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draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
Entry tags:
𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ▣ NOVEMBER TDM
NOVEMBER 2025 TDM: INDULGENCE
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.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a.
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
TREAT YOURSELF
CONTENT WARNINGS: pressing of hard limits (examples including suffocation & drowning)
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
REDRUM
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
SHE THINKS SHE'S MADE OF CANDY
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw prompts (including lactation & a/b/o themes).
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
CANDIES OF THE MONTH
For an interactive game, feel free to click on whichever of the below candies appeals to your character, and reveal a (horny) side effect. Alternatively, click them all and find whichever side effect most appeals to you! Be warned — you are never going to get these stains out.
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
DIRECTORY
cassian andor | star wars | current player, new character
[quickly, there are a few things that become clear. anything that would've been on him before he'd woken up to find himself here — including (and likely especially) a weapon — is now gone. while there isn't anything forcing people to stay in the house, there is something that keeps bringing them back; two attempts to walk to the gate, once to try and once to confirm, had been enough to tell him not to waste any other.
that isn't so strange. not to someone who's, specifically, spent time in narkina 5, and not to someone who can barely remember a time before the empire. the prisons that work best, after all, are ones that don't use active restraints.
staying in his room, alone, isn't going to provide him with any additional information about the place he's found himself in, so, soon enough, he selects clothes out of those that have been provided, and takes to the halls. he sits down for breakfast, mostly in silence but carrying on small, surface-level conversations if he's approached. there's value in that.
there's value, too, in the library.
he's never seen so many paper volumes in a place at once, and there's a moment where the true strangeness of this hitting him is visible on his face, with his eyes just a little widened, and a crease forming between his brows. just a moment. soon enough, he's by the shelves, waving dust away with one hand as he pulls a book down with the other.
if anyone approaches, he offers,]
Kodo Vale. [alongside the introduction, a smile is carefully in place.] I'm interested in the architecture of the house. Do you know if there's anything here on it?
redrum.
[cassian is, for now, also trapped in something else: the persona of kodo vale, architect, someone he imagines would've been active in the social scene on coruscant. it has a use, the same as all personas like this do. for that reason, more than any other, he participates in the festivities.
he agrees to portia's suggestion that he enter the shop and find a costume, and listens to the recommendations once he's inside. after consideration from another of the staff, long, involved consideration, he's presented with a costume — what looks to be a suit of some kind, complete with what looks like a blaster, only made out of plastic. "it's james bond," the woman informs him, beaming, "and you're more than handsome enough to pull it off."
his smile, now, is more strained than it's been, and unconvincing, but he ensures that it's there. he changes into the outfit, too, and leaves it on for the rest of the night.
the garden is where he spends most of his time, sipping on a drink he's never tasted before, and trying, occasionally, unfamiliar snacks to keep up the appearance (a lot of it's too sweet for him, but he imagines this also wouldn't be out of place at an event for the wealthy, so he does his best to make it all look like it's an old favorite).
drink still in hand, he wanders to where some of the other guests are watching the holo being projected. says, conversationally,]
I've never seen this one before.
she thinks she's made of candy.
[the festivities keep going, and so does he. that's what brings him to the otherworld, in that same costume. like everything else he's seen so far, all that's around him is both extravagant and completely unsubtle, from the decorations on the tables, to the lights that extend to the ceiling to make it look as though it has stars. no matter the planet, or even the galaxy, it's exactly the kind of thing that people with money would blow it on.
at first, he hangs by the wall, quietly observing as guests file in, sampling all that's available. he knows he won't be able to get away with that for long — and, soon enough, there's encouragement for him to try what's on offer, too. if he doesn't want to stand out, his choices are clear.
so he abandons his spot by the wall, finding himself in the middle of the crowd. he drinks, he samples candies. and when he comes across someone who's standing alone, he asks:]
Do you have anyone to dance with?
[that's what someone like kodo vale would do at one of these things, isn't it?]
wildcard.
[have another scenario in mind? feel free to bring it! i'm here for all the candy prompts except jelly babies. for plotting/discussion, questions, i'm available at
redrum
He catches the exchange between the stranger and the costume attendant with a wry smile that touches his eyes.
