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

galīne "gilia" st. loe | original | new & new

[seaboard]

i. goodbye to saltburnt

cw: mild eldritch horror

She has never seen a fire get out of control, so quickly. Of course not, in a land of water-bonded fire was never the risk it was in other places.

But she does what she can, as much as she can. Reaching for the rushing water that ebbs in her soul to pour every bit she can out of her - into the burning flames. She can see others running, trying to get away, and they needed time.

Only - she feels disorientated from the smoke, the exhaustion of arriving so suddenly in a new place and yet not sure how she got here at all. The building is grand, but not her home, and she has no time to make sense of it as she stumbles forward, dressed in only her sleeping shift, and calls the water to her. It seemed to be called out from every tap and shower, every bath and drain, out under doors and the cracks in windows.

"Hold fast!" calls her voice, a sharp command that pitches shrilly.

And as the flames of this particular corridor reach further, she throws herself up, feet lifting off the ground, arms thrown wide, her long hair around her in a halo of golden curls. The water surges to lift her and then in a great crashing wave - rushes down the corridor in a torrent, sending flames hissing and spluttering as they're smothered down by the cascade of water that she sends forth. If she was focused on for a moment, she seemed to shift, something not completely human, a living coral reef that seemed trapped in a human form - and eyes, great and terrible eyes that seem to look out from deep inside of her that stare straight through any who stare too long. Not dangerous, yet, watching.

But every minute seems to weaken her. Until the power seems to sap out of her. She's done what she can to help, to stop the flames taking over here. Then she tumbles down, exhausted, feet back onto the floor, then stumbles sideways, dizzy, at a loss, it never took so much out of her. She found a wall and started to slide down it. Her shift wet and clinging, panting like she'd run a mile, and exhausted for it all.

ii. living off the land

cw: very sheltered woman is very sheltered, painfully awkward, a lot of body shame and ancient world confusion about modesty

All of this is terribly - terrible unseemly. She does not know who her "roommate" is, but it is not the chaperone befitting a woman of her station that much she was certain about from what she had seen so far.

Nor at the ... garments... anything she thinks anyone should be wearing outside. But they are, as yet in the chaos, the only things provided to her. Someone even seems to have noticed her affinity for the ocean after her little display, so it's even themed. Barely under garments, is what it is, and she has put it on because it is that or her nightgown which is drying over a chair since her powers seem to be lackluster at best. Worse is the thing - it does not fit her, that is surely the problem, her chest was much too big for something so tight.

( And there is a lot to contain, full and round, from chest to hips, that she has never been so aware of in her life).

Mortified beyond words, she instead settles for snatching a throw blanket in yet-another-shade-of-biege and - and wrapping it around herself like a cape. Then slowly beginning to inch her head out of the tent.

Until that means actually seeing another human being, of course, which is frankly at this time, just too much for her - she didn't even have her veils. Making a terrified shriek at the absolutely terrible crime of seeing her - she takes the edge of her shawl and whips at them with it, her petrified, squeaky and scandalized voice cracking to keep whatever of her dignity is left. "Lower your eyes!"

iii. scavenger hunt

cw: very sheltered woman is very sheltered cont. but coping a little better, aphro, but very virgin lmao

After some fussing and finally getting at least one whole dress (which is all rather ruined because those other things are definitely under garments, so she puts the dress over the top of them so that it all looks rather bulky rather than what its supposed too) that she could actually wear and not die of mortification, she does her best to be useful and avoid any of the activities that are on offer. But not all of them.

This one was just looking, and may some touch, it was not kissing or being forced to be blindfolded with a stranger.

She cheats, the simple way she can. It is not a scar or a freckle, no, she says that there is a hidden pearl, somewhere in her gown. Only the air and the mood of late has put her in a better mood about touching, that she has a sweet little smile and spill of giggles on her lips as she straightens out her legs where she sits, her hands braced on the cool grass, and gives a little nod that they can investigate the hem of her skirts or the cuff of her sleeves as they wish.

