) I ain't the one in a rush.

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. )

goodbye saltburnt

[envite]

Oh, I don't know sugar, you got anything worth lighting?

[Velvet smooth voice, southern twang lilt: Mary's all lit up in yellow, unholy ghost in the firelight. She's dressed in baby-pink silk, night slip stolen from a room on her way out of dodge, curls half-way undone into waves.

She's got an eyebrow cocked, hip cocked too, and she's all full up with the kind of longing and excitement she felt that day by the train tracks. Reunion part two, they've already done all the hard work. ]

shanks • opla • current

[redforce]

( open and closed starters below! feel free to hmu at poohsticks for chats and plots ❤️ )

— open to all

[redforce]

𝑖. 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑏𝑦𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑡

( shanks dreams of fire. the oro jackson, set aflame at sea so no one would ever sail the king of the pirates' ship ever again. the blazing bonfire in a cave far, far away from saltburnt, kept alight through days and nights by a boy with the same fire in his eyes as the man shanks knew must be his father (two sons abandoned, banded together). the warmth from a coal stove on a boat docked in an icy river, three bodies pressed close to trap the heat. the cleansing inferno set through the manor all those months ago, expunging some evil from within these same walls.

he dreams of flames, wild and uncontained, a burning maw swallowing everything in its path —

and he wakes not to smoke, but to the screams echoing in his mind, the sick stench of burning flesh like an aftertaste in his throat. the smoke will come, though, he knows. he has minutes, maybe. he imparts set with a frantic warning, a plan of action — there's going to be a fire, you have to go now, i'll meet you on the lawn, i promise, i have to get eva before it's too late, i love you — before donning nothing more than his purple cloak and a curtain tieback as a belt on the way out, dictating to his phone FIRE. GET OUT. NOW. and sending it to those he cares about most. he can't be everywhere at once.

once eva has been deposited safely outside with someone he trusts to watch her, he races back in to assist any stragglers. he isn't, strictly speaking, flame-resistant, but the black sheen of his skin seems to repel the flames long enough for him to withstand retrieving personal items — )

If there's anything you desperately need, this is your last chance to let me know.

( — or guiding anyone who might be lost or trapped safely out of the manor. even for those who might be panicking, he's a steady presence, practically radiating calm. )

It's alright, ( he soothes, his voice never wavering. ) You'll be alright. I'll get you out of here.

𝑖𝑖. 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑

( after most of the commotion has died down and the tents have been set up, he finally changes into (debatably) more appropriate clothes, the khaki camp shorts making his thighs look extra huge, the counselor shirt halfway unbuttoned as per usual, but also because it's a size too small — after which he takes a moment to check in personally with loved ones, friends, casual acquaintances, or really anyone who might need anything. this is captain shanks, at your service.

sometimes it's a reassuring hand on your shoulder: )

Settling in alright? Can I get you anything?

( other times, it's simply a warm smile at breakfast and the offer of new companionship: )

I'm Shanks. I don't believe we've met. ( huffing a laugh, to a joke he hasn't told. ) It's a shame. There's usually at least one elaborate meal before everything goes to hell. ( he doesn't seem that put off, though, adding: ) To be honest, this reminds me more of Roux's cooking. That's — he's my cook, on my ship.

𝑖𝑖𝑖. 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑏𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒

( come one, come all, to the shanks d. onepiece praise kink obstacle course! he seems more than happy, delighted even, to guide any and all who wish to participate. he is, after all, shockingly good at giving compliments, despite how reserved and generally aloof he may seem to some people. that's just the depression. but most of that melts away, for a little bit, anyway, when he knows he can help people — even if it's just for a bit of fun and games. it reminds him, almost, of all the crazy ways he and his crew would pass the time on the red force. most of them were usually yasopp's idea, and more often than not booze was involved, but it's important to be able to make fools of yourselves when you're all stuck together at sea for months on end. this, he supposes, is not so different. )

Your hair is absolutely glowing in the sun to your left.

