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draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
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ππππ ππππ πππππππ ππππ ππ πππ ππππ β£ AUGUST TDM
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 β 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 Β« NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» 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 βΒ 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 β 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 βΒ 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 β" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."
A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."
The day starts much like any other βΒ 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 β 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 βΒ 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 β" 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 β¦ 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 β 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 justβ 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 β without suitemates, or freshly arrived β find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.
Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that β while the interior is positively spacious β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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.
By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken β¦ 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 β 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 justβ 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 β without suitemates, or freshly arrived β find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.
Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that β while the interior is positively spacious β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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. Youβre only sure of one thing β it seems like youβve 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 youβve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, itβs probably nothing you havenβt dealt with before, and it wonβt 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 β or at least you think thereβs 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 youβre 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 everyoneβs desperate to get out, and youβre 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 β you guessed it β 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 donβt 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 youβre 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 itβs 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 β but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into Iβm 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 β three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you theyβre 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 β 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 youβll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how theyβll claim it over you β 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, donβt they? Best to keep your wits about you.
For those of you prone to clumsiness, youβre 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, itβs time to face your vipers β 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 βΒ the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe youβll 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, theyβre not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and youβll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style β 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 β 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 itβs the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, youβre lucky enough to happen upon a water source β one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, youβre 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 β only itβs either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear youβve already become. Once you catch your reflectionβs eye, youβre caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the waterβs 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 β fast.
After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end β 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 β 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. Theyβre going to need some patching up once theyβre 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 havenβt made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfourβs beloved Minotaur statue should beβ¦ only itβs nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.
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. Youβre only sure of one thing β it seems like youβve 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 youβve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, itβs probably nothing you havenβt dealt with before, and it wonβt 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 β or at least you think thereβs 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 youβre 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 everyoneβs desperate to get out, and youβre 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 β you guessed it β 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 donβt 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 youβre 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 itβs 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 β but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into Iβm 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 β three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you theyβre 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 β 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 youβll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how theyβll claim it over you β 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, donβt they? Best to keep your wits about you.
For those of you prone to clumsiness, youβre 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, itβs time to face your vipers β 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 βΒ the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe youβll 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, theyβre not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and youβll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style β 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 β 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 itβs the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, youβre lucky enough to happen upon a water source β one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, youβre 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 β only itβs either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear youβve already become. Once you catch your reflectionβs eye, youβre caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the waterβs 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 β fast.
After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end β 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 β 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. Theyβre going to need some patching up once theyβre 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 havenβt made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfourβs beloved Minotaur statue should beβ¦ only itβs 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 βΒ 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 β 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 β 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 β the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.
HAND IN HAND βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.
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 βΒ 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 β 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 β 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 β the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.
HAND IN HAND βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ 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 βΒ and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.
DIRECTORY
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[He spent over a year in a 19th century fuck town, before coming to this place. Does that year still count? Did any of that really happen? Apparently not for Iggy, whose last memories must be from home. Like he skipped Rubi all together. Is that better, in some way? Finch wants to grab him by the shoulders and tell him he has to remember his life there - all the things he did? But all the things that happened to him, too... is it fair to inflict that on someone who seems... happier without it? Without him?
He scrunches up his face.]
It was around then for me, at home. I think. What's - what's it here? It feels off.
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[He sits crosslegged, getting comfortable.]
But people are from all over. We have a big bath from the 90s, which is so retro, they could all be my folks, basically. But, uhm, yeah.
Do you want a drink? I keep diet coke and whiteclaws in the cooler there.
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[Do you know how long it's been since he's had any kind of soda? Nevermind a booze that doesn't taste like it was brewed in someone's boot? He raises his brows, nodding, which isn't helpful at first because he didn't specify which:]
Uh, diet coke. I have some canned pasta in my bag, I can trade you for it.
[He'd feel better knowing Iggy was living off more than whiteclaws and cokes, too.]
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I don't need your ravioli, sweetie. They're still feeding us.