It isn't so hard to find, above her knee there is a garter tied in a simple band where the pearl is stitched into but will take some exploration to find.

ii, could be tent partners, i leave that up to you!

[angelhunter]

Hap can just about tolerate the nonsense going on around him: Portia and Giles, the threat of team-building exercises, the campfire fare. He can hold his tongue and play the good captive, because God knows the extent of these people's resources. What he can't abide is the outfit they provided him, a style of shorts he hasn't worn since he was a boy. They were of the time back then. Based on the other fashions around here, he's guessing they're now considered a cyclical trend, possibly retro. Either way, he's not wearing them.

He chooses instead to rotate the clothes he woke up in and those we was able to clutch to his chest as he escaped the manor. So it's in his pajama pants that he returns to his tent, shirt and slacks hanging to dry off one of the trees encircling the grounds. It's a little unbecoming to be walking around in bedclothes hours before turning in but it's the lesser evil, to him.

Not, as it seems, to her. Hap's glance had been passing. He didn't expect to be admonished for it, her swat freezing him in place.

"I'm sorry?" he chuckles, bemused. Hap doesn't lower his eyes — they remain steady on hers.

tent partners sound great!

[seaboard]

Like a cut flower in a vase left gone dry, she wilts like a sadden petal, sinking into herself. He did not seem to dreadful, all told. Just as startled as she was. Tossed out into the night like all the others.

"Forgive me, sir, you startled me so and - " she holds her blanket tighter to her chest. But it does nothing to cover her legs. " - they have given me undergarments, and barely that - and I have not my ladies or my brothers to chaperone me - I am unfitting for company." and like all women of good standing, by any means she must keep her dignity.

makes it so!

[angelhunter]

He's been doing his level best to wrap his head around how he got here, where here is, and what he could possibly have in common with the others here. A rational explanation felt within arm's reach for all three. That distance grows with every woebegotten word tumbling out of her mouth. Concerns of modesty are fair enough but ladies? Chaperones?

There is one thing he does know, zero help that it is. His eyes flick to the nearby chalkboard and back to her.

"You're Gilia?" he asks.

[seaboard]

Darting her eyes up, and to the board, then back, as if to be sure of just that information, she tries to keep his gaze as best she can.

Is it worth the rest, daring to say it? It was so shameful to be of her rank, and in such a position. Her mother would call down fire for this. But what else is there? This is where she was.

"I am, sir. Only - I do not know this manner at all. I am Lady Galīne of the Isle St. Loe, Second-Child and Daughter-Sea of my people, that... that is Queen Gilia to common tongue. Do forgive me this - this meeting. It is not how I am used to greeting anyone at all." Her face is burning with it, so uncomfortable to admit she is a Queen who is stuck like this. But she swallows down, and does her best to do something between a curtsey and a respectful bow of her head when robed in a ... blanket.

"You are... you are Master Hunter Percy?"

[angelhunter]

That's a lot to take in. A "yes" would have sufficed, but he's admittedly interested in the extravagant flourishes with which she gave it. He was driving down an empty highway. The woman he woke up beside claims to have been in the hangar of private jet. Gilia, if she's not completely mad, sounds like someone who would have been surrounded by people. How does someone like her get taken?

"Hap," he unburdens her of his full name, with a hint of self-effacement. "Just Hap. And I, uh," he gestures past her, "I left my glasses in there."

The smile he affects is apologetic. The last thing he wants is to spook a scream out of her and have to deal with an onslaught of chivalrous idiots.

[seaboard]

Mad was probably the easier thing to be right now. Then she wouldn't feel so miserable. With his indication, she looks behind where he is pointing. Oh, the seeing glass. Right, yes. She scuttles sideways to let him past. At least, for all her being startled, she is not tossing anything else at him.

Instead she aims for the camp bed, so he could get what he needed without her in the way. Taking small steps as she can to make sure the blanket stays around her, and tries to fold her long legs up under her. Much as she tries to make herself small, she is a tall woman and the blanket only covers so much, along with the clothes. There is pale warm skin shown in flashes as she adjusts, and the is that faint tinge of salt-air that seems to diffuse around her when she moves.