𝑖𝑣. 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑦 𝑑. 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤

( as the days wear on and it seems most of their personal belongings have been delivered, shanks takes it upon himself to search for something that is decidedly missing. could he live without it? yes. but it would make for a slightly more comfortable bedding situation. so, he tears out a blank page from an unsalvageable book and draws a crude attempt at the missing item, showing it to anyone who will give him the time of day. )

It may be hard to tell, but, ah — it's a pillow. Maybe half my height.

( and he's 6'6" so it's definitely not life-size to buggy. but probably around 60 inches or so. who knows, maybe giles gave it to you by accident! )

𝑣. 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑑

( i'm open to pretty much any glamping shenanigans, so if you'd like to do something else, feel free to send it my way. shanks and set will naturally be tentmates so you're free to find him anywhere near there ... though if their sign is turned around, you may want to proceed with caution ... eva will have her own tent! she'll be around as staff, but i'm happy to have her jump in on other shenanigans, just lmk. for any other prompts or closed starters, hit me up on plurk! )

marazhai aezyrraesh ; wh40k rogue trader ; current player + character

[agoniser]

𝔬𝔫𝔢. burn baby burn

[ As the manor burns, Marazhai is having a markedly different take on events, though it’s also wholly unsurprising if you’ve talked to him pretty much at all. He’s a creature that very literally feeds on negative emotions, so the outpouring of it from their hosts is the first gift he’s truly felt like he’s received from them. It doesn’t matter which emotion he’s drinking up, and he’s not even sure which belongs to who.

So, it’s easy to catch Marazhai wearing a toothy, vicious grin. He makes no attempt to hide it. Whether it’s the Balfours or it’s you. He’s enjoying the anguish all the same.

Maybe you give him an admonishing look or just an incredulous one. That’s enough for him to huff out a laugh that’s best described as a purr. ]

What? Do not tell me you lament the baubles of your prison.

[ He’s absolutely being an ass just for the sake of it. This is practically a feast, so why not indulge? ]

𝔱𝔴𝔬. that's so camp

[ Naturally (and correctly), his good mood doesn’t last. While the camping isn’t a problem to him, as with so many things, it’s the additional, frivolous parts that come with it… So, with no other choice, a scandalously short pair of jean shorts and cropped camp counselor (?) t-shirt it is. It looks especially incorrect on an elven alien over seven feet tall. But even if it’s not with enthusiasm… It’s time for camp. Apparently. ]

①.

[ Now, the good news if you’re Marazhai’s new roommate is that at least it means the tent is a bit more spacious. It’s at least sized for him first, so from the tent itself to the sleeping bag, there’s much more room. Maybe even for activities!

But, the bad news. You’re Marazhai’s new roommate.

There’s very few people that won’t get treated with outright disdain, so when he decides it’s time for bed, he starts to take off his barely there clothes without shame. He’s deeply lacking in manners, clearly. ]

If you’re displeased with the arrangement, then you may sleep outside. You likely won’t freeze to death.

[ Maybe. Potentially? But, as what’s sure to be a surprise if anyone agrees to this arrangement? Marazhai is actually rather cuddly. Go figure. ]

②.

(cw: likely descriptions of torture/extreme body modification)

[ At least a promise of a hunt was much more appealing. It’s just too bad that he hadn’t quite understood that a scavenger hunt was less of a chase and more of an exploration. So, he seems a little disappointed, almost bored, as he looks over your list for the first glance, but in return, his list is. Well. Interesting is a word for it. ]

1. How many pinpoint scars can you count? One of them is more painful than all the rest.
2. A mark of failure and fall, sharply given.
3. Sensitive and erogenous, at least for an alien.

𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢. garden party (cw: nsfw, rough sex)

[ And this is where the manor becomes a nightmare for him. The idle, empty-headed luxury is boring, but he can deal with it. It’s when things turn twisted that even Marazhai struggles, because there’s a bone-deep fear of the way the horrors present themselves. He feels Chaos in every fiber of his being, and it’s a small mercy that it’s another case where he finds his supernatural senses cut off, lest he be especially on edge from the threat of Sai'lanthresh’s whispers.

It’s one trap after another, no matter how cautiously he stalks around the maze. If he were less on edge, he would almost admire the artistry of the torment and would certainly consider which ones he might bring back to Commorragh when he returns. But as vines tightly slither their way up his body, he can only hiss out an inhuman, furious sound at being caught by yet another.

