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draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
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ππππ ππππ πππππππ ππππ ππ πππ ππππ β£ AUGUST TDM
AUGUST 2025 TDM: BALANCE
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember β dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using Β« NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT
CONTENT WARNINGS: house fire.
The day starts much like any other βΒ at least in the first few moments of consciousness, chased to morning light by the pounding of a hangover, the sweaty night terrors soaking your sheets, or the scent of breakfast on the rise through the house. Well, it seems someone must've burnt the bacon, now that your nose wakes you up, which is highly unusual for the skilled chefs here at Saltburnt. Flutter your eyes open and see a pillowy cloud of smoke filtering under your door, something that manages to finally alert you to the danger you're in. Out in the hallway, flames lick up the walls, smoke and ash burning your eyes. The next move is obvious: grab whatever you can carry and get out, as quick as you can. It seems that place you've called home for a day or a year is going up in flames.
Outside, flames engulf one wing of the huge manor, invaluable trinkets laid out on the lawn from the help, usually invisible, running in and out to grab what they can spare from the flames. Of course, people offer their helpful services β tending to burns and smoke inhalation, trying to put out the fire from whatever means they have, be it buckets of water stolen from the lake, or magical prowess from the population of guests. Regardless, the fire rages, and only manages to cease when about half of the house has been burnt down to structurally questionable bones, ashy remains, and the occasional falling cinder of burnt wood.
Before the mess, the Balfours stand in a range of different emotions βΒ irritation from Bunny, paranoia from Rosie. The only one who manages to attempt to find a silver lining is Portia, whose plastic smile twitches around her watery eyes, hand cinched in an iron grip around Jonty's. There's a pleading look in her eyes for all of a moment before the patriarch of the family springs (more, dustily sways) into action, calling forth, "Giles!"
The man in question appears, soot-coated and harrowed, yet still immaculately well put together, bowing slightly at the waist. "Sir?"
"The β" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."
A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."
The day starts much like any other βΒ at least in the first few moments of consciousness, chased to morning light by the pounding of a hangover, the sweaty night terrors soaking your sheets, or the scent of breakfast on the rise through the house. Well, it seems someone must've burnt the bacon, now that your nose wakes you up, which is highly unusual for the skilled chefs here at Saltburnt. Flutter your eyes open and see a pillowy cloud of smoke filtering under your door, something that manages to finally alert you to the danger you're in. Out in the hallway, flames lick up the walls, smoke and ash burning your eyes. The next move is obvious: grab whatever you can carry and get out, as quick as you can. It seems that place you've called home for a day or a year is going up in flames.
Outside, flames engulf one wing of the huge manor, invaluable trinkets laid out on the lawn from the help, usually invisible, running in and out to grab what they can spare from the flames. Of course, people offer their helpful services β tending to burns and smoke inhalation, trying to put out the fire from whatever means they have, be it buckets of water stolen from the lake, or magical prowess from the population of guests. Regardless, the fire rages, and only manages to cease when about half of the house has been burnt down to structurally questionable bones, ashy remains, and the occasional falling cinder of burnt wood.
Before the mess, the Balfours stand in a range of different emotions βΒ irritation from Bunny, paranoia from Rosie. The only one who manages to attempt to find a silver lining is Portia, whose plastic smile twitches around her watery eyes, hand cinched in an iron grip around Jonty's. There's a pleading look in her eyes for all of a moment before the patriarch of the family springs (more, dustily sways) into action, calling forth, "Giles!"
The man in question appears, soot-coated and harrowed, yet still immaculately well put together, bowing slightly at the waist. "Sir?"
"The β" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."
A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."
LIVING OFF THE LAND
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes.
By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken β¦ liberties with the lawn decor. Aside from a brief intermission spent sobbing at the manor's scorched stonework, the lady of the manor does what she does best (in Portia's very modest opinion): she beautifies. Gone is the sad, sad state of all that empty sprawling green; what stands in its place is an encampment of tents stretching from the gardens to the forest boundary. And not your mother's backyard camping equipment, either β that would be so terribly basic and blase, darling. They're much more exciting than that. Fresh out of the imagination of someone who clearly consolidated ideas from flipping through a Martha Stewart Magazine and browsing Coachella's website, the bell tents (100% cotton, Portia is too happy to share with you) come in a lovely selection of colors. Beige, buff, biscuit, oatmeal, fawn. And Portia's personal favorites: the chartreuse, and a shade that closely resembles bile.