He'd been on the receiving end of her attentions, too, but he didn't know the character either. Dressed as Indiana Jones, complete with whip, it's not all that different than what he might sport on a desert planet. The Glie-44 tucked into the holster that came with the costume plays his hand for him. ]
I think she likes you.
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that gives cassian a moment to exhale.
he knows not to count on more than that — and he's right not to; the breath is barely out of him by the time he's approached. the traces of a smile that he allows to tug on his mouth now are friendlier.]
She likes everyone. [he lifts one shoulder in an easy, affable shrug. kodo's shrug.] It's her job.
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[ None of them required the bull whip, but here they were dressed like characters they've never heard of on a planet with unfamiliar food, clothes, and technology. ]
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maybe.
he turns back. says, in that same tone,]
Unfortunately for her, it's wasted effort. I'm married.
[it's part of his story, after all, and it does put a time limit on this conversation, if he needs one. adding that can't hurt.]
did you think i was gonna see the crau option and NOT take it?
old hat at this at this point, she showers and dresses, relieved to see her engagement ring sat beside the glass of water that's been set out on the nightstand. it's pulled on along with a long sleeved black crop top, black leggings, and boots before she starts out into the hallway, becoming more uneasy the further she walks down without recognizing her surroundings or the people who have been brought here with her. this is looking less and less like a product of the city and more like an entirely new environment, and she's exhausted at the prospect of having to learn a whole new nightmare's rules and dynamics, especially alone -
but on her way to the dining hall, she thinks she spots the back of someone she'd know anywhere by now. the ring feels heavy on her finger and her heart leaps into her throat; she has to start breathing again before she calls out his name, her voice trembling slightly on the last syllable. ]
Cassian?
WEEPS
mechanically, like he's on a mission, he takes himself to the next step: find whatever answers possible.
the tightness, the dread, the fear, none of that gets better as he steps into the hallway, but he keeps walking, past artwork that he doesn't recognize, and faces that he recognizes even less. nothing will come to him if he stops.
but — one voice causes him to. the voice, now, that he'd know anywhere.
before he turns, he glances over his shoulder, and breath catches in his throat. she's there, undeniable.
(of course she is. of course she's there.)
he should tell her not to call him cassian where they don't know who they're in earshot of, where they don't know what they're dealing with, and that she should find another name for herself, too; he should try to direct them to a place that might afford them just a little more privacy. but he doesn't do any of those things.
instead, his feet are moving faster than his brain — to her. always to her. he's there in seconds, and once he is, he doesn't hesitate to reach for her, to pull her into his arms.
some part of him is still aware that they're in the middle of the hallway. the rest of him doesn't care. that's max he's holding close and tight, against his chest, and, at least for a moment, something feels right.]
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but he turns, recognition immediate on his face, and relief floods through her, leaving her knees weak. he comes for her and pulls her against him and she clings to him like a lifeline, eyes closed as she takes him in. she turns her head to press her ear against his chest, set a little at ease when she hears his heart beating.
he's here, he knows her. whatever this place is, they're here together. ]
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all of this circles cassian's mind on loop, but he still closes his eyes, shutting everything out except the sound of her breath, and the warmth of her against him. he just wants the relief for one more moment.
one more moment, and then they can regroup, figure out where they go from here. (it's a lot more clear, now that he knows he's no longer doing this alone. the future is only clear when she's in it.)
slowly, he opens his eyes again, bending to press a kiss to the top of her head. and after he does, in a position where no one else could possibly hear them, he starts to speak.]
If anyone asks, I'm Kodo Vale. I'm an architect. You should pick something.
[they can stay together, if their covers and their stories are straight. he sees no reason why that wouldn't be true.]
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Okay, uh - Nina. Nina Vale. We're married, I'm an interior designer, we work together.
[ it's the best she can think of on the spot, with her heart and mind still racing. it's not much, but they don't have to keep it going forever. in places like this, who they are isn't likely to stay secret for long, anyway. ]
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he loves her more than he has words for right now.
lifting his free hand, he reaches for her face, brushing away some of the hair that's fallen over her cheek.]