The only mercy is that he’s not alone. He’s been here long enough at this point, and he understands the ways in which the manors horrors work. It’s what makes them almost admirable for a Drukhari. Though, the heat thrumming through his own veins also helps. He’s feels like he could equally fight or fuck the prey before him, so it’s perhaps a little intimidating as he stalks forward before the vines will stop even that.

He reaches out to grab whatever he can—a hand, your hair, your neck—it hardly matters to him when he growls out so lowly. ]

The solution is obvious, is it not? We fuck our way out, little thing.

𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔡.

[ whew it's been a while since I did a toplevel,,, anyways! if none of the above appeal to you, hit me up! I'm down for pretty much anything in this event, so you can either toss me a wildcard or ask and I can write a closed starter.

you can find marazhai's info here if you need it, and you can find me at runthejewels! ]

2.2

[kobes]

[”interesting” is certainly one of the correct words for it. if koby hadn’t had carnal (if semi-lit) knowledge of marazhai’s exact anatomy and the myriad scars up and down his alarmingly long body, he’d probably politely bow out of the challenge altogether, assuming that the list meant something wholly nefarious. as it is, he pauses for a moment to go through his mental checklist and try to remember all the scars he’d put hands or mouth on. it has been a while…

while that happens, though, koby’s own list is briefly and summarily reviewed:

1. Find the second-biggest scars – the ones on his chest are too obvious.
2. The one spot you can touch without making him flinch.
3. Do the carpets match the drapes?

after a moment, sighing wearily, koby sets down the list and rubs at his face.] I think – this is a game we need to take clothes off in order to complete…

dr. hunter aloysius "hap" percy | the oa | new/new

[angelhunter]

[ Enter your grouchy neighborhood serial kidnapper, showing up at the worst possible time. Starters below, I may or may not add more in another comment. Character info and warnings are here (he's coming from the very end of Part I) though age restrictions are relaxed in this instance. I'm happy to hash things out beforehand via PM or PP @ verhoeven, and heads up that I may be slow! Just here to play in the space ‪‪❤︎‬ ]

open to all

[angelhunter]

generously assigned
[ cw house fire, drinking ]

[ The first night, Hap's tent-mate has the sleeping bag entirely to themselves. He's nowhere to be seen, though his gift bag has been rifled through (the ribbons resting curled atop everything else). He and sleep are old adversaries, and every advantage Hap might have over it is nowhere to be found. It takes another full day of rigorous thinking, fruitless rationalizing, and wrestling with the temptation of denial for him exhaust himself.

If not for a heaping glass of wine, he'd be an irritable prick. His thoughts are worn out but his emotions can go another round. He's angry, he's afraid, he's helpless without anyone to blame. Literally drowning them out is the closest he's felt to reason since he woke up in a house on fire.

Whether he's joining his assigned partner or they're joining him, Hap makes no fuss about changing into a pair of pajama pants and kneeling to unzip the sleeping bag. Whatever their reaction, he states plainly, ] I couldn't care less about emotional frequencies.

familiar pieces
[ cw body horror ]

[ Hap steps into the clearing, breathing a mild sigh of relief. It's not over, he's aware of that, but at least there's space. The topiaries are both beautiful and refreshingly mundane. Hap runs a hand through his hair as he walks between them. It's nearly a habit now, unconscious, trapping flower buds in the rake of his fingers and shaking them to the ground.

No kings. Easy to surmise what that means. A game of chess. There may well be some inexplicable twist to it but he can't stop himself from feeling heartened. This is one he could win.

Hap turns to the person who will become his opponent. ] Do you play much?

[ ooc/ happy to heavily summarize the game to get to the end quickly, mostly because I uh am wicked bad at chess. ]

weigh you down
[ cw allusions to kidnapping, induced possessiveness and distrust ]

[ A sudden flip of his gut and then blooming agony. Hap groans at the bottom of the pit. Despite the pain, he rolls onto his side — he needs to move, he needs to catch her. It takes his fingers digging into the dirt for him to remember where he is and where he isn't: on the landing of the cavern stairs, the sudden wound in his heart resembling a gaping mouth full of gnashing teeth. Shifting into his elbows, shoving himself to his knees, Hap braces himself against the pit wall with a tight fist. It takes a long moment to set the rage aside, and when he does, when he's first able to see clearly, his eyes fall upon his glasses.

