𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐄 ▣ AUGUST TDM

[saltburntmods]

AUGUST 2025 TDM: BALANCE

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

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

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

CONTENT WARNINGS: house fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

LIVING OFF THE LAND

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MATERIAL GIRLS

CONTENT WARNINGS: potential character death, loss of limbs.

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

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

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

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

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

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

shanks • opla • current

[redforce]

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

— open to all

[redforce]

𝑖. 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑏𝑦𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑡

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝑖𝑖. 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑

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

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

Settling in alright? Can I get you anything?

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

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

𝑖𝑖𝑖. 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑏𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒

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

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

𝑖𝑣. 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑦 𝑑. 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤

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

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

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

𝑣. 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑑

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

goodbye to saltburnt, lost or trapped edition (reference to wildfires)

[wicka]

[ He's been told about these fires; stories from his mother about the flames that consume Portugal's countryside, ravaging plant and wildlife, shifting abundant greens into empty blackness. The panic of people in neighboring towns and villages having to choose to leave behind the lives they built in their homes so they can keep the lives they still have ahead. He's since learned that it's meant to be a great threat to werewolves too, and so he's faced with the history of a catastrophe haunting him from two different worlds, none of which is here to knock Dom off his stupor, sick from the overwhelming smell of it all.

Shanks finds him, flushed and sweaty, too warm for the clothes that stick to his skin with sweat. It takes him a moment to finally wake up and nod. He's here. He's not alone anymore, whoever this is. ]

I don't know where to go, [ He coughs, ] I can't tell where anything is.

collects another red4pink!!!

[redforce]

( it's a relief when dom comes to on his own, even if it takes a little longer than shanks would have liked. still, it's better not to have to use haki on anyone if he doesn't have to. he shakes his head, pulling up the collar of dom's shirt over his nose. )

Don't worry about that. Try not to breathe too much in.

( the smoke is still thick, clinging to the walls and the ceilings, the awful smell of it seeping into their clothes and their hair. shanks offers the stump of his bad arm as something to hold onto, needing his good arm to clear debris and keep his own face covered when he can. besides, as tall as he is, there's still plenty of shoulder and waist to cling to, and he'd rather not have to carry dom out of here. but he will, if it comes to that. )

Hold onto me, as tight as you have to.

the army grows

[wicka]

[ A little stiff when Shanks tugs on the collar, he gets the message quickly enough — ducking his head, nose and mouth covered, he inches up his shoulders to give it enough room to fit around the lower half of his face.

Any other circumstances would prompt him to question the contact, the proximity, but he recognized the danger just as quickly as he recognized the man's ease with navigating said danger, so — he's the authority figure the boy is listening to for as long as it takes to breathe clear air. He squints his eyes, stinging from the heat and the smoke. He can barely see, he can't stand the smell, everything seems too loud. A werewolf's nightmare.

Muffled through the shirt, ] Where's everybody else?

[redforce]

( strange as it may seem, shanks leads them through the narrow halls with his eyes closed, navigating by sense alone. he doesn't need to see to be able to guide them toward the cluster of bright auras near the lake. he can simply feel where to go, the tug toward familiar energies like an anchor being hauled out of the sea. )

Outside. ( a beat, momentarily checking for anyone nearby. ) Or getting there. ( there are several auras near the door shanks entered through; staff, maybe, who finally made it down from the upper floors. then, abruptly, he hunches with his arm raised. ) Watch your head. A fallen beam.

( that is also actively on fire. but as long as dom stays tucked under shanks, he shouldn't get burned. )

seeking buggy d. pillow.

[breeding]

[ Having been largely peripheral to the Straw Hats and to Shanks in general, Homelander's context for Buggy begins and ends with the drawing Shanks is currently showing him, and his expression — polite interest instantly morphing into the kind of abject resignation typically seen on people whose friends begin dating below their perceived worth — makes that fairly clear. ]

Man—

[ He sighs, brow furrowing as he takes the picture from Shanks' hands and gives it a closer look. There is, in fairness, quite a lot that he doesn't really get about Set and Shanks' arrangement, but this is maybe the gravest offense yet. ]

Is this, like, your favorite cartoon character or something?

[redforce]

( shanks barks a laugh, which might seem strange given the context, and given the whole house fire fiasco — but, for someone who is usually trying to drink himself into an early grave, he's in a surprisingly good mood. )

No, I can assure you he's very real. ( this does not explain things. or, in fact, make the existence of such a pillow better. ) It was a — gift, I suppose, from the Library. It has an interesting sense of humor.