At your look of confusion, or distress, or perhaps distinct horror, Portia announces, with a stiff smile to rival a fresh dosage of Botox: "It's fine. It's fine! I wanted an excuse to finally redecorate, anyway. We'll justβ we'll make a retreat out of it, my lovelies."
Well, where else are you going to go? Outside of each tent, Giles and his fellow staff have taken the time to generously assign you and your former suitemate to a shared tent, your names scribbled together in obnoxiously joyful cursive on a bright chalkboard. Just in case your amateur eyes can't distinguish between beige and oatmeal. Of course, mistakes are made. You can't possibly expect the housestaff to remember all of your names, or who you've shared space with before the "Little Setback", as Portia has taken to calling it. Some of you might find yourselves paired up with the wrong partner in the mix-up and reshuffling of housing arrangements, while others β without suitemates, or freshly arrived β find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.
Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that β while the interior is positively spacious β some concessions had to be made. Namely: there is, in fact, only one bed. Or, in your case, only one sleeping bag. Designed to lovingly cradle two bodies in disturbingly close proximity, your organic, artisan cashmere sleeping bag comes with only a narrowed zipper for entry and one built-in memory foam pillow, so you can meditate by listening to your partner's breathing at all times. Portia's private DJ turned ex-fling turned self-proclaimed intimacy coach, Ezio, insists it helps you and your partner connect to the same emotional frequency for maximum bonding. Whatever that means.
Luckily, not all of your belongings were unsalvageable. Giles has painstakingly begun the process of transferring supplies into your tent, from changes of clothes to personal effects to underwear you're 70% sure belong to another resident. Among them, you'll find both a camp counselor uniform that looks like it was pulled off the rack from an adult novelty shop, and a pair of athletic short-shorts and white tank tops for your scheduled summertime activities.
The generosity doesn't end there β with Ezio's advice, Portia has arranged a gift bag for each tent, meant to strengthen ties amongst the House's residents. What better time to connect than in the wake of such a tragedy? Inside, guests will find: a guided erotic meditation track, mood-boosting meditative candles in scents such as Nag Champa and Afternoon Scrapbooking, a set of silk ribbons with slogans reading Surrender and Trust, heated massage oils marked for tension release, an ergonomically-shaped crystal pleasure wand sculpted from Rose Quartz meant for "grounding and release", silicone bands for your, ahem, instrument to help harness your "root chakra", and a guided positions manual for Kama Sutra with Portia's favorites meticulously circled. Happy healing!
No summer camp trip would be complete without activities. Ezio, allergic to wearing anything that isn't a breathable speedo, leads a series of trust-building exercises. A blindfolded obstacle course, set up with chairs hauled down from the attic as well as pool noodles and cardboard boxes, requires one partner to lead the other successfully to the end. Ezio's twist? You can only direct your partner through sincere, heartfelt compliments in the vein of, "you look so pretty when you're confused." If you lose patience and swear, you're forced to mandatorily hug each other β medically effective to reduce your blood pressure! For the detail-oriented, there's the Human Scavenger Hunt. Sitting in meditative circles, you're given a list of clues to find on your partner's body, ranging from locating the part of their skin that's softest to finding their ticklish points. That birthmark on your buttcheek will come to light. For the more athletically inclined, there's the honeyspoon race β with your mouth as the spoon. It's your job to transfer as much honey as you can into your partner's mouth without spilling. Or perhaps you'd prefer less mouth-to-mouth contact in the piggyback race, or a vanilla and traditional game of Tug of War, or even Bunny Balfour's strange rendition of Jason at Camp Crystal Lake. Those of you who can't outrun the killer get helped to a nice dousing of red food coloring you can cleanse off in the communal showers positioned at the treeline, with nothing blocking the rest of the camp's view of your natural assets.
Mealtimes are rigidly run as scheduled by Giles' demand, though the Balfours' menu is rather limited to simpler cuisine this month. Toad in a Hole, Angels on Horseback, Bubbles and Squeak, and what looks to be a charming attempt at S'mores served on digestive biscuits β all dutifully charred over a campfire and served with a variety of fine vintages spared from the worst of the flames. And if you come underdressed for the occasion? "We dress for dinner," Portia remarks from her place at the head of a honey-oaked picnic bench, overlage sunglasses shielding her eyes. You get the impression she's looking down her nose at your choice of wardrobe, anyway. "Black tie. No exceptions."
Eat up, gather your energy; you'll need it for what comes next.