"I really must give my sincerest apologies, sir, it is not my nature, nor my wish to ever be so ill company or to have tossed something at you or spoken so sharply, but - I was just so startled, and you a stranger appearing so suddenly, and I do not know where I am - and they only gave me underclothes, and - I cannot see the ocean or feel it -"

Babbling again, Gilly, comes the scornful thought. Oh, oh no. She had been trying so hard to keep herself together, but there it was: the wet horrible tears that well up in her eyes. She turns her face away as hastily as she can, trying to stop them getting any further.

[angelhunter]

He waits a beat, in case she changes her mind, then gives an appreciative nod and enters. She seems less afraid of him than she is of her own poor etiquette. Naivety, he assumes. Hap doesn't mind it in this instance. It would be tedious to walk on eggshells to prove he has no intention to harm her. He can do that more easily and less disingenuously by simply not harming her. That requires nothing from him. He can't imagine any reason he would have to.

Hap crosses to pluck his glasses off a decorative pillow while Gilia starts to trip over her tongue. He puts them on and turns back to her, about to hush her as kindly as he can, right as she cuts herself off. Catching the strained flex of her throat, Hap flattens his lips and sighs through his nose.

Shutting his eyes, he gathers all the patience he has. She's scared, a reasonable reaction in their situation. (Couldn't she have done her weeping before he got here?) Maybe he can quell it before it consumes her to an unreasonable degree.

"Gilia," he tries, bringing his voice closer by a step. "It's alright. It's all weird, and obviously we don't want to be here, but you know what the most important thing is, to keep from losing your mind?"

[seaboard]

She makes a miserable little sniffle, trying to keep it together as best she can. Her fingers ring under the blankets, before turning her face up to him.

"No, sir, I fear I do not, shameful as it is to say."

[angelhunter]

"Sir" is starting to grate but now is not the time to let it get to him. He stays focused on the task of calming her down.

"It's other people." He takes another step and sweeps an arm toward the open flap of the tent, reminding her of how many of them there are. Many of them would probably say these words much softer than him, less like they're laying down a gentle fact that they themselves can't disguise their own fascination with. "The harshest conditions imaginable, the cruelest treatment — people can endure anything as long as they're not alone."

[seaboard]

How that lower lip trembles, as she meets his gaze. So utterly trusting, her eyes swimming but she blinks it back, nodding at him with belief in his word. He was being so kind and understanding despite all of this mess. She wiped her face as best she could, trying not to think about how controlled he was, calm and a cool handsomeness with it, to her fearful tears.

"You are right, thank you, Master Percy. I shall remember it as best I am able." The training was too ingrained to simply call someone by their first name after just meeting them.

Too long, and too afraid. "You are being so kind, I could not account for such good luck as that."

[angelhunter]

This is a much stronger impression than Hap had been planning to make on anyone. He's not resigned to his fate here, he's just playing it smart, acting like he is. Key to that is appreciating what you're given; Gilia's trust and admiration could count in that respect. He has to care what people think of him here, broadly if not in every interaction. He has nothing to his name except a single change of clothes. Reputation could be the first thing he's able to trade on.

After all, he knows one surefire way to get out of here and it requires cooperation.

Maintaining his smile takes barely any effort. She's fragile but she's easy to please. He could be paired with worse.

"You're not unkind yourself. And, you know, I don't think anyone's going to think less of you for," he indicates her tightly-clutched throw blanket, "whatever it is you're wearing."

While it's impossible not to notice her shapely legs, he's adamant to keep them in his periphery. Of note, he tells himself, because she looks lithe. Fit enough to dance.

[seaboard]

She takes a brief look down at herself under the blankets, and winces again before she lets it lower again a little bit more. Exposing at least her shoulders, bare as they were, as she let her hands settle more into her lap.

"Well... as long as you do not laugh, I suppose I can endure for a little while." She tried even, to smile, to shake off the shock of the night. "I can make the beds up for us, if you can promise not to be too appalled by it?"