( my client is innocent, your honor, he did not specifically ask for the goon pillow!!! but he'd still like it back. 😔 )

You know it gave me a candle that smells like hot dogs? Buggy — ( gesturing at the drawing, in case that wasn't already clear ) — he loves hot dogs. I had no idea there was such a thing.

( sorry, homie, you might have opened the wrong can of worms. )

[breeding]

[ ugh ]

A pillow of a clown man who loves the smell of hot dogs. Incredible. [ He heaves a sigh as he hands the sketch back, casting only the most cursory of glances around as if to look for the missing item in question and missing Shanks' unusually good mood entirely. ] You light it up when you jack off to this thing?

[ The fact of the matter is: he could probably find it pretty easily. Perks of X-ray vision and all. But he's not going to put in that much effort unless Shanks asks really, really nicely. ]

What'd you even ask it for that'd make it give you this? A life-size model?

[redforce]

( truthfully, the only time he lit it was during a ceremonial ritual he performed with koby at the start of werewolf which involved a lot of blood and fucking, but — the more homelander doesn't know in this particular case the better. and shanks certainly isn't going to kiss and tell about that. )

I only asked for a photo. The Library has — a strange sense of humor. ( which he seems to find amusing, at the very least. ) That isn't why I'm looking for it, though. ( the jacking off thing, he means. with a shrug, ) Set keeps me more than satisfied.

( of course, when he'd originally received the pillow, he hadn't fucked anyone in over a decade, but that's neither here nor there. )

ii he's so cute.....damb

[cutlery]

[ Sebastian is present at mealtimes because he has to be, but he’s also notably a light eater. For breakfast, he can at least get away with the true bare minimum, which is a simple black coffee. Yet, even though that would imply that he’s only here for appearances, his posture is easy and open, so an introduction is perfectly welcome. ]

A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shanks—

[ He offers a gloved hand to shake with a gracious smile, and at least those gloves are also more to theme. White sun gloves suit summer camp much more than fine silk, after all. Though, as he listens to the little anecdote, his expression brightens with interest, and then becomes an apologetic laugh. ]

Ah, your ship, is it? Then, my apologies, Captain. Or, please, correct me if my assumption is incorrect.

[ He nods as he picks up his cup of coffee to take a sip. ]

My, but you have my sympathies, regardless. If this is what is to be expected, then Mr. Roux’s cooking must be as skillful as the head chef of the manor I work in.

[ so. zero. not at all. ]

— living off the land

[bloodspill]

( The fire had been a wild introduction to this place, and as the commotion dies down Lottie slowly begins to explore the new surroundings. Tents, people, some familiar but most new faces. It's amazing and overwhelming all at once and a part of her wishes they were back home, with the other girls, in the wilderness. The idea that things here are more complicated than she's seeing is strong, and eventually the smell of food snaps Lottie from her musings as she wanders over to the breakfast area.

She's refused, something about clothing, and it takes a few more moments before she's eventually seated, soot-stained gown swapped for shorts and tank top as she eyes the plate of food in front of her. Despite the loud growling of her stomach, Lottie can't help the wary expression. Is this a test? Food could be considered a kind of communion, after all. A look around and everyone else is eating just fine, and so a piece of bacon is picked up with fingers. Her first bite is slow, tentative, and then her demeanour crumbles as the teenager begins to eat quickly, as if the food would be taken away at any second. Even the cutlery is ignored in favour of fingers. )

Hm? ( Lottie looks over at the person who just spoke, immediately noting how tall they are even to her 5'10 height. ) Ship? A chef on a ship. Not a yacht?

[redforce]

( shanks notes, of course, the way lottie eats with her fingers, like someone starved finally being offered a full meal. or any number of his crewmates, really. pirates aren't exactly known for their manners. there's a pang of homesickness in his chest, a hint of melancholy behind his eyes, but he's still smiling fondly when he says: )

No, not a yacht. ( he doesn't even know what a yacht is — ) A pirate ship. They seem to have gone out of style here, as I understand. Ships like mine.

( not to mention there's so much land and hardly any water. then again, the coast could be a mile away and they might never know, as long as they're stuck here. )

[bloodspill]

( Pirate ship. That's difficult to believe when coming from a world where pirates are merely stories, those lost to to the annals of time. They may have existed at some point, but that is for the history lessons barely paid attention to in a school life a hundred light years away. )

What, you're saying you're a pirate?

