𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖘. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburntmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
Entry tags:
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐄 ▣ 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 — 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."
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.
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.
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.
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
material girls (cw: smashed skull)
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.
cw: bones n gore n shit
Instead, bent backward, he seems to freeze like a marionette held up by invisible strings. His body lurches forward on his feet again, bowed forward this time, then finally back upright - faceless, jaw hanging on by sinewy threads, a spark somewhere in the hole in his face lit like one eye and then two. The skull grows back faster than the rest, bones protruding to make up his face while the skin crawls along much slower in its regrowth.
He holds up a finger, as if to say just a second now because his voice has yet to return. But while they wait, it makes every little splinter of bone still in her her hand jut in deeper, wiggling under her skin toward the nerves there. Just like he brings out a jagged edge of bone from the back of his hand, oily and black as he pulls it out to hold as a small, too-sharp blade.]
K̷i̴t̵t̸e̴n̶.̷
[Waggling his blade-holding hand, finger up to point.]
̷T̴h̴a̷t̷ ̴w̶a̶s̷n̵'̸t̴ ̸v̴e̷r̶y̶ ̵n̷i̸c̸e̷.̴
cw: gore continues
Eve sucks her own blood off her fingers while her hand heals. (Not red, white, or black. A mix of the last two.) ]
Don't be dramatic.
[ If only because that's more her other father's style. Would he have punched a hole through someone's skull for touching him? Probably not, but. ]
And don't call me kitten. What's wrong with you.
[ A deep, deep sigh. Why'd he holding that stupid bone knife? Fuck's sake, it looks like a toy. ]
Of course they'd stick you in the universe's rejected asshole with me. Please don't tell me He's here, too.
no subject
[Bones don't bother him, no, but he is still a little pissed at having to reassemble his face. As soon as there's eyes back in his sockets they're looking at her, rimmed with shiny black oil that runs past his lashline - not tears, just blood, which he licks from the corner of his lip on the way down. There's something radiant about her that he can't quite put his finger on. Like there's something in her he can sense. Part of what he's looking for...]
Who's 'he'?
[He doesn't know what Zephir is. Who he was. Just what he is in essence, that he and the other riders are trying to find. Part of that seems radiant in her and he wants to use his knife to cut it out, see if he can hold it in his hands. See if he can eat it from his own palm.]
no subject
[ She's not even shocked that he's either pretending he doesn't know they've met, or that he forgot. This wouldn't be the first time she's seen one of her creators in years and centuries and millennia, rejected and expelled as soon as they were bored with their prototypes. Getting away from them is the best thing she and Adam could have done, so of course the worst series of things that could happen to her had to include bringing them back again.
Even crosses her arms, black blood smeared where she wraps her hand. She'll keep talking to him as if he's been fully formed all along, as if he isn't brandishing a weapon. As if he's her father and she'd like him to get out of her room, gosh. ]
Life?
[ She says it in the Oldest Language, spoken by Zephir and Sullivan in the very beginning. His true name, incomprehensible to any person born after their first attempts at making human-shaped things. ]
no subject
It's like a lost word, in his brain. He knows what he wants it to translate to. Knows what it means, but there's some block there. It makes him want to vomit up a warm spray of blood, to purge something from himself to make room for something new. Vann's face is fully formed, working enough to scowl, and he steps toward her suddenly.]
Say that again.
[His eyes are a little more feral, teeth a little more jagged; he's reaching for her wrist with his free hand, grabbing it with a feat of strength to marvel her own. He'd say something joking about being handsy but he's focused on her - her lips - her voice:]
Say it again. Slower.
[So maybe he can understand it.]
no subject
He dares to touch her again, sleazy softness replaced by rigidity. (Look at that. His fingers are gold.) She stares back at black-stained eyes, her own displeasure manifested in an animal-like expressionlessness. Those same dark blues sink deeper and deeper in color, silent after his demand, the image of a star being born in the vastness of the universe as one small light shines in each pupil. ]
You're supposed to say please, daddy.
no subject
[His grip on her tightens; he's not afraid of her, whatever power she has, because he's cocky enough to believe he can match it. It's whatever she has that she can deny him that bothers him, that keeps him rooted to the spot. He's staring into her eyes, feeling familiarity but still not being able to clasp his hands on to...]
We'll peel you apart and find it ourselves if we have to. I want it, what you said. It's what we're looking for. I can tell.
no subject
[ Again?, she almost says. She's not worried about the grip on her hand, she's not worried about being broken. It's the people around to witness what happens that should be worried. Of course this is how she finally reunites with the ones who made her. With mutual destruction in mind.
The shine in her pupils is stronger. ]
Might not like what you find.