Cracked. One arm completely mangled.

Furious, Hap grabs them and flings them at the far wall, heedless of anyone who might be down there with him.

(Once he's aware of his company, though, he'll do anything to make sure they don't leave him.) ]

network

I'm in need of medical supplies.

wildcard

[ down for most anything else, including the effects of misfired magic (which can also be incorporated to any of the above prompts). ]

Peony - original (CRAU) - existing player/ new character

[hislittleflower]

Living off the Land

1) Oh no, steproommate
[ It has been some time since Peony has had to camp outdoors. But coming from the chills of winter to the height of summer has her happy and hazy and willing to roll with whatever fresh nonsense of the void this might well be. That being said, the diminutive blonde will look in confusing at anyone opening the flap of her tent, straightening up to put hands on her hips and give them a mildly stern look.] I think you're lost, sweetling, this one is mine. [ Peony had been able to recognise her own name on the billing. But the other name, she had taken as a cursive flourish she didn't understand.

Of course, it might not be a bad thing to have to share with Peony. For one thing, she's a cuddler during the night and will keep you nice and toasty. You might just have to watch for those wandering hands of hers though. Often, you might find your tentmate with the karma sutra that had been gifted to you both open and curiously bending herself in half in an attempt to emulate it. ]

2) Smells like Team Spirit

[ It doesn't take Peony too much to get into the spirit of things, cheering from the sidelines of games, bouncing up and down like a hyperactive cheerleader. Her shorts give fair warning to anyone brave enough to approach her. She watches the Tug of War with naked interest and winking at those deemed the winners.

At the Piggyback Ride she demands of a total stranger; ] Carry me.

Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

1) Orgasm or Die
[ cw: plant bondage, choking, fuck or die, ruined clothing. ]

[ Her hands are bound behind her back and that's a damn inconvenience. This would almost be thrilling if the vine curled around her throat wasn't going to cut off her air shortly. She kicks out at the soil and backs herself up until she comes into contact with another body. In Rubilyk, she would put this down to someone's monster, so the options seem obvious. She needs to kill it or fuck it so they can revert and her head stays on her shoulders. Pink in the cheeks and struggling, she ruts herself up against the stranger, trying to find a way that she can wind her hand under their clothing and pull it out of the way. ] Can't-- you need to-- [ She's getting more light headed and insistent as a result, curving her ass against them in open permission. Please help. ]

Network

Forgive my impertinence but the lady of the house isn't the Duchess, it is? I'm rather confused about the social implications here.

[ ooc - Peony is a DnD based OC. She is a nymph bard/warlock who has been in rubi for the past year or so. Feel free to wildcard or hit me up werewoof if you want to discuss ideas!

Oh no, steproommate

[viver]

[ Zephir's not quite tall as a certain redheaded fae from Rubilykskoye (for now), but sorry for the possible pain in the neck from staring way up all the same, Peony. And for him being naked. Apparently he prioritized grabbing things other than his clothes. Said things are currently stored in his flesh, unseen. Ew. ]

Is it? Oh, good. I like being lost, and you'll make a wonderful host. [ A pause, humming in fake-thought as he steps further inside. ] I don't think I can borrow your clothes, though.

cellar spider — original (current)

[longlegs]

GOODBYE SALTBURNT

[ You're somewhere in the house during the fire — maybe you wandered to the worst place, maybe you stayed too long or wandered back inside for whatever reason — it's a regrettable place to be regardless, as the flames are getting to the structure at this point, causing it to collapse right over your head.

Suddenly, it's very dark. Look up and find a layer of solid shadows shielding you from the house dropping in on you, flames still roaring and crackling beyond this supernatural cover. Look ahead and find Cellar at the other end of the room, holding out both hands to keep her shadow construct steady. She yells out, sweating, flushed from exertion and the heat, layered in the same kind of dark shield from the neck down. ]

Can you run over here? We need to go — now!