[angelhunter]

Her attempt to preserve her dignity has the opposite effect. Baring just her shoulders compels him to imagine there's nothing at all under the blanket. He's not proud of that. Hap swallows and at last lowers his eyes, as she asked of him minutes past. A laugh surely would have been less uncouth.

"No, no, of course not." He waves off her trepidation. "Go ahead."

It might ground her, having something to do. He'd lend a hand but that blanket is sure to slip and he's really trying not to be a dirty old man, and frustrated that he has to try in the first place.

[seaboard]

She straightens up, and goes to stand up again, and leaves him to sort his own tending as she finally manages to unwind herself little by little. He will not be untoward, she's sure.

And so shuffling over to the camp beds they'd been given, her back to him, she takes a deep breath to steel herself because there was nothing for it, and lets the blanket go so she can make them up. Which - she isn't naked underneath. But it isn't much, the wispy thin fabric that was not really meant to cover anyone with as full a figure as hers is taut across her chest, around her hips - exposing her entire mid section. It does what it's supposed to, look enticing and offer teasing glimpses, granted. Whether they were wanted or needed was another matter.

But she does her best not to think about it as she kneels and bends to start making the beds up, curls falling everywhere as she works. Unwinding the sleeping bag zips, fluffing the pillows for his bed and then hers. There is a habit and practise to the motions that lets her forget that she's in barely anything.

Once it's done, she manages to smile as she stands up. The throw blanket tossed over the bed now. In easy reach if someone else came in, but put aside for the time being. "I know there are some supplies they granted us. But I know not what any of them are for. I think I saw some drinks in them?"

cw a touch of casual misogyny

[angelhunter]

Hap turns, standing sidelong to her. Staring at the featureless beige cotton of the tent wall, he goes over what she told him about herself. She comes from an island so it fits that she misses the sea. It played some part in her formal title, too, though half of it went in one ear and out the other. He remembers St. Loe, not merely her surname. As a place, it doesn't ring any bells. And he remembers that she said she's a queen, though when admitting that her behavior doesn't contradict that, it takes the form of the thought that she's acts as sheltered as a princess.

A princess one might read about in a fairy tale or a history book. Not a modern day royal.

He's missing something. That's a feeling that's been frustrating him to the point of anger, but here it's enticing. Harmless curiosity comes as much needed relief. Without thinking, Hap glances over to see how she's doing, and the sight of her is gut-wrenching in its softness. He looks away, wipes his mouth. Rapidly, his mind runs in an unconscious circle: it's not Gilia, he's thinking of someone else, someone who doesn't deserve to have his thoughts granted to her, so then it is Gilia. She's been nothing but sweet and accommodating.

It's an ugly journey that ends at an uncomfortable destination. Hap drags his mind back to the puzzle, the where and when of Gilia, rather than the what. He's reasonably composed by the time she speaks up, work her innocent inquiry might unspool if not for the repulsive idea of drinking massage oil.

Gaze flicking to the gift bag and back to her, he says, "Those aren't drinks. They're massage oils." Another tick for the sheltered column. He might have to amend that to extremely sheltered. "Would you like a drink? I can go and get you one."

He could use one himself.

[seaboard]

"Oh-!" And for a second she is young as she seems, not so worried or trying to be composed, as she laughs. A melodic, happy sound as she realised her mistake. "They looked like a wine, I thought them something else entirely! How silly I must seem. Massage oils? How queer, we have not a bathouse or maids to tend us."

She continues to smile, shaking her head. "I could certainly use a drink, if you were amendable. I think we all could." Thay little sweet smile stays there. "Especially something strong, if they have it. It certainly feels deserved, doesnt it? After such a dreadful night."

open to aphro or any fun and funny effects

[angelhunter]

Her laughter pulls a smile out of him, warm and unconsidered. She still doesn't entirely get it but that's likely not her fault. Once upon a time, ignorance was akin to purity for women of high standing. If it is her choice, she'll be wise to reevaluate.

"Something strong," he agrees, and departs without further ado. Romance is encouraged around here. He assumes correctly that he won't draw any ire by taking a bottle of Merlot as long as it's paired with two glasses.

