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draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
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๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ โฃ 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 โ 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 ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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 isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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. Itโs 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 isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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. Itโs 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 โย 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 โ 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 theyโre willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste โ theyโll 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 โ and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests whoโve 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 thatโs 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 โ 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 youโre 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 youโve been carrying, or maybe youโd 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 youโve 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, thereโs an even more illicit package available to those in the know โ 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 youโll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherdโs 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 donโt be shy โ the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars youโve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and youโll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks โ 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 โ youโve 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 โ and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobbyโs 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 couldnโt. 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 โ 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, youโll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as youโre bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, youโll 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 youโre 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 youโre 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 โ 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 โย 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 โ 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 theyโre willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste โ theyโll 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 โ and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests whoโve 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 thatโs 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 โ 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 youโre 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 youโve been carrying, or maybe youโd 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 youโve 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, thereโs an even more illicit package available to those in the know โ 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 youโll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherdโs 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 donโt be shy โ the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars youโve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and youโll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks โ 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 โ youโve 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 โ and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobbyโs 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 couldnโt. 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 โ 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, youโll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as youโre bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, youโll 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 youโre 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 youโre 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 โ 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 โ itโs so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed manโs murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portiaโs cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesnโt matter if youโre actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if youโre 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 โ thereโs a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heartโs content as you put together a costume fit to win. Itโs all on the Balfoursโ 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 Saltburntโs very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that โweโve already lived through enough horror.โ It seems thatโs your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portiaโs 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 wasnโt uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you donโt know whatโs hiding around each corner โ 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 โ arenโt they? Theyโre 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 donโt 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, youโve 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 โ or else youโll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If youโre 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 โ 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 youโre presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the roomโs entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument youโve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel โ just make sure itโs honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesnโt 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 donโt 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 gardenโs edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that itโs โtoo soonโ for pumpkins โ itโs 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, thereโs 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 Portiaโs 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 โ itโs so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed manโs murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portiaโs cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesnโt matter if youโre actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if youโre 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 โ thereโs a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heartโs content as you put together a costume fit to win. Itโs all on the Balfoursโ 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 Saltburntโs very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that โweโve already lived through enough horror.โ It seems thatโs your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portiaโs 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 wasnโt uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you donโt know whatโs hiding around each corner โ 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 โ arenโt they? Theyโre 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 donโt 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, youโve 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 โ or else youโll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If youโre 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 โ 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 youโre presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the roomโs entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument youโve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel โ just make sure itโs honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesnโt 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 donโt 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 gardenโs edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that itโs โtoo soonโ for pumpkins โ itโs 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, thereโs 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 Portiaโs 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. Youโve 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? Thereโs 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, youโre 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 youโve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, youโll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? Youโre suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who donโt. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on โ mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). Itโs time to let go. To release โย literally. Itโs called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, youโll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms โ 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, youโll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. Itโs anything but dead behind them though โ they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctorโs office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Draculaโs many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where youโre 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 youโre 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 โ 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. Youโve 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? Thereโs 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, youโre 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 โย you are never going to get these stains out.
Whether youโve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, youโll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? Youโre suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who donโt. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on โ mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). Itโs time to let go. To release โย literally. Itโs called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, youโll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms โ 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, youโll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. Itโs anything but dead behind them though โ they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctorโs office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Draculaโs many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where youโre 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 youโre 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 โ 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
sarmenti. darkest dungeon ii.
cw: murder, minor reference to past torture.
cw: possible humiliation.
the iron rooms
You've reached the end, love. There's nothing more to see.
[ For now. For today. ]
Will you look at me?
no subject
sarmenti rears his weight backwards. he flinches not out of fear, but out of a mixture of shame and... confusion. there's something oddly comforting in zephir's voice, in the way she's crouched down in front of him to level herself with someone as lowly as himself. sarmenti pauses. he looks at her with dark eyes, the furrow of his brow hidden behind his mask, and yet, etched there all the same, and as he lifts his chin hesitantly, the bells at the many tips of his hat jingle softly.
for whatever reason, he finds himself speechless. ]
no subject
[ The man cowering behind a mask, covering the spill of emotion wrung out by the room he left behind, a cog crushed in the machine that ate him up and spat him back out in the iron rooms. Zephir is here to collect the manor's leftovers, here to heal him back into his full self, the version of him that doesn't need to laugh to cope with the horrors, that doesn't need to cry in the face of relief. Zephir reserves a kind smile to him, reaching over to lightly touch one of the bells, a gardener inspecting her tree, hand falling back to her lap. ]
I wonder who gave you this mask.
no subject
when zephir's hand retreats, sarmenti continues to follow it with his eyes - and then beyond that, up and up until he can look her in the face again. behind his mask, his brows pinch again, and he tilts his head slightly as if to shake it, but he doesn't commit. the bells tinker quietly anyway. ]
No one, [ he admits, wondering why she would assume it was gifted to him, or if not gifted, then forced upon him. maybe it was, in a roundabout way, but sarmenti doesn't spend the time thinking about it now. ] It belongs to me...
no subject
It's a lovely thing.
[ She assumes he is, too. All things have something to love in them. ]
I'm Zephir.
no subject
he lets go of her hand, uncertain about her quiet praise, but with that room of horrors behind him, he squares his shoulders a little if only to help from feeling so small, physically and otherwise. ]
Zephir, [ he repeats, mostly to himself. ] Like the wind before Spring. [ or... something like it. likely, he's mixed up a couple references, but he carries on and tilts his head respectfully. hopefully. ] Well met, Lady Zephir. My name is Sarmenti, though you may call me whatever you like.
[ jester, clown, filth, nuisance. he's heard everything, though he's heard his own name the least, he thinks. ]
no subject
And if I like Sarmenti?