---

LIVING OFF THE LAND ( cw: nudity, ota for smut )

[ Way to make Mrs. Long Legs seem like she's got legs for days (nay, weeks) in these short shorts, y'all. Pity the white tank top's ruined with the food coloring after a lost round of outrunning the killer in Bunny's own curated game. Cellar makes her way to the showers by the treeline, looking forward to some cool water after all the running and team building, already peeling off the now-sticky top to reveal a sports bra underneath.

That's coming off next, unless someone interrupts her. Then the shoes, then she shorts, down to her panties as she turns the shower on. ]

This soap better not have some freaky aphro stuff in it, I swear.

[ Except her dispenser is empty. Already? Time to check with her neighbor, splattered in fake blood from the neck up and on her arms and thighs. ]

Can I borrow your soap?

---

TEAMWORK — TRIPLETS

[ She tries to use her powers in the maze, but nothing works. Rolling her eyes, exasperated, she groans, ] Here we go again.

[ They keep taking her shadows off her hands and it's annoying — except they're still very much here and inadvertently ruining someone else's day right now. Left with no choice but to keep going and hope the fucked up allergies to destroy her, she turns a corner and finally sees another face. Times three. You and your copies, all staring at her while she wonders what else must've been in those stupid plants. ]

Whoa — uhm, okay. Hi. Are you real? Any of you?

---

TEAMWORK — KINKY VINES ( cw: nsfw, gag, plant/tentacle-y sex, fuck or die )

[ You turn a corner and find her managing to get a few more cursewords out of her system before the hungry vines provide a gag that keeps her mouth busy. All the swearing is reduced to grunts and angry mms, arms and legs tied, vines coiled around the swell of her breasts and the junction of her thighs and hips. Any clothes she's got left are either ripped or being slipped into while she struggles and squirms, looking at you. Don't need telepathy to guess her wide-eyed stare betrays something like are you gonna do something? ]

---

MATERIAL GIRLS — MEDUSA ( cw: likely nsfw, prompt-related body horror and personality change, pushing boundaries, tentacle shadows, dubcon* )

[ Cellar makes it back to the campsite like she just survived and yelled at another apocalypse, wanting nothing more than a shower and a week-long nap. Over the next few days, the stiffness sets into her fingers, turning gray, shifting into something neither dead or alive. Cellar ignores it. She ignores the change in her behavior, too: less patience for jokes, more unkind comments, lashing out when she doesn't get what she wants.

One night, Cellar wanders into your tent. Either you know each other or she noticed and thought you were irresistible enough to bother. Everyone's always horny for each other anyway, so this is fine, right? Why she doesn't do it more often is beyond her.

Lying down next to where you're sleeping, Cellar nuzzles your neck, hand on your chest. (It's heavier, too cold and too solid to be flesh. She can barely use it anymore and yet she does nothing about it.) She makes tendrils with shadows, using them to slither under the sleeping bag or covers to slowly wrap around wrists and ankles, more of a loving nudge than a trap for now. Find her smiling with genuine delight when she's seen, like she's so sure this is something you've always wanted. It's not her usual bright smile — there's an edge of something darker. (It's something you want because you don't have a choice.) ]

Surprise.

[ *If going the dubcon route, would prefer it to be dub-to-con. If it goes in the opposite direction I'd prefer to have her be shut down! ]

---

[ ooc: Info and kinklist! Contact me for questions/wildcards/etc at gucky ]

LIVING OFF THE LAND

[advertising]

( He's bloodied like the coach of an NFL game, not having participated but, apparently, still a part of the fun. Sucks, cause he doesn't have too many changes of clothes and he's been showering early in the day, both for modesty, like a gentleman, and just because that's his routine. But here he is, sun's still out and he's soaked. He doesn't get the game, for the record. Who's Jason. Why is it blood. And there should be a hockey mask involved.

Semantics, aside, Riley's showered around other soldiers before. Men and women at the barracks, and in communal showers at college.

He doesn't even blink as he, too, strips out of his now red outfit. He winces, lifting his shirt up and Cellar will be able to see fading bruising, and healing scratches on his chest. He moves for his pants, next, looking away when Cellar goes for her panties. Again, like a gentleman.