(1 / 2) cw forever: emeto, cannibalism, weird shit
She was feeding. It was nice. Now she's bothered, coming toward where Vann stands, smelling of blood and ichor. He's holding on to the wrist of a woman, someone who radiates something that Lee immediately notices, too. But she's much more passive, hood falling back over damp looking blond hair, face smeared with someone innocent's blood.
Vann doesn't look at her to acknowledge her, but when they're together, they feel a hum in their bones. She is also nearby, napping in green sprigs of the forest, so three riders together are almost the entire apocalypse. Lee parts her lips to speak, to say something, but instead she makes a murmur and leans forward to vomit up a long stream of white spill. She told you she was busy, okay.]
(2/2)
[The only thing Vann says to acknowledge Lee, shooting her a pinched look because they're trying to intimidate this bitch, not flood the place with sticky shit. His grip holds on, nails digging in, claws coming from the tips of his fingers - made of bone piercing through.]
I don't think you understand, sweet pea. There's nothing you can throw at me I'm not going to bounce back from. And her, well.
[...]
She's the one gonna eat your face.
no subject
So it's just her who's gonna eat my face? [ Whenever things… stop coming out of her mouth? ] You're not sharing or anything? That's either selfish of her or lazy of you, making her do all the work. I can't tell.
[ The light is ominous, a star drifting closer to its planet. She calls to her brother while she ignores the gray blood beading where Vann's digging his claws. Adam is somewhere within her, but he's not ready to come out. Fine, then. She'll do all the work. ]
Now I want you both to say please. Why don't you throw in a sorry, too? It'll be easier to do that now than after all the screaming starts.
no subject
[He'd stick out his tongue if he felt like it but he's still holding on to her with his talon-like grip; he kind of wishes they were a little more in sync, he and Lee. She's not really repping the brand by gurgling up shit but it's good to know she's got some on tap, if needed. And she's just refreshed herself.
The thing is, Vann knows they work well together. But they have to find their stride. And it's so goddamn embarrassing to have to do that in front of some weird hot chick who's giving them so much attitude. He seems to have lost his bone-knife (it's stuck to the back of his hand again, disappearing into flesh) in lieu of splaying his fingers, and attempting to splay Eve's ribs apart in turn.]
Lee, you're up.
no subject
But she stares at Eve, momentarily frozen in place like an animal weighing the weight of the wind. Something about her... there's something familiar, as there are with the other riders. But then there's something else, a bramble in her brain when she tries to understand it. It makes her hungry. She wants to devour it. Whatever it is, she wants it too.]
... What are you?
[She asks, stepping forward, pausing again before she lunges. She wants to rip into those ribs, to lick the meat off them. To feast on whatever it is inside this woman that calls to a hole in her soul. Her hands reach, digging in, trying to tear a hole inside her.]
cw: bleeding, gore, dismemberment, body horror, cannibalism
No, she doesn't get the chance to answer. She gets a rabid bitch ripping and prying at her body, stumbling and looking down like she's about to ask whose child is this. Unfazed by the pain, annoyed that so much is getting ruined in its wake — again with the touching without her permission — she looks up at Vann and grabs his wrist, squeezing, shattering, then ripping it off his arm. While her midsection falls apart, the flesh mutates, bones and guts becoming an abomination that tries to take Lee's head off in a mouthful. Mutually Assured Consumption demon can hurt you.
As for Vann, he gets slapped with his own damn hand. Eve's voice overlaps with that of her brother's and the countless number of people and things they've devoured before, gray fluid spilling from her mouth and streaming from her eyes. There's nothing left of her pupils: it's all light. ]
S̸̻͛̇ǔ̵̼r̶̭̉e̸̙͔̍̿ ̸̹͓̉̌ẙ̵̨̝̓o̶̘̎̕ṳ̷̥̇ ̴͎͙̿d̵͖́ó̴̫̭̃n̶͙͓͝'̷̮̈̂͜t̶̫̭̃ ̴̹̗͌w̴̤͇̏a̵̪̐̒n̷̯̐n̸̢̫͊̇â̵͎̳̑ ̶̰̊͒s̸̗͝ͅh̶́̓͜ạ̴̜͠r̷̼̘͌͝e̸͚̭̽,̸̫͔͊̈́ ̴̨̒d̵͈͘ą̴͗d̵̲͒?
no subject
He uses bones, Lee's and his own, to thrust her back and away from Eve. The spears of bone pin Lee down to the ground and she struggles like a caged animal against them. Her black blood pools out of her but she can't dislodge the spears, one in each shoulder and one through her sternum.]
She has it.
[Lee's eyes are wide and frantic, like she saw something within the abomination when it nearly ate her. She's struggling to get free, not because she wants to flee. Not even because she wants to fight or destroy it. She wants to be part of it - she wants to let this woman devour her, because:]
It's in her.
[Panting, clawing, hissing, spitting.]