By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken β¦ liberties with the lawn decor. Aside from a brief intermission spent sobbing at the manor's scorched stonework, the lady of the manor does what she does best (in Portia's very modest opinion): she beautifies. Gone is the sad, sad state of all that empty sprawling green; what stands in its place is an encampment of tents stretching from the gardens to the forest boundary. And not your mother's backyard camping equipment, either β that would be so terribly basic and blase, darling. They're much more exciting than that. Fresh out of the imagination of someone who clearly consolidated ideas from flipping through a Martha Stewart Magazine and browsing Coachella's website, the bell tents (100% cotton, Portia is too happy to share with you) come in a lovely selection of colors. Beige, buff, biscuit, oatmeal, fawn. And Portia's personal favorites: the chartreuse, and a shade that closely resembles bile.
At your look of confusion, or distress, or perhaps distinct horror, Portia announces, with a stiff smile to rival a fresh dosage of Botox: "It's fine. It's fine! I wanted an excuse to finally redecorate, anyway. We'll justβ we'll make a retreat out of it, my lovelies."
Well, where else are you going to go? Outside of each tent, Giles and his fellow staff have taken the time to generously assign you and your former suitemate to a shared tent, your names scribbled together in obnoxiously joyful cursive on a bright chalkboard. Just in case your amateur eyes can't distinguish between beige and oatmeal. Of course, mistakes are made. You can't possibly expect the housestaff to remember all of your names, or who you've shared space with before the "Little Setback", as Portia has taken to calling it. Some of you might find yourselves paired up with the wrong partner in the mix-up and reshuffling of housing arrangements, while others β without suitemates, or freshly arrived β find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.
Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that β while the interior is positively spacious β some concessions had to be made. Namely: there is, in fact, only one bed. Or, in your case, only one sleeping bag. Designed to lovingly cradle two bodies in disturbingly close proximity, your organic, artisan cashmere sleeping bag comes with only a narrowed zipper for entry and one built-in memory foam pillow, so you can meditate by listening to your partner's breathing at all times. Portia's private DJ turned ex-fling turned self-proclaimed intimacy coach, Ezio, insists it helps you and your partner connect to the same emotional frequency for maximum bonding. Whatever that means.
Luckily, not all of your belongings were unsalvageable. Giles has painstakingly begun the process of transferring supplies into your tent, from changes of clothes to personal effects to underwear you're 70% sure belong to another resident. Among them, you'll find both a camp counselor uniform that looks like it was pulled off the rack from an adult novelty shop, and a pair of athletic short-shorts and white tank tops for your scheduled summertime activities.
The generosity doesn't end there β with Ezio's advice, Portia has arranged a gift bag for each tent, meant to strengthen ties amongst the House's residents. What better time to connect than in the wake of such a tragedy? Inside, guests will find: a guided erotic meditation track, mood-boosting meditative candles in scents such as Nag Champa and Afternoon Scrapbooking, a set of silk ribbons with slogans reading Surrender and Trust, heated massage oils marked for tension release, an ergonomically-shaped crystal pleasure wand sculpted from Rose Quartz meant for "grounding and release", silicone bands for your, ahem, instrument to help harness your "root chakra", and a guided positions manual for Kama Sutra with Portia's favorites meticulously circled. Happy healing!
No summer camp trip would be complete without activities. Ezio, allergic to wearing anything that isn't a breathable speedo, leads a series of trust-building exercises. A blindfolded obstacle course, set up with chairs hauled down from the attic as well as pool noodles and cardboard boxes, requires one partner to lead the other successfully to the end. Ezio's twist? You can only direct your partner through sincere, heartfelt compliments in the vein of, "you look so pretty when you're confused." If you lose patience and swear, you're forced to mandatorily hug each other β medically effective to reduce your blood pressure! For the detail-oriented, there's the Human Scavenger Hunt. Sitting in meditative circles, you're given a list of clues to find on your partner's body, ranging from locating the part of their skin that's softest to finding their ticklish points. That birthmark on your buttcheek will come to light. For the more athletically inclined, there's the honeyspoon race β with your mouth as the spoon. It's your job to transfer as much honey as you can into your partner's mouth without spilling. Or perhaps you'd prefer less mouth-to-mouth contact in the piggyback race, or a vanilla and traditional game of Tug of War, or even Bunny Balfour's strange rendition of Jason at Camp Crystal Lake. Those of you who can't outrun the killer get helped to a nice dousing of red food coloring you can cleanse off in the communal showers positioned at the treeline, with nothing blocking the rest of the camp's view of your natural assets.
