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

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setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
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Comments

Ptolemais Cline — original, new player

[buio]

GOODBYE TO SALTBURN, cw house fire

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

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

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

Probably. They call this symbolism.

LIVING OFF THE LAND

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

But, speaking of—

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

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

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK — CHECKMATE, cw assault

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

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

Feels good.

WILDCARD

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

living off the land

[temujackie]

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

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

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

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

[buio]

(Ptolemais's shoulders jolt to her ears,) Fuck— (and she drops the thing she's touching — a button-up — which she shouldn't have been touching anyway, because it's not like anything with short sleeves is going to make it past the censor—

Her heart is in her throat. Getting successfully crept up on sucks.)

Looking, (she says eventually, getting past the stopper in her throat. She gets off her knee and stands up.

... This isn't a real tent. You shouldn't be able to stand up fully in a tent, that's just wrong.) For something to wear for dinner. I got bounced. (She's wearing jeans and a hoodie. The jeans don't even have any holes in them — they're her best jeans.)

[temujackie]

[ Melissa's crossing her arms, clearly trying to decide whether or not she buys this story. She can't remember seeing the woman around before, so... it's probably legit. That or she's just a trusting idiot. She glances down at the button-up on the floor and then back to Ptolemais's empty hands.

Finally: ] Just take extra at lunch next time.

[ She crosses the tent and crouches in front of another bag, unzipping it and rummaging around until she unearths a snack-sized bag of Doritos. She sighs and offers it over. ]

Here. [ Enjoy your dinner. ]

[buio]

Sure. Where's that? (This place is chaotic. Hard to find anything. And there is a woman enforcing strict dress code for eating dinner — why you would want to sit down in your best clothes just to get spaghetti bolognese all over it Ptolemais has no idea.

She takes the bag of Doritos even though they're the worst flavour. She pushes the bag between her palms until it pops open with a surprisingly loud bang.)

Thanks.

(She puts a chip in her mouth, asks with mouth full.) Aren't you a kid?

checkmate

[medals]

Jem learned how to play chess when she was ten. She had sat opposite her dad, and then Kieren, for months on end from the Christmas break through to the summer. This had been a wasted effort, because she had been ten. It had been a doubly wasted effort, because Jem did not have friends; what she had was a reputation for being quiet and strange, and if she showed up to school freshly eleven and asked someone to play chess? They'd have strung her up by her tie.

She learned some more, two places before Saltburnt. Paid attention then, because by the time Jem was nineteen, she had learned that she likes to win.

The frustration at losing now, begins to set in, long before Ptolemais' fist connects with her nose. It starts at the first check, builds real fast by the second. Then Ptolemais comes in fast and hard, knuckles splintering through the fragile cartelidge of Jem's nose, hot blood gushing out as she doubles back, hands flying to catch it all in her palms. It doesn't really hurt at first. It's a dull ache, dull enough for her to wheeze: "What the fuck -" and then to ignore it completely to drag her own left arm back, grab Ptolemais by the hair and and bring the right hook forward into her nose.

🙂

[buio]

Ptolemais learned to fight when she was thirteen by watching YouTube videos. She stuffed a leather jacket with balled-up bed sheets and propped it against a wall in her room, hitting it only when her parents weren't in the house. She split her knuckles on the zipper's teeth. She realised you're not supposed to tuck thumb into curled fist.

Since then she's only fought other people a handful of times and not well. In the bedroom with the jacket she was composed and aimed the hits but in real life she flusters, she'll throw a hit without thinking. It's hard to keep your head when you're wondering if you're about to die or get a broken nose. Even harder to keep it once blood has been drawn from either side.

"Sorry," she says, breathy, ragged and alert. She doesn't know why she said it because she isn't sorry for anything, the chess or the punch, and she certainly doesn't sound like she is. She laughs, not getting it, a what the fuck laugh, and the other woman punches her back, right in the face, holds her into her knuckles by her hair.

Getting punched is like getting a tattoo, Ptolemais thinks. At first you're like ow. Shit, ow. And then the adrenaline hits and you're like — oh, this is fine. I can handle this. There's blood in her mouth and her neck hurts, and she kind of likes it. That's also why it's like getting tattooed, because she likes it. She spits it on Jem through her teeth and angles her head away, yanking out of her grip.