That's another aspect of this that doesn't add up. Encouraging intimacy. It's sensible to let them socialize; he meant what he told Gilia about the benefits of company. Allowing them to fraternize invites risk upon risk, from infection to insurrection.

But it's also dangerous to let them drink and he's not going to raise any complaints about that.

Returning, Hap steps back through the tent flap and leaves it open for Gilia's comfort. Like the forks and knives at dinner, Portia's guests are trusted with the corkscrews. He offers her the glasses and swaps the wine opener in his grip to uncork the bottle.

"So," he asks as he's ready to pour, "what do you make of everything else in there?" A jerk of his chin towards the gift bag.

yesss, definitely down for all silliness.

[seaboard]

In the mean time, she goes about trying to make the entire tent nicer. Whether they like it or not, apparently, they are stuck here, and closer than is proper but - that is just how it is! Or so she insists to herself. More pillows, maybe, alright, making a little pile of them to be able to sit against. It will be like being on pilgrimage, that is all. Digging into the box of supplies, she finds the candles, and quickly goes about lighting them, having no clue what their affects might be, but it is a warmer, more pleasant light for them, surely.

So when he comes back, its a sight more cozy and comfortable for them both. Something like where someone might live. But that was the way she knew, to make things comfortable, and to tend - so she defaults to it now.

Settled on her bed, she has her hair roped over her shoulder beginning the long process of detangling the mess of curls. Stopping only to take the glass from him. The air was sweet now from the candles. "Hard to say, I saw so little of the house, and my efforts were to call on my gifts to put out the flames." Once her glass is full, she brings it to her lips with a brief sigh of appreciation at the drink. "But they are clearly in good standing to be granted such a great house." That went without saying. "Yet so many guests, and not enough servants? All this land and nothing farmed upon it? Where are their tenet farmers?"

It was curious, to say the least. Where did all this food and drink and tents, come from?

[angelhunter]

Hap hadn't found particular fault in the tent before, yet finds it much improved. The candles, despite the cringeworthy names, do in fact smell pleasant. He might have eventually piled the pillows up comfortably enough but Gilia's arranged them with a welcoming mindfulness. He sits down cross-legged in the seat she's made of them, her glass full and his following shortly after. Years ago, he would have creaked a little. He's practiced the Movements for so long now, bending his body into the same peculiar forms over and over again, that he's looser at fifty-four than he was at forty-nine.

Content to skip a toast, he has a reserved pull while she lays out her conclusions. Her impressions aren't wrong. Her concerns, however, are antiquated.

"I don't know about good standing. It looks like they've just got more money than they know what to do with."

[seaboard]

Now that she was a better mood to look at him, it was much easier to admire him. A handsome, clever man, by the look. No worker, a scholar perhaps, since he gave no title. But be moved well, how very fitting. Even that reserved nature felt right, in the land such as hers that were famed for their lack of cheer on a good day.

She sat down her glass as she got back to work detangling. Too well trained to give much of her true feeling at the thought of merchants hoarding wealth. Instead for the middle road she was taught to take. Neither here nor there, observations danced around directly. "I am sure they simply amass what is needed in other times. For them to have so many tents, they must not be called on for farming or military, but more jovial affairs." There are parts in hidden. That it could be they had no sense or trust in duty, or were corrupt in some way. But from her tongue? No.

You never knew who was listening.

"They are generous, and that can never be discounted, naturally." She pulled at a stubborn knot, and sighed. Then nodding past him to the basket she left that side: "Could you pass the oil you mentioned? I fear the running freely has made a mess of me, it needs some help."

And she certainly as a lot of hair. A big mess of curls that were currently wild in every direction. "And your assistance if I may be so bold, it is hard to get the ones at the top without a mirror." A mournful little sigh follows.

[angelhunter]

Hap reads between the lines, quirking his head slightly as his understanding of her deepens. Not naive in all things, Gilia St. Loe. Despite sharing the same circumstances as everyone else around here, she holds her own opinion in high esteem. As if anyone would care what she thinks; as if he could do anything meaningful with a flippant remark made in confidence.