Mealtimes are rigidly run as scheduled by Giles' demand, though the Balfours' menu is rather limited to simpler cuisine this month. Toad in a Hole, Angels on Horseback, Bubbles and Squeak, and what looks to be a charming attempt at S'mores served on digestive biscuits β all dutifully charred over a campfire and served with a variety of fine vintages spared from the worst of the flames. And if you come underdressed for the occasion? "We dress for dinner," Portia remarks from her place at the head of a honey-oaked picnic bench, overlage sunglasses shielding her eyes. You get the impression she's looking down her nose at your choice of wardrobe, anyway. "Black tie. No exceptions."
Eat up, gather your energy; you'll need it for what comes next.
TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK
CONTENT WARNINGS: emeto, slight body horror, potential character death, fuck or die.
While you were all asleep in your spacious tents and unspacious sleeping bags, the maze has shifted form, spreading its sections along the entire grounds of the house. You wake from what should be the end of your glamping spree already lost in a part of the sprawling labyrinth, maybe with your tent-mate, or the person you spent the night with, or someone completely new. Youβre only sure of one thing β it seems like youβve suddenly developed a pesky case of allergies. It starts with an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation that crawls over your entire body as you start to move. Sweat dampens your clothes despite the towering blossoms offering a rather pleasant shade from the sun, and soon your teeth are chattering with chills. So maybe youβve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, itβs probably nothing you havenβt dealt with before, and it wonβt stop you from finding your way out of the maze.
The natural thought would be to utilize your own skillset to escape, but you quickly realize that using any magical abilities yields no results upon the thick foliage β or at least you think thereβs no effect. If you try to use fire to burn down a part of the maze, not only does it not work for you, but now, in a part of the maze opposite to you, there are burning flames that other house guests will have to get past. Being big and bad, in this case, means youβre probably just an asshole now. As you stumble through the maze, you encounter more and more magical obstacles that you might begin to recognize as coming from your own friends. Looks like everyoneβs desperate to get out, and youβre only making things worse. (If your character tries to use their magic, please submit it here, so others can play with it!)
Speaking of worse, those allergies are swiftly advancing into a full blown infection from β you guessed it β the foliage of the maze itself. The constant reproducing and shifting is caused by THE BOGWOOD BLIGHT, evident by the dark lesions spotting the plant stems, and white, fuzzy spores clinging to the undersides of the leaves. Your symptoms progress into searing pain as flowers, branches, and thorns begin to grow inside of you, your vomit coming up bloody and thick with masses of dead leaves. Young vines and tiny flowers seem to spool out from your own hair, curling around your throat if you donβt keep up with tearing them out. Hallucinations plague your mind, sharp desire both violent and sexual permeating your senses and threatening to push all other reasonable thoughts out.
It would be easy to succumb to this sickness, to let your base instincts fight or fuck one another until youβre all hopelessly lost and doomed to a certain death in the labyrinth. But there is a way out, for those who can hold on to their sanity and bear through the pain: participate in the trials, and earn your freedom.
These trials? Nothing like the fun and games of a night camping beneath the stars. The verdant landscape of the neatly trimmed maze has become flush with deadly obstacles, and itβs up to you to get past them all. Naturally, your first instinct is to grab your trusty iPhone and reach out to your closest and most trusted companions β but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into Iβm glad to finally be rid of you. Trying to reunite with a loved one throws you for another loop when you finally do find them β three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you theyβre the real one. In order to reveal the truth and continue your journey along the maze, drive a thorn into one of their hearts. Hope you know your lovers well. Maybe a little physical touch will help?
The maze might break into a small clearing for you, a wide open space with checkerboarded grass filling from one edge of the field to the other β two different tones of the same haunted green pervasive through the labyrinth. Certain spaces are occupied by expertly crafted hedges to resemble all the familiar pieces to a chess board, while the Kings are left empty, awaiting you and an opponent. Take your positions, or wait for a stranger to stumble upon you, if you were unlucky enough to face the maze by yourself, and play the game according to all ordinary rules of chess. Following a checkmate, you have the option of how youβll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how theyβll claim it over you β a slap or a kiss will suffice, to earn your win. Strangely, physical touch seems to relieve the worst of your allergies. These things do have a way of escalating, donβt they? Best to keep your wits about you.
For those of you prone to clumsiness, youβre probably doomed already, but the viper pits are an easy trap for even the most seasoned of the bunch. Take one step, and the ground gives way beneath your feet, plunging you into a dark, flinty hole in the earth. The injuries you might have sustained on the way down are the least of your worries. Inside the pervasive darkness of the pit, itβs time to face your vipers β that is, your worst fears seem to press in on you, terror blooming in your very bones until your own nauseating dread is all you can feel. Maybe it's actual vipers, or rough waters pulling you down, or a thousand razors cutting your skin βΒ the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe youβll be lucky enough to have a friend risk it all to help you out, but you can always just save yourself, clawing to the top while your greatest fears weigh you down.