( The eating isn't slowed despite the curious look Shanks gets, Lottie's eyebrows raising as she lets that sink in. Some red hair dye guy is trying to say pirates are a thing. Wonders never ceased. )

You don't look like one. Where's your ship?

[redforce]

( shanks' brow pinches thoughtfully as he takes a sip of coffee — spiked, naturally, because the coffee has somehow gotten worse since being out here. )

Are pirates meant to look like something? ( where he comes from, they're just Normal Men. ) If I knew where my ship was, I wouldn't be sitting here with you.

( he doesn't mean that in a rude way, he's just pointing out the fact that if given a choice, he'd rather be at sea. )

As far as I know, no one's made it beyond the manor grounds. There could be coastline on the other side of the woods, but we may never know for sure.

— closed to daughter & wife, et al.

[redforce]

( by the time the stone spreads to shanks' wrist, he knows something must be done. days, he's spent in a haze, not quite himself — as if his own vicious and loathsome reputation had come to life from his blood spilled in the maze, from the ashes of the manor itself. a cruel caricature of the man called red-haired shanks, a stunning portrait of the emperor the world would have him be. only this time, it isn't a role he plays or a mask he wears; he can feel it chiseling into his ribs, dangerous propaganda striving to become truth. his own blood like poison, a family name come to devour him from the inside out — until there's nothing left but a cold monument to what he should have been.

in many ways, this is his worst fear. more than being alone. more than being too late to save those who matter most. it's the loss of control, the inability to protect his loved ones from himself. that he might hurt them, in ways he can never come back from, in ways he could never forgive himself for. his own life has never been important — he'd gladly give it up to spare someone else — but this curse seems intent to prevent him from doing so without corroding the trust he's come to earn (or trying to earn back).

he thinks of koby, nami, sanji: none have regarded him the same since the truth of his dalliance with set came to light. that much he can live with. but to harm them, in a moment of weakness — that makes him no better than one of the wolves.

he thinks of set, most of all: the hushed and frightened admission of a brother's cruel obsession. he said he loves me, but nothing he did to me is like what you do. to betray that, to allow himself to be consumed by medusa's wrath and turn it upon the one he vowed to protect — that makes him no better than osiris.

and so he thinks of his own brother: the imperious entitlement to any passing fancy, the righteous rage of a god denied. his birthright, handed to him on a golden platter. (shanks knew then, as he does now, that they were never gods. the celestial dragons would crumble to dust with one look from the god of war.)

the fear of becoming (his brother, a villain), the fear of losing (his family, the strange life he's built) — this drives him to action, to heed the eerie whisper of medusa in his ear: redeem yourself ... atone.

atone for what? for his sins during werewolf? or for everything that happened after?

emotional confrontation has never been one of his strongest suits. easier to be the martyr, to let others project everything they hate about themselves (or anyone else) onto him. he can live with being hated or resented or ignored, if it means some measure of happiness for someone else, if it frees them from some burden they didn't know they were carrying. but that doesn't mean he doesn't miss it, the way things were before. he just — doesn't know how to fix it. no one ever taught him how. (pirates don't talk about their feelings. when he and buggy would get into one of their stupid fights, rayleigh and gaban would always tell them to knock it off or separate them until they agreed to get along. compromise and vulnerability were things he had to learn the hard way. that he's still learning, even now.)

so, of course, his relationship with nami hasn't miraculously improved with time — not that shanks entirely expected it to. (she's more like buggy than she'll ever admit, the way she holds onto her anger like a shield, the way he can never get an accurate read on her.) at least he can say it hasn't gotten worse. and while they may not ever be able to truly reconcile (they're never going to see eye-to-eye on his relationship with set, he knows that), now seems like the right time to try. their group is fractured enough as it is, with luffy and zoro and usopp gone. shanks would never presume to be their captain, but if they can't all trust each other, who can they trust?

the courtyard remains one of the few places relatively untouched by the fire and far enough away from camp to afford some semblance of privacy — yet still open enough that nami shouldn't feel trapped. if she wants to leave, she's perfectly within her rights to do so and shanks won't stop her. she doesn't even have to meet him at all, but he had said please and this is important to me. you're important to me.

he waits at the edge of the fountain — dry after the pipes were damaged, strange coins lining the bottom of the otherwise empty pool — staring at his hand and attempting, futilely, to will his fingers to move. eventually, when that warm citrus aura enters his full awareness, he glances up with a soft smile on his face and lifts his hand awkwardly. the greeting is stiff, like a mannequin, which, admittedly, is a little funny despite everything else. )

Never been stoned before. ( a dry laugh, then: ) Can't say I'm enjoying the experience.