"Fight fair—"

No hair-pulling. Shit's basic.

[medals]

Thirteen meet fourteen: Jem's rattling her fists against someone a year older, knees in the mud, punching down, down, down because someone said better watch out, Walker, might run into your brother out there. They'd meant among the dead, and Jem had been a ticking time bomb since he died anyway. The girl died a year after that - Jem had stared down at her dead body before they burnt her and would have given anything to go back to that fight, back to when she'd been the most alive.

She has the taste of blood in her mouth, now. She has the taste of Ptolemais' blood too, and her spit - this is the most intimate way you know someone. She wants to say: I've got your number now, and mean soul, or taste, or spirit, or whatever the fuck makes up a person. She doesn't, because that's real fucking weird. She thinks it, though, and hisses out, "school yard rules, bitch," and dives in to tackle Ptolemais around the middle, her head cracking up the underside of her chin. They go down, down, down, and Jem spits both their blood back out onto her, grinning, and adds: "There are no rules."

[buio]

"Fuck kind of school you go to—" Not the kind Ptolemais did, where she got ignored to the point she would have liked it, a lot, if a kid had hit her in the school yard just like this, or spat blood into her open mouth. You can pay for attention with good stories. Scars make you cool. She's breathing hard when Jem collides with her, groans when her back hits the chessboard — fuck, that's actually going to hurt in the morning, she's thirty now, she's old. Too old for any of this, starting it, refusing to finish it—

When she punches Jem again she gets her in the ribs and it fucking hurts, knuckle on bone. Like slamming your hand in the car door. She grunts, "Get out—" even though she's not really trying to get away, or make Jem stop, they're just tussling on the black and white squares now, together.

goodbye to saltburnt

[datgirl]

"More like a nightmare."

One nightmare after another. Violence and death. Fire and feasting.

Hannah's stomach clenches. She looks at Ptolemais, checking for obvious wounds. Having a bundle of clothes in her arms helps Hannah from giving in to the impulse to put a hand on the stranger's shoulder.

"Sorry, I guess I'm trying to lighten the mood a little. Are you okay? Do you need help with anything?"

[buio]

"Yeah."

The fire. It makes Ptolemais realise her throat is really fucking dry but when she slings her backpack off her shoulder and unzips it to check her water bottle isn't in there. She might have left it in the house. Or somewhere else. She can't figure out if she was ever in the house to begin with, it's so disorientating.

She jerks her shoulder out from underneath Hannah's hand, doesn't say anything to the tune of don't, but. She takes half a step away to discourage her.

"I'm okay." Is it crazy to ask somebody you don't know something as big as what the hell is going on? Does it make you look insane? After a moment's pause she adds, throwing caution to the wind, "I don't know where I am."

[datgirl]

The stranger reminds Hannah of the teens in the wilderness. Jumpy but sharp-witted. A survivor. Aren't we all survivors of something or another?

"I'm not really sure I know either," Hannah admits. "People have been moving over there, though." she gestures with her head toward where the tents are. "Want to walk there together?"

No touching, no pressure. Just company, another pair of eyes looking out for potential threats. ...it's so easy to fall into those thoughts.

[buio]

"Sure." It's easier for Ptolemais to be on the same foot as somebody she doesn't know, and better to be presented, unknowing, to others in a group. These two don't know what's going on, it's so much better than this woman is probably insane, she thinks she's in a living dream—

She slings her bag onto her shoulder again, digs her trembling hands into her pockets.

"What's your name?"

living off the land

[longlegs]

[ Cellar's back from that game with the serial killing and the haha, fake blood!, except the food coloring they used is a bitch to wash off her skin, which means the white t-shirt clumped up in the clutch of her fist is a total goner.

Her long hair is damp from the shower, skin tainted with a fading red splattered and speckled on her arms and from the collarbone up. She put her shoes (also splattered), shorts and sports bra back on to return to the tent, knowing it's time to think about what to wear for dinner. Any outfit retrieved from the manor is shiny and generous in the cleavage department, a handful of dresses tailored for a tall girl who doesn't mind showing off, colors jumping ship off safe neutrals to any selection made available by your local rainbow. Some are monochrome; others not so much.