Bare-assed himself, he steps under his own stream of water, closing his eyes, letting it cascade over him. He can almost imagine he's not here at Saltburn outside in front of everyone.

Running a hand through his hair, he reaches for the dispenser but pauses, eyes now open as he contemplates the implications. He looks at the soap dispenser as if it might bite him. )

You really think they might do that here?

( Whomever they may be, but her question brings him out of his hesitation and thoughts. For now. )

Yeah, yeah, ( He says, giving her access to his soap as he moves for the shampoo. He pushes, to release it, holding his palm underneath. Letting it sit in his palm for a second, he decides he'd like clean, not sticky-bloody hair, so he lathers it in both hands. ) See you on the other side, I guess.

kate bishop | hawkeye/mcu | new/new

[brandingissues]

𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕𝕓𝕪𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕓𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕥 (cw:house fire)

[ As far as mornings go, Kate has had better ones. It doesn't start bad, because usually they never do, but she goes from five seconds of thinking 'jesus, that toast is going to be way overdone' to realizing if she stays in one place for long she's going to be overdone. Or toasted. Or something in there. Point of the matter is that the house is on fire and she is currently in said house and should pointedly not be.

Kate makes her way out quickly. Stopping to help carry something if it seems like someone is struggling, or even swinging an arm around someone's waist and helping them down the stairs if they need a little nudge or some help getting away from the flames. It's the hero sort of thing to do, isn't it?

She's so focused on getting the hell out of a suddenly burning building that it's not until she's out on the lawn that she realizes the building she's fled is one. definitely not in New York City and two. definitely not her apartment or her mom's place. Or even Jack's- which would be incredibly weird, but maybe less weird than, uh, this?

As far as she figures, she gets few seconds of staring at a place she doesn't recognize before she reaches out and grabs the nearest person passing by around the arm to ask:] Hey. Hello. Hi. Sorry. This might seem like kind of a crazy but where the hell are we?

𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕕 (cw:possible nsfw, past injury discussion)

[ Annnnd this whole day (days? What is time even anymore?) just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Kate's standing at the opening to her fawn-colored tent--really, her mother would be proud of the decorating eye here--and staring down at the bedding that's tidily left in the middle of the surprisingly large space.

They cannot be serious. She didn't even have a chance to get to know her roommate (or honestly, even know she had a roommate) before the house was suddenly on fire, and now they're supposed to share a bed? If you can count a sleeping bag as a bed, which really, you can't. It's somehow more intimate? She doesn't know how it is, but look, she didn't make the rules she's just reporting on them. God, this is going to be so awkward.

When she feels someone else approach, she doesn't turn around - just says with a voice that's more than a little resigned:] I guess we could take turns? Or sleep back to back? No one'll get the wrong idea that way.

[Or maybe you're running into Kate later in the evening when she's given up the ghost of her soot-stained pajamas for the ridiculous camp counselor outfitthat she's currently trying to convince to cover her just a little bit more, while looking down at the instructions for 'human scavenger hunt'.

There's not much left to the imagination with these shorts, but at her partner's look she sighs and twists, pointing to an old scar on the back of her left calf.] Archery camp, when I was a kid. It wasn't my fault. There was this dumb kid named Connor Brody and he couldn't find the right end of an arrow if he was paid to.

What about yours? [ She means that scar, the one that's a little bit visible ]

𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜 (cw:fuck or die, dub-con possible)

[ Okay, look, at this point she would one hundred percent take back the burning house. Like, that's where she's at as she fights her way through the magic freaking maze that's popped up overnight. She checked. There definitely wasn't one there the night before.

Not only that but she Can't. Stop. Sneezing. Seriously, she would almost rather send her mom to jail a second time than go through much more of 'gifts from the creepy manor you ended up in against your will'.

There's a pit or five in front of her and Kate figures the best way to dodge them is to keep close to the hedges and vine overgrowth. It turns out the be a stupid plan as the vines come to life under her feet, wrapping tight around her ankles and slipping up her thighs even as equally invasive vines slip over her shoulders and tug her toward the hedges. She squeaks as the vines quest toward more private areas of her body; reaching a hand out toward whoever might be stuck in these vines with her, or someone else just wandering by.] Hey! Hey, give me a hand here?

𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕

(nothing strike your fancy? shoot your shot. I'm down for anything. Or feel free to hit me up via private plurk at justplainchy)

teamwork makes the dream work

[vdovy]

[ Being trapped in your own worst nightmare doesn't get any easier, whether it's the first or fourth time, but experience is still an advantage. Yelena has learned what works and what doesn't, each time escaping that much faster. She heaves herself up and collapses, her chest rising and falling quickly as her lungs work to catch the breath lost climbing out. Congested as her sinuses are, breathing feels a lot more work all around.

Finally sitting up, she hears a voice from the hedges ahead and follows. She expects to find someone in need of assistance, and technically, she does. It's just surprising to recognize the person strung up by vines like a prize for the taking. ]

Kate Bishop, is that really you?

Ptolemais Cline — original, new player

[buio]

GOODBYE TO SALTBURN, cw house fire

Ptolemais barely said 'hello' to Saltburn; she stands on the grass wide eyed to watch the fire rage and slowly eat the veneer off the front of the house. In one hand she's clutching a backpack by the canvas, holding it aloft — it hasn't occurred to her to put it on. She's shifting her weight back and forth on the spot in unlaced shoes. Her thick, dark hair is caught up in the neck of her shirt.

"Fuck," she says blankly. She's either half-asleep having woken up too soon, or overtired for having never gone to bed last night and she can't figure out which is true. Sweat is beading tacky on her upper lip and she wipes her mouth off on her bare arm; it breaks the spell. She slings her backpack up onto one shoulder, pulls her hair from her shirt, shakes herself out, pats herself down. Hands slap rapidly over pockets for keys, phone or card (all missing).

A house fire's loud. All that burning, collapsing wood. To anyone and no one she says, one cold hand lingering on the deep heat of her cheek, "This a dream?"

Probably. They call this symbolism.

LIVING OFF THE LAND

Some how, not owing anything black tie isn't an appropriate excuse for not wearing black tie to dinner and there isn't any point fighting the rule — Ptolemais, banned from proceeding any further, retreats resentfully to the tent cluster. Fucking rich people.

But, speaking of—

All those racks of clothing not being used, the ones she saw the staff hauling in across the grass in droves — nobody will mind. Nobody will even notice anything missing in the middle of all this chaos, least of all some stupid, floor-length, sequinned, strappy monstrosity.

She unzips the first tent she comes across and sticks her head inside to peruse the proverbial shelves. If it fits her it'll do.

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK — CHECKMATE, cw assault

In the maze it's easier to be violent. Ptolemais is, and maybe always has been, but never outwardly. The itch usually exists under her skin and she has to work hard to make herself leave it alone, like a dog told to sit stay. Doesn't always work in real life, let alone here. There's something about the looming hedges that stretch up tall enough to block the light. They're hiding everything from view so no-one'll see it or know.

At first checkmate on the grass board she slams her fist into the face of her opponent, draws in a hot, needy breath when pain rockets up her arm into her shoulder.

Feels good.

WILDCARD

(etc etc. If you've got an idea hit me up, I'm down for anything — more info about Ptolemais can be found here and I'm on plurk at blisters for any plotting/planning/Qs)

living off the land

[temujackie]

[ It's not the person Mel expects to see when she ducks into the tent, but that in itself wouldn't be enough to piss her off. Everything's crazy right now and it seems like tent assignments are throwing random people together by accident (or not? she can never tell). Besides, being assigned a place to sleep isn't going to stop half the people here from moving wherever they feel like.

What pisses her off is catching the person she didn't expect in her tent going through her shit.

It's not like there's that much of it, anyway. There are some dresses, sure, but going to all that black tie shit isn't really Melissa's thing. As is probably evidenced by the backwards hat that definitely did not get her a spot at the dinner table. Most of her clothes lean toward casual wear (of a mid90s lean, even) and the occasional party outfit. ]

What the fuck do you think you're doing? [ She actually looks more shocked by the audacity of this random woman than strictly angry. Damn, at least when she dug through people's bags looking for clothes, they were already dead. ]