[money]

( there was a time, in not so distant a past, that nami would've done pretty much anything shanks asked of her. this is the kind of loyalty you earn when you save someone's life — much the same as luffy in coco village, earning nami's respect through nothing less than hard, inarguable evidence. of course, she's fickle, too. no one would be surprised to hear the girl with a tangerine tattoo covering a flayed patch of skin, with a chip so large on that shoulder it's almost tangible, isn't one to stick around when the going gets tough. she's quick to assume the worst, particularly in regards to something she already believes about herself. accepting shanks saved her because he cares about her? hard. accepting shanks saved her out of a numerical game of probability? easier, much easier. she can't resent him for it. these things make sense.

it's the lingering that doesn't. it's impossible for anyone to think less of nami than what she thinks of herself — liar and thief and pirate, and lesser and worse and nothing. shanks made his choice when he defended set to her, and she can't exactly be mad, although she is — anyone would be lucky to have anyone in their corner. as nami hadn't in coco village, under arlong's rule — the same as she hadn't during werewolf, and set's discerning read of her ineptitude. silly nami, imagining there might be someone behind her when the curtain raised. imagining crew meant something other than an annotated map. she's learned that lesson, unlearned it, learned it again. recently? unlearned. still, there's collateral involved with every new study, like iron shackles on her ankles or fishman hands gripped around her arms. new peace with sanji and new distance with shanks. new fights with koby and new intimacy with jinx. she doesn't let herself pretend that shanks misses her — she's been an annoyance, a brat, a vicious enemy to him. he should be glad to be rid of her, this girl who hates his partner. if set was on fire, she wouldn't piss to snuff it out. he earned that, her unyielding hate — little as nami thinks of herself, she can hold a grudge like no one else. where happiness is empty inside her, vitriol takes space.

still, shanks is at the bar at dead men tell no tales, he still stays around in her inner bubble, he still takes up occupancy in her life. familiarity, probably. nami doesn't ask, and doesn't ever gather up the energy to tell him to fuck off — they just circle each other, or give some wide berth, not penetrating the distance with anything more than a kind smile (shanks) or performative indifference (nami). the text is a strange break in their mutual agreement towards long suffering silence. please he says, weirdly enough. you're important to me, and nami wonders if someone stole his phone. it would be like him to misplace it. still — he does meet him with some kind of trepidation, not that she thinks shanks would hurt her, but that she's sure this is a set up of some kind. for what, she doesn't know. it's the same hunch that cats have before hurricanes — hair standing up, nerves akimbo. )

Shanks — what the hell?

( she can't look away from his arm, the quietly bred panic of someone used to not expressing themselves seizing up her expression, eyes weirdly watery and wide. after a beat, she looks around her, like the solution to stone limbs is somewhere — nearby. in the rubble. somewhere? )

Hang on. We'll call ( maybe this is what sanji meant, about making allies. who knows how to heal stuff like this? a doctor? is there even one here? ) someone. I'll just. ( there's a tote on her shoulder full of art supplies, and she rifles through it, looking for her phone. )

[redforce]

( shanks can feel the frenetic energy of nami's nerves, the immediate panic, but he's steadfast as ever, even in a situation that could be life or death. it reminds him, distantly, of the day he lost his arm: luffy's wild tangle of emotions and his own nonchalance in the face of a grievous injury. (when luffy finally calmed down, when shanks finally got him to sleep — then, and only then, did he allow himself to break.) it isn't that he doesn't feel, it's that he feels too much, and perhaps that's why this curse seems to have taken such a deep hold. does it think it's saving him from himself? )

Nami. ( firmly, but somehow still calmly reassuring in the way that only shanks knows how to be. overwhelming confidence he's learned to wear like a second skin. you can't be anything other than confident on the grand line, especially when you're an emperor of the sea. but the price of that confidence is a life he had to leave behind a long time ago. a simpler life.