If you manage to avoid the pits, theyβre not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and youβll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style β and these vines like to fondle and grope, ramping up the sexual side of your infection symptoms. The only way to get free? Turn to someone else struggling in the vine trap and get frisky β or let the vines turn from pleasure to true pain as they slowly squeeze the life out of you. Orgasm or die. It's a pretty easy choice, isn't it?
Just when you think itβs the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, youβre lucky enough to happen upon a water source β one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, youβre parched enough to drink deep despite the possibility of bird shit floating around. As you crouch over the water, your reflection stares back at you β only itβs either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear youβve already become. Once you catch your reflectionβs eye, youβre caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the waterβs depths. The bird bath overflows, the pond turns dark and bottomless, and the gilded fountain statues laugh at your plight as you struggle to keep yourself from drowning. Time to face those ugly truths about yourself β fast.
After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end β a narrow pathway lined with thorn-filled hedges, too thick and solid to pry through. The only way forward is onto the path. Luckily, a piece of bright hope shimmers before you β a single strand of golden thread, hopefully leading you out into the world once more. You step onto the path, following the glimmering thread, and it seems like all is well until the moment someone enters the path behind you. The hedges rush toward you, brutally narrowing the space as thorns dig into your flesh and rip fresh wounds across your body. Looks like only one of you can complete this painfully claustrophobic trial at a time, and the other has to watch your slow and bloody suffering, waiting for the moment the walls part and you can rejoin your love without consequence. Better hurry to get there. Theyβre going to need some patching up once theyβre done.
As you escape the stifling thorns, finally emerging on the other side and collapsing with relief to be free and hopefully to get some help for your worsening illness, you realize with a sick drop of your stomach that you havenβt made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfourβs beloved Minotaur statue should beβ¦ only itβs nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.
While you were all asleep in your spacious tents and unspacious sleeping bags, the maze has shifted form, spreading its sections along the entire grounds of the house. You wake from what should be the end of your glamping spree already lost in a part of the sprawling labyrinth, maybe with your tent-mate, or the person you spent the night with, or someone completely new. Youβre only sure of one thing β it seems like youβve suddenly developed a pesky case of allergies. It starts with an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation that crawls over your entire body as you start to move. Sweat dampens your clothes despite the towering blossoms offering a rather pleasant shade from the sun, and soon your teeth are chattering with chills. So maybe youβve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, itβs probably nothing you havenβt dealt with before, and it wonβt stop you from finding your way out of the maze.
The natural thought would be to utilize your own skillset to escape, but you quickly realize that using any magical abilities yields no results upon the thick foliage β or at least you think thereβs no effect. If you try to use fire to burn down a part of the maze, not only does it not work for you, but now, in a part of the maze opposite to you, there are burning flames that other house guests will have to get past. Being big and bad, in this case, means youβre probably just an asshole now. As you stumble through the maze, you encounter more and more magical obstacles that you might begin to recognize as coming from your own friends. Looks like everyoneβs desperate to get out, and youβre only making things worse. (If your character tries to use their magic, please submit it here, so others can play with it!)
Speaking of worse, those allergies are swiftly advancing into a full blown infection from β you guessed it β the foliage of the maze itself. The constant reproducing and shifting is caused by THE BOGWOOD BLIGHT, evident by the dark lesions spotting the plant stems, and white, fuzzy spores clinging to the undersides of the leaves. Your symptoms progress into searing pain as flowers, branches, and thorns begin to grow inside of you, your vomit coming up bloody and thick with masses of dead leaves. Young vines and tiny flowers seem to spool out from your own hair, curling around your throat if you donβt keep up with tearing them out. Hallucinations plague your mind, sharp desire both violent and sexual permeating your senses and threatening to push all other reasonable thoughts out.
It would be easy to succumb to this sickness, to let your base instincts fight or fuck one another until youβre all hopelessly lost and doomed to a certain death in the labyrinth. But there is a way out, for those who can hold on to their sanity and bear through the pain: participate in the trials, and earn your freedom.