That's good.
[he leans in the remaining distance, pressing his lips softly against hers. even when he pulls back again, it's just far enough so that he can speak. no one will look their way long when they're like this, so it buys them more time.
(that, and he wants to be close, for as long as he can be.)]
We can look into anything we want about the building, and it's not suspicious. Maybe they'll give us a different room, too.
[for the first time, he lets a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth.]
It might make a difference if we said we were newlyweds.
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candy.
[ archly, ] I believe I’ve everyone to dance with.
[ her lilac eyes flicker from cassian to the crowd. inevitably, one or two onlookers meet her gaze hopefully. she cants her head, red lips pursed in thought. this one is dashing despite or because of his scruffiness, dressed sharply in the styles of this realm. and the tenor of his request is almost… sweet. something awkward to it, artificial not for the attempt to mislead but for the lack of practice. she might have spurned him, if he’d been more forceful.
as things are, amusement sparks in her eyes. ]
But if you never offer me your hand, I can’t take it.
[ oh, go on then. ]
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he tilts his head, like he's considering, as she turns to him. a smile tugs, light, at one corner of his mouth, and it's not entirely forced.]
I don't see anyone else offering their hand.
[after a beat, he steps closer, stretching out his hand in offer. he isn't quite speaking into her ear, but he's close enough, now, to dip his head and lower his voice.]
So it looks like it's just me.
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[ the wanting, the asking. yennefer slips her hand into his, delicately as one might into a lace glove. looks up, sidelong, before she turns into his arms and presses close. the most daring hopeful retreats, with her partner now chosen. ]
All right, then, just you. [ a puff of breath through her perfectly rounded mouth as if to say, no name, no manners. tut tut. her other hand finds the dip in his shoulder, palm splaying to gauge the musculature beneath his suit. ] Do mind my shoes.
[ ruby slippers, a heel popped for emphasis, though she hasn’t the faintest idea of their significance. (she’d rid herself the garish hat they came with, after all, by pawning it on some unfortunate.) ]
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and the message she sends, of course, is read loud and clear. but he doesn't offer a name. (if she wants one, she'll have to ask.)
instead:]
Nothing will happen to them. [they're already close, like this, but he takes one step closer — as if to prove the point. his eyes drift down to their feet, which are in no danger of colliding, then lift to meet hers again, meaningfully.] I wouldn't have offered if I were that clumsy on my feet.
welcome to saltburnt.
he closes the book with a thud and a sigh, rubbing his jaw.
stepping back, he tries to see if anything stands out to him. anything that might help. give him insight. a leg up.
that won't do, so he goes to the next best thing. he tries to find someone. someone that can help. whether he's nice or... not nice. this guy approaches him as he's doing a scan of the library. he's still alone. he gives this guy the smile of an asshole that doesn't really want to smile, especially when he learns this guy's as new as him.
everyone. here. is. useless. still, he was asked. he doesn't present his own name. )
There's plenty of useless information here. And more erotica than you'd expect from a sentient library. Not all bad. But, no old records. Or maps. Or blueprints. Protip, though, I've been told the rooms change around. They probably wouldn't do you too much good. Also, I'm as new as you. Maybe try asking someone who has a little more mileage on them.
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compared to anyone else he's run across up until this point, that makes the man notable. in what way, exactly, is an answer he can only find by continuing to watch.
there's an open space on the shelf next to him, and he takes a moment to stow the book that's in his hand. by the time he turns back, that careful smile is, again, in place on his mouth.]
From where I'm standing, that's the most useful thing I've learned all day. [his own tone remains friendly, affable, undeterred, staying in-character.] They're not exactly forthcoming with the specifics.
[which, he thinks, as soon as the words leave his mouth, could refer to anything, and doesn't exactly lend who he's posing as (an architect) much credence. so he adds in the easy shrug of a professional who has this kind of conversation all the time.]
Probably don't want anyone to copy to the design.
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the opposite of angelus, who has been useful. he needs to work on that. )
Happy to be of help, Komodo. ( he holds a hand up pointing. ) Hey, were you named after the dragon?