there are shades of that life here: the relationships he's formed, the company he keeps, the lack of responsibility — though the irony of the illusion of freedom isn't lost on him. none of them will ever be truly free to live the life they want until they return home and finish what they started, the story without an ending. it's the glimpse of what that ending could be that shanks wants to hold onto here. not just with set, who he knows one day he'll have to say goodbye to — but with the straw hats, with koby, who one day he knows he'll meet again, under different circumstances. under better circumstances. until then, there's a terrible loneliness waiting for shanks that he isn't entirely eager to return to, a burden that hasn't held the same weight the longer he's away.

still, the world isn't without hope. shanks saw that the day he met luffy as a boy. has seen it in luffy's crew, in the people he inspires. and he's willing to bear that burden, to make sacrifices in service of luffy's journey, his potential, the belief that luffy will be the next king of the pirates. just because luffy is no longer here, in this place, doesn't mean shanks isn't still willing to make those sacrifices for his remaining crew. of course he is. they're family. and luffy would hate to see the way things have become. the way shanks has let them fester. that's the difference between the two of them: luffy never would have let this lie for so long.

shanks reaches between them, but without much movement in his hand, the most he can do to get nami's attention is tap her arm, which isn't as comforting as it would be if it were still flesh. )

We can figure it out later, I promise. That's not why I called you here. ( not entirely, anyway. tangentially, more like. ) I wanted to ... clear the air between us. Will you sit with me?

[money]

( there is an expression on her face — one that loosely translates to how fucking dumb are you?, though the question never verbally leaves her mouth. how could his remaining arm turning to stone not be the priority in this situation? how is now the time to make amends, bridge gaps? she takes him in with one thorough glance, flickering up from his feet to his face, thinking tangentially that there's nothing more shanks about it, than to be in the thralls of cataclysm, and finally want to talk. well. nami catastrophizes a lot, too, some kind of instinctive response due to the company she keeps. at the end of the day, even if she doesn't respect or admire authority, shanks is the comparative adult. if he doesn't want to worry about turning into a stupid statue, that's not her business.

at length, she huffs out a breath, the bag falling from her shoulder and onto the floor with a puff of ashy air, arms crossed over her chest, taking the few steps it takes to plop down at the fountain's edge. she's aware she's putting out a defensive air, forcing some kind of relaxation into her posture by way of crisscrossing her legs, idly picking through the fountain coins. an excuse for something to do, rather than look at shanks — something she realizes she's doing just in time to stop, pressing a coin in the center of her palm and looking at shanks instead, expression equal parts wounded and disinterested, ambivalently accepting that pain is the one constant nami can rely on. at length, she shrugs her shoulders, feeling the coin imprint on her skin. )

It's not going to change anything.

( there's no clearing the air, as far as nami is aware. it's all crystal. there's always the things you have done and the things you will do, and whatever people interpret of you off your actions — nami's impression of shanks is transparent to her, someone who will always put those most important to him above all others. tangentially, nami knows where she ranks: dead last. a likely place for her to be, given the quality of person she is.

she imagines that is this conversation. you have to accept, nami, that some people are just better than you, and deserve more grace, and have earned more love. and to that nami will say, i know. )

— closed to set, pre-shanksdeath ❤️

[redforce]

( it's harder to sleep in now, when there are no walls to dampen the sounds of nature waking with the sun, or the staff puttering around preparing breakfast, or other early risers chattering amongst themselves, the scent of coffee wafting in well before sunrise. on good days, shanks can sleep through most of it; on other days, like today, he finds himself draping his arm over his ear and across set's lap, burying his face into set's thigh in an attempt to muffle the noise. for a blissful moment, it's almost quiet until —

crash! somewhere in the distance and portia shrieking at the top of her lungs about something being ruined —

and, frankly, shanks doesn't care, because now his sleep is ruined. with an irritable groan, he rolls over and pushes himself upright, blinking the sleep out of his eyes until the world comes into focus. leaning into set's warmth, his hand settling against set's neck to draw him in, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to set's mouth: )

Morning. ( and then another, more indulgent than the last, as if the taste of set's tongue might energize him for the day. he still doesn't sound too thrilled about the prospect of morning, but today is a special day, so he may as well start to enjoy it early despite the abrupt wakeup call. when he finally pulls away, his face slowly brightens like the sun finally beginning to creep above the horizon. ) Do you know what today is?