[He gets up to walk over to the cooler (it has strawberries printed all over its pastel blue shell) and grabs two diet cokes. He returns and hands one to Finch before he sits again and opens his own.]
There's chips, too. If you want em.
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[Said with a hint of self-awareness, finally, because Iggy's still cute even when he doesn't know who he is and Finch wants to flirt with him. Or at least not look like a complete fucking moron in front of him. He stays seated, taking the diet coke and just kind of marveling at it for a moment. Cold aluminum. Far cry from mead and the fresh juices people served in Rubi the last year...
Finch's mind is a rapid fire mess of feelings and thoughts. He still wants, more than anything, to tell Iggy all the reasons he should remember him. To shake him until he does. But that's a selfish thought, when he also needs to acknowledge whatever reality this is; this one suits Iggy a lot more. Semi-modern clothes, food, entertainment. He's staring down at his hands, opening the can finally, before looking back up.]
Hm? Oh, no. I'm good. I don't wanna eat all your stuff on you. I... ah, shouldn't be taking up your time either. Or all of your sleeping bag.
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No, no, it's fine. Honestly, I'm sorry for being rude - it's been a heck of a few months is all. And then the fire broke out and I'm so worried I didn't get all my stuff out... not that I had a lot but my friends gave me some presents and shit, you know?
[He sips his drink and offers Finch a little smile.]
You can stay. You seem nice.
So, uhm. What do you do, back home? Do you have a job?
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[Finch, immediately thinking about how to go find it - as if the manor's not a charred husk, or something. He feels weird and silly talking like this with Iggy; having conversations they've already had, thinking of an answer full of information about himself that Iggy should already know. Again he's faced with weird little barriers. Like how do you talk about cults? Or Spider-bitches?]
... I've been unemployed for a bit. I mean, I do odd jobs. I was doing some leatherwork before I got here but... now I don't have any tools or anything, so I guess I gotta figure that out. Um... you?
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Leatherwork? Whoa, cool! Do you make purses and stuff?
[He pushes his hair back with his free hand.]
I did cam work back home. But you don't have to work here unless you want to. Mostly I do art and cocaine!
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Finch looks pretty unfazed by both the mention of copious amounts of cocaine and the cam shows. Probably because he knows Iggy's habits, and his history. But he hones in on the art aspect, because it doesn't matter what world - Iggy's creations in it will always be unique, and thus...]
Can I see your art sometime?
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Sure. Me and my friend Theo have been trying to put a show together for forever, but shit keeps happening. Maybe one day soon.
[He looks back up.]
It's nice to meet a fellow creative.
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[Forgot to reply to that, already thinking of what kind of things to make Iggy here. Is it selfish to want to win him back over, bit by bit? It hasn't struck Finch yet that this might be a different Iggy all together, and that his Iggy may still be out there... He just shrugs, in the moment, happy to just be talking with him.]
Belts and stuff. I did commissions, too. Harnesses? The kinky kind, mostly.
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[He sips more of his pop and regards Finch with bright eyes. This guy might look a little like he lives out of the back of his car, but he's interesting at least.]
And that's a creative thing! Don't sell yourself short.
So, uhm. Are you here all alone? Some people show up with people from their own worlds, like friends and family. Not me, but some people do.
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[Yes and no. But how do you say that without making it all weird and having to explain the rest of it, anyway? He's going to have to double back to "what are kinky rooms" in a future discussion but... he plays with the tab of his soda can, clicking it back and forth in a nervous tic.]
Before I was here I was somewhere else. I mean, between home and here. I spent a year there? So there's nobody from home but there's at least one other person from the other place. I thought there... I thought there was more, but I was uh, mistaken.
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[He shifts a little closer.]
Look. I know we just met but like... if you need someone to talk to? I've had a lot of experience with listening.
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I'll keep it in mind. But yeah, it's - it's been a head trip.
[...]
Especially when I wake up. I think I'm somewhere else for a bit, and... I'm sorry I freaked you out. I thought you were someone else, too. But I uh, I get it now. Weird head stuff.