[ A rhetorical question, a playful thing thrown gently at him. She holds his hand in the warmth of her own, palm turned upward so she can trace a finger along one of the lines. She relents that little task, shifts her grasp so she can lead him by the hand, keeping her eyes on the ones behind the holes of his mask. ]
Come with me.
welcome
[ her voice, a low rasp, melodic, sounds faintly amused. the surprise of a man in her tub is lessened somewhat but the surprise of a lute. so much of the manor feels out of place to her, even having grown up in a castle. there simply wasn't electricity or running water so despite the opulence of the palace, the familiarity doesn't extend to the present time.
christina aguilera's "genie in a bottle" is certainly a bop, but it's not what she is used to by any stretch of the imagination. ]
I've missed such music.
[ and she can certainly go about fixing her hair with him in the bath, so long as she doesn't look in the mirror. ]
no subject
[ there's the distant suggestion of surprise in his tone, his brows raising slightly behind his mask as he tilts his head, bells tinkering faintly. for a few moments, as his fingers pluck slowly but expertly at weathered strings, sarmenti watches her from the bath as she fusses with her hair, his gaze flickering from the reflection of her hands moving in the mirror, to the reflection of her face and back again. there's nothing intentionally disrespectful in his gaze, just - quiet curiosity. she likes his music. at least, enough to allow him stay and continue instead of chasing him off the way people used to when he would busk on the streets what feels like ages ago.
after a beat or two, he shifts in the bath to get more comfortable, water sloshing around him a bit, and he continues, his fingers strumming a more deliberate tune as he laughs. ]
Well then, let me not deprive the lady of that which she has missed!
no subject
a smile tugs briefly at her somber mouth as she turns, leans against the vanity to watch him play. despite her appearance, modesty has little hold on her. one can't exist in prison and be prissy about modesty.
she waits until he is done playing to offer a smattering of applause. the overhead fluorescent light glints off the gilded cuffs fused into her wrists. ]
Are you to be my new suitemate then?
no subject
but it doesn't matter, at least not right now. sarmenti lifts his head, begins to sit up and reach over the side of the bath to set his lute down somewhere safe, when he pauses. her question is simple, but it implies that he'll be staying more than a day. that he's invited to stay, intentionally, in a residence that screams wealth and pretentiousness - a place, as a fool, that he simply does not belong.
surely, he'd overstay his welcome. most definitely, he'll be chased off by week's end, if he doesn't lose his mind before then. but the water is hot and seemingly unlimited, and so far the company is decent. there's more than stale bread and mouldy slime at breakfast, and whisky smoother than any he's ever tasted.
sarmenti's eyes wander for a moment, looking over the woman in front of him, his gaze catching the twinkle of gold at her wrists and unsure what to make of what he's looking at. and then he meets her eyes, expression still a mystery behind his white mask, but there's a little bit of hope threaded into his tone, a stroke of amusement. ]
I could be, [ he offers, setting his lute down finally and reaching for a towel left haphazardly on the floor beside his clothes. he drags it halfway into the bath, but manages to keep it out of the lukewarm, soapy water. ] Unless you have preference for - someone else?
no subject
I know very few people here. The ones I do know already have someone to share with.
[ she realizes, almost belatedly, that she isn't giving him a very complimentary invitation. despite having her eyes covered, her half smile seems enough to have crinkled up the corners of her eyes. ]
Who can say no to having a balladeer on the other side of the door?
no subject
at first, he'd assumed by pearl's casualness that she'd been here for quite a while - unfazed by a strange man in her washroom, deprived of familiar compositions - but to know only a few people makes his assumption seem unlikely, unless she's like him, and he imagines she isn't. he casts a curious glance over one shoulder as he dries off his lower back, just long enough to catch her faint smile half-shadowed by the veil of her hand right before her compliment.
chuckling a low note under his breath, sarmenti turns away again and folds the towel around his waist as an attempt at some modesty. as he reaches for his trousers piled up with the rest of his clothes on the ground, he asks over his shoulder: ]
Will you tell me your name?
no subject
her hands clasp in front of her when she sees movement that makes her think she wouldn't be a lech to chance a glance over at him. ]
Pearl.
[ the rest of her name is a god damn mouthful so she sticks with just the one. ]
And yours?
no subject
bowing his head slightly, the ends of his hat falling forward over his shoulders, he offers: ] Sarmenti.
no subject
he looks like he's been on the wrong end of many a dagger or hair pin or perhaps pushed down a small rocky hill over and over, certainly not a body one would associate with a troubadour busking outside or inside an inn. and he's not a terrible player, though perhaps his voice sets drunks to pointing broken glasses at very many parts of his chest. ]
May I ask... why you kept the mask in the bath?
no subject
sarmenti exhales through his nose, not quite a silent laugh but close to it. it's hard to tell behind the porcelain. he holds out his hands by his sides, as if lazily presenting something. himself, maybe. ]
I may have been... too eager to waste time removing it. Where I come from, a bath is filled by hand, and never as hot.
[ a lie - not about the plumbing situation, but his reason for not taking his mask off. a believable one, he hopes. ]
no subject
By the time you've finished filling it, the water has nearly gone tepid. An reasonable instinct to dive in as soon as possible.
[ it doesn't explain why he is still wearing the mask, but pearl doesn't question any further. his secrets are his own and he may keep them without her prodding. maybe it will come out eventually, maybe it won't. ]
You'll find fresh clothes in the wardrobe that mysteriously fit you. The maids will fetch your clothes to launder them. [ her voice drops, sotto voce. ] But I've squirreled away some washing powder if you wish to wash your own.
[ pearl doesn't like the idea of anyone else washing her knickers. ]