( he doesn't expect set to remember, not the exact day. time passes differently for a god. but shanks remembers. he won't ever forget that night in the otherworld, exchanging a wanted poster, their fingers brushing for just an instant. the genuine curiosity, the decisive way in which set described the most fruitful methods of searching for a lost love in a house known to play tricks on them. shanks never did take that advice to heart — he'd been too enamored to pay attention since the moment set first smiled. )

[redsoil]

[ While Shanks slumbers, Set often remains awake; still, quiet and comfortable in the drape of the other's arm, the loose grasp of hand upon his body, the tuck of Shanks's nose in his hair, against his throat, mushed against his thigh. He reads, researches, catalogues and otherwise occupies himself, fingers stroking through his husband's hair as he slumbers. Eager to muffle the world beyond with his presence, and the press of his divinity around them. Anything to dampen Shanks's intensely powerful Haki, the ever-seeking, vigilant nature of it.

To keep him safe, so that he can sleep securely.

He feels Shanks's heartbeat pick up, as he wakes. The brief flutter of someone coming to focus, and he folds aside one of his stray books in order to turn into the warmth of the other's body. To nose into the kiss with ease, his own eyes closing as he quietly coaxes his silly, fragile husband to wake fully. ]

What are you doing awake? I thought to let you sleep, lazy thing.

[ The insult is fond, obviously.

His brow knits, thinking back on the last time this day had passed. It is difficult, because time is a strange, elusive concept to an eternal being. He does not carry the same frame of reference as Shanks, and so it takes him effort — having to think back to the mental record of their experience together in order to come to a conclusion. It's not the pool, that came afterwards. That means — ]

A Thursday? [ His fingers toy with the ends of Shanks's hair, thumb finding the rough line of his jaw. ] No, the bar. We were at the bar, before. We spoke about Buggy. Why are you thinking of that? Are you missing him again?

[ He doesn't mind, clearly. He thinks Shanks needs to be braver, and confess to Buggy when they go home. To either be loved in return, or to know for sure where he stands. ]

[redforce]

( among his crew, it's common knowledge that shanks rarely sleeps well in an empty bed, that his quarters are always open to any member of his crew, regardless of their rank. of course, rumors spread fast and wild on the grand line: that the notorious red-haired shanks, emperor of the sea, is as loose as they come, his crew a veritable harem. none of that is true, but as long as shanks lets anyone into his bed, the rumors will persist. no one would dare believe that an emperor is as clingy as a child, that he hasn't slept peacefully alone in over twenty years — and shanks lets people talk for one reason, for the sake of an image that's necessary to maintain.

they're nowhere near the grand line now, but that hasn't stopped the restlessness, the terrible things that plague his dreams even still. the familiarity of set's presence, the radiating warmth — it's soothing, like a warm blanket, like being buried in the sunbaked sands of a distant beach. it eases shanks' subconscious mind, calms the very nature of his will, lets him rest more soundly than he ever would alone.

the waking world, of course, seems much more eager to disrupt that. )

You can put me back to sleep later. ( as innocuous or suggestive as set wishes to take it. ) I have a surprise for you.

( he leans into set's touch, closing his eyes for a moment as he recalls that day with overwhelming fondness. huffing a laugh, that set would assume this is about buggy. for once, it isn't. )

I always miss him. ( a truth spoken with ease, with only a fraction of the weight it would normally carry. he reaches for set's hand, drawing it to his mouth to press an achingly tender kiss to set's knuckles. ) That isn't why, though. ( holding set's gaze, his face softening with nothing short of adoration: ) It's the day we first met. I haven't stopped thinking about you since.

( there are two wolves inside him: one that yearns for buggy and one that loves set with every fiber of his being. )

[redsoil]

Flatterer.

[ Some part of Set has grown softer, since they had woken from their long, false life. He'd woken in terror and fear, seizing upon defensive paranoid as he'd recognized some sort of manipulation — not Shanks's, but Osiris's. The evening Shanks had spent reassuring him, hearing him without giving him cause for shame or horror had sweetened his attitude toward the other man. While still a thing of teeth and claws, there was a tender little fondness in the way Set would dote upon the other redhead. Cheeking against his bare skin, or kneading warm hands over the scar tissue of his missing arm.

Accepting the sweet things he says, with more grace than resistance. It's always the little changes, when it comes to Set. ]

I liked the attention. At first, it was easy and satisfying to know I could have someone's eyes upon me.