Those thoughts of hers might hold value someday. He's not convinced just because she's divinely ordained. But he does owe their hosts even less than he owes her. That's as good as giving her the benefit of the doubt for now. He'll bank on her guile while there's nothing to lose.

It's not the only noteworthy insight she's offered. He doubts the gifts she mentioned were an attempt to fight fire with domestic arts. It's with a keenness to learn more that he acquiesces to her request, perturbed by the intimacy of it for no other reason than the about-face it represents. Hospitality really does put her at ease. Another sip of wine, then Hap sets his glass safely to the side and fetches the oils. Their names aren't quite as obnoxiously figurative as the candles. Soaring Citrus, Almond Haze, Tropical Escape. Hap opts for the last scent, thinking there might be some sea salt element to it, but God only knows.

Uncapping it, he pours a small amount into his palm, before proffering the bottle to her.

"I'll do my best. You let me know if I tug on something."

Apologies for any mistakes I'm phone taggin

[seaboard]

"You cannot be worse than my sisters, I promise. They have not a bit of patience." Easy with the familiar motions, she dips her head to let him work on the little tangle higher up on her head.

And does her level best to not think about that this is the only time a man that is not her family has been close to her.

Instead keeps busy working on the lower one. "Where is it you hail from, sir? I know most of the Isles from my study? Who are your people?"

It's just casual chatter, and her tone bellies it. Not prying deliberately, just comfortable talk.

no worries, i'm familiar with the struggle

[angelhunter]

Hap can do casual chatter. People at ease share more and she's proven she can be withholding.

Rubbing his hands to coat them in oil, stirring up the scent with warmth, it's doesn't call to mind how he pictures St. Loe: a cold, rocky Northern island. High cliffs, brine and rotting boathouses. But there is a brisk edge to its brighter notes, keeping them in line. A definitively marine undercurrent.

"America," he says, true. "Illinois." Lie. He went to medical school there. He was from there once.

At the crown of her head, he begins by sussing out the loosest tangles between the more tenacious ones. Gentle but firm fingertips pry one unmanageable nest apart into several smaller knots, following the shape of the curls instead of fighting them.

i. goodbye to saltburnt

[temporicide]

Roza's whole being is attenuated to magic in the way sunflowers are to light, or earth to its solar orbit, or, indeed, tides to moon; she would have quickly found this person, she imagines, even if she weren't in the form she comes, which is as a spirit herself, split from a body asleep somewhere on the dry lawn. Roza appears to be mostly solid, but these tricks of the light and mind are deceptive, and at angles her partial translucence is revealed. Her voice is itself a deliberate act of psychic conveyance, and sometimes disconnects by milliseconds from the movement of her mouth. It's eerie. But like this, she is calmer, and her neophyte spirit is less shielded, making her more useful and unbound by her normal proclivities toward sentimentality. Her spirit's astral energy is palpable, both in reference to her shape, projected, and its provenance, which rises somewhere above the ostensible Earth they inhabit.

She willingly meets the eyes of something that also lives beyond its apparent body, in the long-limbed shape of a girl. This is almost familiar. Said shapes are in some respects opposites, but the pulse of what in lieu of who, the years that come in deluges instead of measurable decades —

Even beyond the tremendous show of oceanic force, there is something there that Roza finds strange in the ways it shouldn't be strange, like this is the kind of thing she's meant to see, not shopping centers and televisions and all the relentless cocaine that flows through Saltburnt's esteemed halls. Like home, where the sea is coldest, cracking thick slabs of ice open in summers like these, you find things you don't expect under the depths. Whole species, mostly-whole stories.

Roza finds this particular time inopportune to press forth with her psychic interest to investigate, or to (rather more politely) ask questions about the nature of the hidden beast, so she does neither. Instead she crouches down next to the woman of the waves and keeps her eyes on hers, intent and even, as she can only ever be when free from the demands of her physical form. Her spirit achieves true motionlessness. No breathing. Not a single strand of black hair affected by air or water.

"You wanna get out of here?"

Now she moves, head tilting tellingly toward the nearest exit.