Finally home (the air quotes, they are quoting in the air), Cellar enters her tent with a sigh stuck in her throat. She'd expect to find a brunet in here any time; it's just that the one she's thinking of happens to be her husband. ]

Uhm.

[ ooc — Cellar has a castmate with the same PB, but if you'd prefer to avoid same-face mixups I can skip that! Just let me know. ]

Go for the face mixup! it sounds funny

[buio]

Oh, (Ptolemais says, not sounding at all sorry,) Sorry.

(She's standing in the middle of the tent with a red dress held to her body to check the size. It's probably too long for her but she's hungry and willing to knot it inelegantly at the back — her stomach rumbles audibly at this point to punctuate the humiliation of getting caught red-handed (literally, red dress in hand).

Too late she says,) Can I borrow this? For dinner. I'll bring it back.

[longlegs]

[ She stares, she blinks, hanging somewhere between a) the confusion of suddenly having Cane Corso in her tent (in this universe), grabbing a gown off Cellar's collection (she wears those? In Cellar's style? She knows that Cane was once married, but she's not even sure she wore a dress to her own wedding—), and b) the uncertainty that this even is Cane. It wasn't long ago that Cellar ran into a guy who looks exactly like Wolf Spider, only to find out he was Definitely Not real quick.

Hesitation gradually fades out — shifts — as she steps further inside, comically awkward. There's a glance down at the dress. It slides back up to its finder and temporary keeper. ]

You … wanna wear my dress?

[ Willingly? Okay, actually, bigger picture: she needs to be asking totally different questions to a familiar face. ]

Wait, how long've you been here?

[buio]

Yeah.

(It sounds dumb out loud. Ptolemais feels her ears getting hot. She keeps her mouth jammed shut while the stranger comes into the tent proper, to get a look at her and the dress she wants, the long red material bunched up at her feet. She realises that if the hem really is going to be that long nobody will notice her keeping her trainers on underneath.)

A minute. (Swear. She jerks her chin at the rack of clothes.) I only looked at the black one before this one. (And it was too low cut, so she didn't pick it out.)

living off the land

[kobes]

[it’s not his tent – and therefore, logically, shouldn’t be any of his business – but koby has never let that stop him before, so why should it now? besides, he’d been keeping careful count of who’s new and who’s been in the house for a while, and he’s drawn a little map of who’s sleeping where and he’s holding a very official-looking clipboard, despite being dressed in black tie like everyone else (there’s a sweater vest involved, which is absurd for august).

so when he sees the unfamiliar person slip into a tent that he’s certain belongs to someone else, koby slows in his passing by, then clears his throat loudly. it’s not his business, but – if he can somehow help…]

Are you looking for something?

[buio]

(It's not his tent — neither of the names on the outside are masculine and the racks are all full of dresses, and Ptolemais is assuming but she feels confident in the assumption. Of course men can have feminine names and wear dresses, that isn't something she'd question, but what are the actual odds.

Feels safe enough to say,) Nah, (and keep going through the clothes.

You can go now, guy with— oh, shit, clipboard—

She freezes with a handful of dress.)

[kobes]

[koby waits until it registers, seeing the surprise in the wide-eyed look the stranger gives him, freezing like a cornered deer. when it comes, he offers a smile, nudging his glasses up his nose and nodding towards the racks of clothes.]

Ah, yes, the house seems to keep us very well-supplied. There’s plenty to choose from – though I can show you some of the communal wardrobe, if you’d rather not wear someone else’s.

[a very tactful, sideways way of saying, yes, i see you stealing, but i’m being tactful and polite about it. for the moment. koby’s a bit of a hall monitor with regards to rules, but he’s not unreasonable, especially with newcomers.]

[buio]

(The rabbit-quick sting of panic passes over and embarrassment takes its place, makes her face instantly hot and Ptolemais can tell she's going red. She balls up the dress she's holding, compacting it in her hands. It's obvious what this all looks like but she still attempts to ward him off from saying it plain, her fingers tight, caging the fabric.)