I want- I want-!
no subject
[Lee might want to yeet herself into voresville but he's not going to let her. He still has the spark needed to want to fight this bitch - even if he doesn't know exactly what she's made of. Lee almost saw inside her and she's making claims that make him feel a little lightheaded. It. What they're looking for - in this thing? She speaks as if she knows them, too. Could it be...?
Bone juts out of his neck and he pulls it free, constructing a blade of slivered sections with one hand and using his other to web the spears holding Lee in place together, like a cage. If eating this bitch were easier he'd just let her have at it but... there's something wrong. And for Vann to take notice, it's got to be very wrong.
So he whistles this time. Not for Lee. But for the others.]
no subject
Each step is slow and leisurely. They stop a few feet back, like an observer, unflinching to any violence or shows of it in moment's past in terms of blood and ichor. Sel is stroking Her head, but now they're all together. Pinpointing like they ought to around the real thing. Which Sel, unlike the others, can immediately discern is not here.]
She's not It. Made of it in part, however.
[Made of them, too, it feels like. The earth by Eve's feet can taste the grey blood, the essence below. It's not potent enough to be the drug, the desire, they crave. But it is a point in the right direction. Especially with wording like that.]
Ignoring them for a second, love, look my way?
no subject
Even doesn't put the abomination away. Her eyes, made of light, like stars drifting too close to their surrounding planets, lock on Sel and the feline-shaped void. ]
A̶̬̽n̷̖̆d̶̬̕ ̴͖͝w̴̭͑ḩ̸́a̷͇̚t̶̜͌ ̸͑͜w̴̙͌ỉ̶͎l̷̻̔l̸̢͛ ̷̫̾y̸̧͌ö̴̜́ṷ̶̚ ̴͎͌d̴͇̀o̸͉͘,̶̗͛ ̶̧̋m̸͍̀â̸̲k̵͎͘ẽ̷̤ṙ̵̮?̵̮͛ ̸̍ͅA̴͎͒b̵̢̕a̷͓͝ñ̴̢d̸̨͒ó̴̼n̷̪̒ĩ̶̭n̸̨̎g̷͔͌ ̴̤̃u̵̘̕s̴̹̈́ ̵͂͜w̶͕͒a̸̤͐s̴̺̎n̷͍͘'̵̻͊ṱ̶͐ ̷̦̿e̷̲̿n̷̡͐ȏ̷̥u̸͚̒g̵̡̐h̸̦̎;̸̺̾ ̷̫͛y̸̲͠ö̴̥́ṳ̵̒ ̵͙̕ş̴̀é̷͕ẻ̵͜k̷̙̿ ̷̬̉t̸͕͑o̷̢̽ ̷̦͝d̷͎̋e̵̊͜s̴̩͝t̴͈͝r̶̨̓ó̵̠y̵̩͊ ̵̠̈́u̶̙͆s̵̪̾ ̶̑ͅḁ̴̈́ś̶̙ ̵̻͂ẅ̴̦́ȩ̷͗l̴̤͊ḽ̶́?̴̱̂ ̶͍̊R̶̢̈́ḭ̵͝d̸̲̒ ̴̘̽y̵̭̋o̸̺̾u̸̘̓ṙ̴͍s̸̺͐e̸̻̅l̶̨̔f̴̼͠ ̵̯͗o̶̝͊f̶̧̈́ ̶͍̏y̵̯͌ó̶̧u̶̲̎r̶̞̔ ̷̻̂m̶̻̑i̵̪͗s̵̩̎t̵̩͝a̷̙̿k̸͕̀é̴̮?̴̖͑
[ The most perfect beings they've ever made. How ironic that that's why they weren't good enough. ]
no subject
Meanwhile Sel stares at Eve without flinching or looking away.]
I am not y̷̡̟̹͕̘̮̋͂̍̉͆̓̌̄̏̈́͜͠o̷̭̤̺̔̿̓͋͗u̷̘̹̪̙͖̥̣͇̿̀̓̋̀̀̽̋̈́͒̓͛͘r̸̰̳͚̫͚̲̥͎̘̹͑́̐͛̀̾̄̆͊͐̊̌͗͘ͅ ̵̧͎͕̬͎̦͈͎̠̊ͅͅm̶̩̃́̽̅̚ȧ̷̢̔̋̃̎̈́́͂̐͘͝k̵̨̡̛̳̩̪͉͖͙̳͇̹͔̤͈̯̐̐̔͛̽ȩ̸̛̤̞͓̟͙̞͙̝̣̂̀̿̂̊̐̓̾͆̅͌͑͘͘ͅr̶̛̜͗̌̆̓̿͗͘̚͝
[They stares for another long beat, head slowly tilting to one side.]
And you are not ours. But you know of them. Tell me more. Ignore my siblings.