These trials? Nothing like the fun and games of a night camping beneath the stars. The verdant landscape of the neatly trimmed maze has become flush with deadly obstacles, and itβs up to you to get past them all. Naturally, your first instinct is to grab your trusty iPhone and reach out to your closest and most trusted companions β but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into Iβm glad to finally be rid of you. Trying to reunite with a loved one throws you for another loop when you finally do find them β three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you theyβre the real one. In order to reveal the truth and continue your journey along the maze, drive a thorn into one of their hearts. Hope you know your lovers well. Maybe a little physical touch will help?
The maze might break into a small clearing for you, a wide open space with checkerboarded grass filling from one edge of the field to the other β two different tones of the same haunted green pervasive through the labyrinth. Certain spaces are occupied by expertly crafted hedges to resemble all the familiar pieces to a chess board, while the Kings are left empty, awaiting you and an opponent. Take your positions, or wait for a stranger to stumble upon you, if you were unlucky enough to face the maze by yourself, and play the game according to all ordinary rules of chess. Following a checkmate, you have the option of how youβll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how theyβll claim it over you β a slap or a kiss will suffice, to earn your win. Strangely, physical touch seems to relieve the worst of your allergies. These things do have a way of escalating, donβt they? Best to keep your wits about you.
For those of you prone to clumsiness, youβre probably doomed already, but the viper pits are an easy trap for even the most seasoned of the bunch. Take one step, and the ground gives way beneath your feet, plunging you into a dark, flinty hole in the earth. The injuries you might have sustained on the way down are the least of your worries. Inside the pervasive darkness of the pit, itβs time to face your vipers β that is, your worst fears seem to press in on you, terror blooming in your very bones until your own nauseating dread is all you can feel. Maybe it's actual vipers, or rough waters pulling you down, or a thousand razors cutting your skin βΒ the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe youβll be lucky enough to have a friend risk it all to help you out, but you can always just save yourself, clawing to the top while your greatest fears weigh you down.
If you manage to avoid the pits, theyβre not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and youβll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style β and these vines like to fondle and grope, ramping up the sexual side of your infection symptoms. The only way to get free? Turn to someone else struggling in the vine trap and get frisky β or let the vines turn from pleasure to true pain as they slowly squeeze the life out of you. Orgasm or die. It's a pretty easy choice, isn't it?
Just when you think itβs the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, youβre lucky enough to happen upon a water source β one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, youβre parched enough to drink deep despite the possibility of bird shit floating around. As you crouch over the water, your reflection stares back at you β only itβs either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear youβve already become. Once you catch your reflectionβs eye, youβre caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the waterβs depths. The bird bath overflows, the pond turns dark and bottomless, and the gilded fountain statues laugh at your plight as you struggle to keep yourself from drowning. Time to face those ugly truths about yourself β fast.
After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end β a narrow pathway lined with thorn-filled hedges, too thick and solid to pry through. The only way forward is onto the path. Luckily, a piece of bright hope shimmers before you β a single strand of golden thread, hopefully leading you out into the world once more. You step onto the path, following the glimmering thread, and it seems like all is well until the moment someone enters the path behind you. The hedges rush toward you, brutally narrowing the space as thorns dig into your flesh and rip fresh wounds across your body. Looks like only one of you can complete this painfully claustrophobic trial at a time, and the other has to watch your slow and bloody suffering, waiting for the moment the walls part and you can rejoin your love without consequence. Better hurry to get there. Theyβre going to need some patching up once theyβre done.
As you escape the stifling thorns, finally emerging on the other side and collapsing with relief to be free and hopefully to get some help for your worsening illness, you realize with a sick drop of your stomach that you havenβt made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfourβs beloved Minotaur statue should beβ¦ only itβs nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.
MATERIAL GIRLS
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential character death, loss of limbs.
It's been a long, harrowing journey, but you're here now, likely with some friendships or trauma-bonds made along the way, which is what summer camp is all about. Each of the statues before you is decorated with a marble slab at the base, detailing EYE TO EYE below Medusa and HAND IN HAND below Midas. Curiosity eventually wins out against wariness βΒ or maybe the charms of the maze have worn thin on you through the days, frustration guiding your motion. Whatever the case, you weigh your options and choose accordingly between the two, stepping forward and sealing your fate.
EYE TO EYE β Look to Medusa for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside her, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you begin to change. It starts at your fingertips, gradually spreading from arm to shoulder to neck, and so on, transmuting your body from flesh and blood to cold, icy stone. Those affected start to lean into their darker side, turning from the hero to the villain, the kind to the cruel. To stop your gravelly fate, amends must be made β forgive someone who wronged you, love someone you hate, clear up a misunderstanding you've let fester inside, make up for some injustice you've committed in your life. Give them the knife and let them start cutting. Beg for penance, and whether or not you receive it is beside the point β the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.