[ He's brutally honest, as ever. Settling up on his hip and elbow, so that he can lean closer to Shanks and stroke fingers through his hair; slow and methodically petting it, tucking strands behind his ear before his fingers follow the line of his face, to his throat, to his shoulder. And then back to the start. ]

Then, I grew to like that they were yours, above all else. You never made me feel hunted.

— closed to set & koby, mid-death

[redforce]

( when shanks was one, he reached for a man who cut down his mother without a second thought, a father unworthy of the name.

when he was five, for a hat that was much too big for him, but felt like belonging and worth and home.

when he was fifteen, for a boy with blue hair and a red nose, begging but not hard enough, the rain pattering against his stinging skin.

when he was twenty-five, for a chest that might change the world, as long as he could keep it safe, as long as he could fulfill a destiny that wasn't his.

when he was thirty-five, for a would-be brother, a feeling of home he thought had long been lost, broken and buried.

and now, he reaches as he's done so many times in the past, for something that will slip away — for red hair or a red sun or the vastness of the red lands, spilling through his fingers.

his gaze comes back into focus, a smile spreading slowly across his face just as the blood spills out beneath him. he laughs weakly, wetly, at the irony of being found like this, among the coins, among the worthless treasures of guests and visitors, parted with by tradition, in hopes of good fortune. he wonders how many of them really believed that.

it's too late for him, this time. to be saved. there's no hero to ensure he survives.

there is only set, the man he's come to love. the man he married. the man who isn't a man, but a god, and a god still powerless to stop the will of the house.

and there is koby, whom he can no longer shield from the pain of death. from the hollow, haunting sound of his life's voice being silenced, whispers in the wind becoming fainter with each passing moment.

and there is shanks, fading like the sun beneath the horizon, desperate to hold onto what he has for just a little while longer. )

It wasn't ... her fault. ( shanks would never blame her, not even with his dying breath. needily, he pulls set down to him, forehead to forehead, wanting to feel the warmth against his skin, wanting to feel the weight of being buried in his sands. ) Don't — do anything I wouldn't do. While I'm gone.

[kobes]

[to say koby hasn't thought about this would be a lie -- he lies awake at night, stomach and chest in knots, and imagines it all, over and over again, imagines every person he's come to love being taken by the monstrous, impossible, inescapable machinations of a house that's more home than anywhere else had ever been. he wonders what he'll do when death comes closer, closer, when it strikes (again) at the pillars that keep him upright, putting one foot in front of the other, breathing and moving and existing.

the answer is: he can't bear it. he can't. the wrench of blood and heat and shattering splinters through koby's chest like a cannonball, leaves wreckage in it's wake, the realization of life running out as keen and bone-deep as if the knife were buried in his own chest, as if it were his own heart and blood and flesh trying to remain alive. whereever he is, koby goes to his knees, doubled over with the too-familiar feeling of dying. he's felt it before -- last year, in november, the month of werewolf had hit him with nearly as much force, had him trying to claw his own head apart to make it stop.

koby would take that agony, that unbearable pain a thousand times over, because those deaths hadn't been shanks. there hadn't been that bond, that connection, forged in the palm of his hand, in the meat of his soul, tethered in a way that transcended flesh and breath and became essential. november had made him terrified of dying. but this -- this makes him hope that when shanks takes his last breath, koby will too. because he can't live with this, he can't, he can't, he can't, he --

-- he stands, he moves, he propels himself forward, honing in on the signature of brilliant, blazing, sunkissed red, not shanks but set, set who hides himself on a whim, capricious and changeable and it's only pure chance that he's able to be found this time. and koby's grateful, because he doesn't think he can bear taking one step after another while his insides bleed themselves dry from wounds that aren't his, without finding set at the end. he'd managed something -- it's shanks, it's bad, you need to come with me -- staccato-quick and jerky, the words coming from somewhere beyond him, because his mind is whited-out agony, his heart is beating too fast, too quick, and there's blood pooling over the coins in the fountain, and there's grey at the edges of his vision, but he grabs set's hand and he pulls, he finds the source of that pain, that dying and he follows it, even though all he wants to do is run the other way.

koby follows. he finds. he lets go of set and stands at a distance, arms crossed over his chest to try and hold his shattered ribs together around a heart he can feel slowing, and he wants to move forward, he wants to find that place where shanks's neck and shoulder meet and hide there until he dies too, but -- he doesn't. he won't. not without an invitation, not without permission to step into this sacred, inevitable, unbearable place he'd hoped with all his soul they'd never go.]