I'm not fucking stealing, okay. I'm — I just need it for the dinner. I'll bring it back after that.

(Like, who has to know? The person who owns this ridiculously beautiful dress is probably already at dinner and wearing an equally ridiculously beautiful dress and so she won't miss it, will she.)

goodbye to saltburn.

[wolven]

Jury's out.

[ But probably not. Eli's all lean, eyes bright but permanently half-lidded, lazy, awake only with syrupy attention. Simple shirt, worn jeans. Kind of looks like the type of guy to sleep in jeans, the muddy tread of his boots, the flannel worn-in over his shoulders. Not a lick of anything else on him: just the clothes on his back, teeth in his head.

Not his first time waking up somewhere new. Waking up to fire — arson, maybe — that's new. He doesn't much care for it. The smells scrape the back of his throat raw. Kind of what they teach girls to do in fairy tales, isn't it? Trap the monster inside. Set the place ablaze. ]

You got a pen in there?

[ Elias nods to the backpack over her shoulder. Briefly, a glut of flame roars along an outside trellis. Even at this distance from the house, it lights up both of them in profile, a flash of brighter-than-bright orange. ]

Not supposed to be able to write things down in dreams, [ He offers. There's a drag to his vowels, pitched like Montana, all Americana and sanded down through the dustbowl. ] Witch told me that once.

[buio]

(The accent doesn't make this any less like a dream, makes her want to laugh — guy sounds like a character in a movie, Zombieland or something. Where his vowels drag Ptolemais's are flat and fast. She speaks quick, almost mumbling.) Yeah, gimme a sec.

(The bag. It's definitely her bag because the zip is munted in the same place and the bag won't close up all the way, and there's that ink stain on the lower side where a pen bled through and got on the carpet in that old flat — staining it red, oddly macabre — but inside there's nothing underneath the balled up hoodie inside. Ptolemais drops the entire thing on the ground and crouches to make sure. She turns the fucking thing inside out.

Gone.)

... I did have one. (How are you supposed to see if you can write things down in dreams if you've got nothing to write with? She squints at him, still crouched.) Can your witch find my stuff?

[wolven]

Still got your soul on you?

[ Instead of crouching and meeting her where she's at, he stays standing. Peers down at her tipping things out, his mouth cutting into a lazy kind of smile. A joke that lands a little crooked, doled out from someone who doesn't have the social grease to make it stick. Him, upright; her, clothes and ink-stained bag at his feet. Change the set dressing, you'd make a picture. ]

I'm only teasin'. [ His boot shifts along the grass. The rounded tip nudges the end of her hoodie's sleeve, where it flops like the skin of a snake. ] I could find your stuff, long as it isn't in there.

[ Back in the fire, he means. He holds out a hand — palm-up, calloused, dirt underneath his fingernails — not out of some polite gesture, but to mean for the hoodie instead. Bloodhound bullshit's never really gotten his heart racing. Harder, still, to pick up a scent through the smell of smoke, but who really gives a fuck about finding a pen? He's had stranger dreams. Plenty animals do. ]

You wear that thing a lot?

[buio]

(Oh god she'd thought, dismal and accepting, he's one of those people, but he slips the assumption easy, holds out a hand for what she assumes is herself, bristles, realises he means the hoodie, bristles harder—)

Yeah. It's mine. (Really she copped it from an op-shop so it was somebody else's before it was hers, maybe somebody else's again before it was that person's. It came to her whatever-hand with a little hole in the cuff that she made bigger on purpose, to get her thumb all the way through it, to acknowledge the damage and make it hers. The only reason she hasn't got it on now is because she'd rather be cold than hot. Looking at the fire is overwhelming. Drives the temperature of the air up around them, maybe.

tl;dr he can't have the hoodie. She stands, pushes it slowly back into her bag to make the point real clear.)

I don't think I have anything else in there though. I dunno if I was in there to begin with. (Clothes don't smell like smoke. She doesn't remember waking up in a bed and stumbling out, or dressing in a haze, she opened her eyes and she was on the grass already looking. It's like somebody led her here with hands across her eyes, dropped them and disappeared.) I was in my own bed last night and now I'm here. And you too, I guess — who're you?