HAND IN HAND βΒ Alternatively, hold the hand Midas extends for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside him, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you too start to change, following the same pattern of those more Medusa inclined βΒ but gilt instead of stony, turning gold from the outside in. Those affected lean further into their brighter, more pleasant sides, cheer replacing sorrow, your mood uplifted to a potentially overbearing degree. To stop your gilded fate, sacrifices must be made βΒ reveal a deep rooted secret, let go of something you're insecure about, give away something of important value to you. Material good are nice, yes, but do you know what Midas would like even more? Limbs, eyes, flesh, blood, something you're really going to miss.
Regardless of your choice, you're out of the maze, congrats! Act swiftly and all will be fine. Dither and, well βΒ you'll make a beautiful, statue-corpse eventually, and the maze would be happy to have you. Of course, even a successful solution will take time to settle in. Your stony, golden limbs revert as slowly as they crawled up on you, any severed body parts taking days to reform but eventually coming back as good as new, with a small memorializing token βΒ a hand or an eye shaped birthmark to remember what you've lost.
Out of the maze, you can see the work being done on the house, renovations well underway while you were busy messing around. It was so kind of you to give the Balfours the chance to start working on the house βΒ and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.
It's been a long, harrowing journey, but you're here now, likely with some friendships or trauma-bonds made along the way, which is what summer camp is all about. Each of the statues before you is decorated with a marble slab at the base, detailing EYE TO EYE below Medusa and HAND IN HAND below Midas. Curiosity eventually wins out against wariness βΒ or maybe the charms of the maze have worn thin on you through the days, frustration guiding your motion. Whatever the case, you weigh your options and choose accordingly between the two, stepping forward and sealing your fate.
EYE TO EYE β Look to Medusa for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside her, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you begin to change. It starts at your fingertips, gradually spreading from arm to shoulder to neck, and so on, transmuting your body from flesh and blood to cold, icy stone. Those affected start to lean into their darker side, turning from the hero to the villain, the kind to the cruel. To stop your gravelly fate, amends must be made β forgive someone who wronged you, love someone you hate, clear up a misunderstanding you've let fester inside, make up for some injustice you've committed in your life. Give them the knife and let them start cutting. Beg for penance, and whether or not you receive it is beside the point β the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.
HAND IN HAND βΒ Alternatively, hold the hand Midas extends for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside him, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you too start to change, following the same pattern of those more Medusa inclined βΒ but gilt instead of stony, turning gold from the outside in. Those affected lean further into their brighter, more pleasant sides, cheer replacing sorrow, your mood uplifted to a potentially overbearing degree. To stop your gilded fate, sacrifices must be made βΒ reveal a deep rooted secret, let go of something you're insecure about, give away something of important value to you. Material good are nice, yes, but do you know what Midas would like even more? Limbs, eyes, flesh, blood, something you're really going to miss.
Regardless of your choice, you're out of the maze, congrats! Act swiftly and all will be fine. Dither and, well βΒ you'll make a beautiful, statue-corpse eventually, and the maze would be happy to have you. Of course, even a successful solution will take time to settle in. Your stony, golden limbs revert as slowly as they crawled up on you, any severed body parts taking days to reform but eventually coming back as good as new, with a small memorializing token βΒ a hand or an eye shaped birthmark to remember what you've lost.
Out of the maze, you can see the work being done on the house, renovations well underway while you were busy messing around. It was so kind of you to give the Balfours the chance to start working on the house βΒ and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.
DIRECTORY
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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?
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[ The Doritos bag bangs open and Melissa visibly flinches in surprise, then flushes in embarrassment. Jesus, okay. She doesn't bother finishing her sentence, just swallows a couple times and moves on. ]
I'm eighteen. [ In a couple months. She's rounding up. It feels like she's justified in doing so if otherwise she's going to get written off as a kid. ] You were digging through my shit, [ she reminds the woman, because suddenly it feels like she's the one who did something wrong, somehow. ]
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Whoops. Sorry. She could say either of these things but just β doesn't, and the moment passes.)
Yeah, (eighteen is technically outside the scope of being a kid; yeah, she was digging around. Fuck, she's hungry. The chips actually taste kinda good if you're really hungry.) I wasn't gonna take any of it though.
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I borrowed a dress for dinner, like, the first couple days I was here, but it's seriously not worth it. Just get some party outfits and stick to casual clothes and skip the formal dinner thing. I'm telling you.