[Ignoring that he used Iggy's name - also hoping Iggy doesn't remember that, too.]
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[Iggy DID notice. But Finch seems to want to smooth it all over, so he assumes that they must have fucked and Iggy just forgot.
Well. Why be rude, then? He'll let it go.]
Tell you what: I won't get offended if we wake up cuddling. It's cool. I'm a very touchy person anyway!
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[Teasing; he's got a smile on his face, but he did just break the tab off his drink - he stares at it, unable to fidget with it any longer before putting it in his pocket. He takes another drink, feeling the bubbly taste on his tongue a little hard to get used to after so much time away from it. Ah, fuck. Do they have Big Macs here?]
... I'm serious about stealing you a bed though, if you want one. You can't exist on that sleeping bag alone. It's not good for your back. Or your hair?
[Joking, mostly, but he feels like if he sells the pretty part - Iggy might listen.]
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You're cute. But, uhm, no, it's cool. We can cuddle together. If we get hot we'll just sleep on top of it. And I'll be okay.
I guess you haven't been here long. We've had some pretty fucked up stuff happen and I'm not gonna die from camping.
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[He still wants to steal Iggy a bed. But he'll revisit that later, he's got attention focusing back on Iggy. He wonders what 'fucked up stuff' is in the context of a modern English mansion... versus the Duchess' freaking gulag.]
What kinda stuff? An' why isn't anyone leaving by now?
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[...huh. Then how did he know Iggy's name?
Maybe someone told him. Maybe Finch thinks he's cute.
...maybe he's a stalker.]
Oh, we can't leave. If you try to you just get plopped back in bed.
And, uhm, when I got here like, gosh, almost a year ago I guess? Something was making people kill one another! And then later there was a blizzard? And zombies. ...I got killed by one, it really sucked.
[He fiddles with his coke can.]
If you die here you come back all messed up. It's... God okay, this sounds insane, but... do you know what a medium is?
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[You know, that's fucked up and all but so was Rubi - he's only looking puzzled for a second, trying to imagine this all happening in 2007 and not in a greasy little forest village full of weirdo cultists. He feels a strange pang at learning about Iggy's death... does that mean, no matter the universe, Iggy's always going through it? He wishes he had his popcan tab to play with again.]
Where I was before here, you couldn't leave either. The woods would make you kinda insane and you'd have to turn back or... yeah, you'd just turn back.
[Explaining the Void's not a today topic. Trying his best not to be 4 paces ahead in this conversation, and give it the reverence it deserves as a "first time" talk:]
Spirit medium?
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Iggy looks up, smiling hopefully.]
Yeah! That's what I am. Anyway, me and like, this necromancer guy and some other 'death' type people... we can't get to the other side. Like I can't call my dead grandma here. The necromancer guy - I call him Bone Daddy - he did some experiments and yeah, death is all messed up here.
So my advice is to try not to die.
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[Is Ianthe a dude in this world or something? He seems a little uncomfortable, if only for a beat, but that's mostly because he's now thinking of
Ianthehis own secondary ability; it's not like he knew how to use it anyway, so if it doesn't work here? That's probably a good thing. Right? Right.]... But you died and came back? That uh, that happened where I was before, too. I never died or anything but people got brought back. But it was a whole process. That I don't ever wanna experience, same with here. So dying's not on my list of to-dos. Not for a while, anyway.
<small>
My friends fixed me with this ritual you gotta do, so now I'm more or less good as new.
[He looks at Finch seriously.]
Keep it that way. There's enough weird, horrible shit going on already - why add dying to the list of shit gone wrong?
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[Just repeating that with a brow up because - imagery to process, at least it'd be cute without the drowning. Iggy drowning someone, though? Feels weird to even pretend to imagine. He nods his head though.]
I'll be on my best behavior. Sounds like you're pretty popular here, though. Big circle of friends?
look at that wannabe html up there. thanks, phone.
punk html, don't you know where you are
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