( he shrugs, looking around them. )
No, they aren't are they. Not the Balfours, not this library. Not the hired help that barely speaks except for Giles. I like that guy.
( He may drink from the other Giles for old times sake. )
No, then they'd have to draw it in pencil, all these eraser smudges. Can I call you, Komo? Or do you prefer Dragon?
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without missing a step, though, he allows a quiet breath of a laugh, good-natured.]
Kodo. It's a Coruscanti name. [and the correction rolls off of him easily, like it's one that comes often, but with no offense taken; if kodo vale is someone who actually would take offense, he'd only express it privately, because clients are on the line.] Maybe there were dragons once, before the entire planet became a city. I wouldn't know.
[this, too, is deliberately gracious.
and it helps him steer the conversation back. after a beat:]
I haven't had much of a chance to speak to Giles. He's helpful?
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( he does not like being behind this damn eight ball. )
He answers everything you ask, except for when you want to order a carriage ride out. Carriage never comes. Think he's forgetful. As for the other Giles, I haven't had that reunion yet. It's likely he won't love me being here. We didn't end things on great terms the first time.
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redrum, if you are down! no pressure
he doesn't object. he tolerates. he watches.
he drinks a little too much, probably, following the winnowing of random whims or subtle cues from the force. who knows? winds up wandering, cheap costume boot in front of costume boot, until there's a wall to stop him and a bizarre media projection of some sort to snare his attention, glowing on some kind of substrate he's never seen before. the voice beside him draws a sidelong look.]
It's supposed to scare you, [he theorizes, cheerfully. he's still qimir at this point of the night. he offers his glass to clink, as he's seen others do here. some gestures are universal through all the cosmos. flickering on the screen, there's a girl stretching her mouth preternaturally wide, monstrous teeth glinting in the night.] Is it working?
omg perfect, i was literally just about to tag you
he huffs out something quiet, half-scoffing, half-amused. it tugs at the corners of his mouth.]
Not really.
[offering his glass in turn, he brings it close enough to touch, then pulls it back. as he takes a sip, he lifts one shoulder in a shrug.]
But I've seen worse.
[he's seen what's typically broadcast on the holonet late into the night — and what's supposed to pass for entertainment in duplicity. by comparison, the images flickering behind them are a carefully-crafted work of art.]
yay, two star wars liars lying about who they are
That's a perspective I should try and take, while I'm stuck here, [he allows at last, with a wry smile, a dry tone. shoving his flimsy trident under arm, he sticks out a hand. it's got calluses more consistent with fighting or labor than anything attached to the average balfour, but the rest of his frame and his murderous past are thoroughly swathed in the black robe.]
Qimir. [kai-meer. the lie comes easy as any.] Let me guess. You're from Earth, too.
what can go wrong 🥲
Kodo. [he takes the hand, grips it politely and briefly, noting the calluses that aren't so different from his own, then lets it drop. in that space, he considers. no one's even implied asking him, this whole time, what planet he's from, and would earth be a safer cover? maybe — especially because he has max, as backup — but without her right here to do that, he doesn't know enough about it to lie convincingly.
this isn't something that would take a long time to respond to; his answer needs to be quick.] I've heard of Earth. Never been there myself.
[still, that doesn't seem like enough to deflect the questions. so he adds, for what he thinks as something he can use to build on his own credibility:]
I was born on Coruscant.
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The sixth planet in the system of the same name?
In the Galactic Republic? [he doesn't grab onto the man here, but the recognition in his face is unmistakable. the drink in his hand is momentarily forgotten, then just as quickly remembered. the rim goes up to his mouth, and the remains of it, dubious color, excessive sugar, and all, go right down qimir's gullet.
it's celebratory. maybe. probably too soon to say. but it's the first qimir has heard of home since he arrived.] You're the first I've met here so far.
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how do you feel about a superficial mind read? no pressure!
go for it! i am absolutely here to expose this liar for his lies :')
ok I am going with 1) lying liar who lies and 2) some ~messenger~ vibes! nudge if not ok
looks perfect to me!
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going in for the name, poke me if not ok and I can edit
this is excellent, i love this turn of events
yayy good good
❤️ and i think that's a wrap! until next time....