[ Someone gave her similar advice when she was new, so it seems like the least she can do to pass it on. Even if she's advising somebody who doesn't seem to really give a shit about her advice, at least she'll be able to say she tried to do a good deed. Or, who knows, maybe this woman is really into dressing up in formal wear and she's just yapping into the void. Melissa gives the hoodie and jeans another quick once over and decides, nah. ]
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She might not sound grateful β her voice is loud, a little monotone β but she is. This is the inside information she needs about this place, or dream, whatever, Ptolemais hasn't fully decided yet. This could be a hallucination brought on by psychosis... That happens, right? But she thought she'd been doing good. She thought she'd been getting an A+ in therapy.)
What's your name?
(Shit, she should β she offers the bag to Mel, lamely.)
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[ She reaches out to take a chip, just to be polite, even though she had intended on the whole bag being a freebie of sorts. Like a pity token, for not being able to find anything nice enough to steal in the tent.
In retrospect, giving someone a consolation prize after they tried to steal from you is a weird thing to do. Melissa sighs as she nibbles off a corner. ]
You're new, right? [ It's pretty obvious. ]
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Got in just in time to watch that entire fucking house burn down β you were all living in it before, right?
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[ She's not trying to be a bitch, just, like, what? She's from suburban New Jersey.
At the question, she rolls her eyes with a heavy sigh. ] Yeah. Fucking sucks. Hopefully they get it fixed soon. [ This sleeping bag situation is like... kind of intolerable. Or at least it's going to get that way pretty fast. ]
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She swallows.)
I think I got robbed.
(Unfortunate.)
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[ Melissa tilts her head. She isn't exactly smiling, but she isn't... not smiling, either... ]
That's ironic.
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Yeah but you have fifty of these ugly shirts and I only have one wallet, so.
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[ They're so fashionably 90s though. There's a crazy amount of crop tops and denim in this tent right now. There's definitely more than one vest. Eh, but on the one hand, she ditched all her gross Wilderness clothes once she got here, besides the hat of course, so it's not like these are her precious outfits from home or anything. On the other hand, though, they're exactly what she would have picked out for herself at the mall, so...
She should defend them. Yes. ]
They're fine.
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(She did come in here and start picking them up to look at β and she'd much rather wear something like this than anything fancy, or attend a formal dinner at all. Is this place always gonna be like this?
She crunches a chip thoughtfully.) Where exactly are we, anyway?
(America...?)
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[ What's really weird is that she doesn't remember arriving here as herself, just waking up in her room, but she does remember the alternate version of herself from June flying in and then taking a private car to get here.
Not that it was real. Melissa knows it wasn't. It just felt that way. ]
Or something pretending it's in England, I guess. There are theories but I don't think anyone really knows. [ She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. ] I think we're in a human zoo.
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(Maybe she still hasn't been. And England is big so there's no telling what part of it they're actually in β questioning it all makes her feel weirdly light in her body, like she isn't fully tethered to where she's standing. Did something scoop her up in her sleep and carry her halfway across the world? How the hell did she get here?
The chips are dry in her mouth, she's just realised. Her whole mouth is so fucking dry and uncomfortable.)
What the fuck's a 'human zoo'.
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[ Hmm. Speaking of observing, Melissa notices that Ptolemais isn't looking so great all of a sudden. Sorta pale or something. (Surely not because of this discussion about the human zoo.) ]
You okay?
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(Her hand is rattling the chip bag. Ugh, there's powder and salt stuck on her fingers and she hates the feeling of it, can't wipe it off on her jeans. She shoves her finger into her mouth and pushes her teeth into it for a second, pressing down. Around it she explains, clipped and hard, nearly mean.) I didn't take a flight here. I don't know how I got here β who brought us here? How?
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Maybe you'll get to leave soon. Some people do.
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(She's cold all over and drops the chip bag abruptly. Stupid to eat from it, good one Ptolemais, it's Hinemoana in Rarohenga telling Whaitere that if she eats the food she's there forever, it's literally in all the stories. And now she's in this fucking place, way too far from home. Swiping dresses out of tents just to fit in.
Ptolemais has tensed all the way up like she's waiting for a shove, but nothing comes so all she is is overbalanced, jaw grit in pre-flinch. She hisses,) Fuck you, (then,) don't follow meβ
(And storms out on shaking legs, into the dark.)
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Melissa doesn't follow her. Obviously. But she does bend down and get the bag of chips off the floor because there are still some left in there and if Ptolemais isn't going to finish them, she will. So there. ]