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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
elias – original ( current player, new character )
[drifting, drifting somewhere between life and death is where elias sleeps. no dreams or nightmares, no long lost memories or unsettling images behind his eyes. sleep is a relief from the awake, where his mind never stops and the world can be suffocating and he has to be awake, on, ready. he can’t show his belly – won’t ever again – which is why a knife is kept beneath his pillow.
it’s the pain that finds him first, creeping into his unconscious, dragging him out with a rude awakening. there’s no knife beneath his pillow. the sheets aren’t his. the bed’s too big, too soft. and the first breath he takes in this world is a ragged gasp that catches in his throat as he lurches to a sitting position. lungs fight to recalibrate, nervous system in overdrive of fight or flight and limbs working before thought, hand reaching to dig into the bare shoulder beside him.]
Where am I. [he says, a low whisper, the build of panic transforming into something with more ferocity.] Where. The fuck. Am I.
[this alone can be terrifying. unnerving. shocking, having a half naked man kneeling over you with a grip so hard in your shoulder it might leave bruises, but the second thing, the unmistakable feeling of too many eyes suddenly locking their gaze on you might be worse, like the walls themselves are made of an angel’s judgement. elias is unaware of this effect, but you certainly won’t be.]
[the sensation of a thousand eyes opening when elias arrives stretches through the manor. otherworldly (but harmless, and possibly even comforting) pressure spying on your every move. the source of observing, a quiet man huddled over his breakfast or sipping coffee, is oblivious to it.
he’s doing his best to remain calm – normal – going through the motions of bite, chew, swallow, drink. an old habit of tapping his heel on the floor starts and stops and starts again, nervous energy concentrated to his right leg. don’t revert back to the bullshit. this isn’t the center, but he’s leering at everything, eating only because he’s starving and food will sate the headache more than the pills he didn’t take, but the headache has been gone for a long time. he turns to the nearest person or nods from across the table:]
Do you have a cigarette?
[after breakfast he roams the corridors, finds stairs to nowhere, finds the library or a few random rooms to poke around in. he’s casing the place out as much as he can, but no matter how much he walks, how many ceilings he looks at, he isn’t satisfied: this manor’s skeleton is unlike anything he’s ever seen.]
( or make up your own adventure :> elias is from the same world as roza! here is some info. he has a seraphim inside of him that he doesn’t know about with an entirely different personality. for simplicity’s sake, the seraphim will continue to be locked away while he’s in saltburnt, but ppl are welcome to recognize the huge amount of power inside of him without bringing this to his attention. he has a passive ability that makes ppl around him feel watched! feel free to play around with that however u like. for any questions hmu over at
➜ wildcard.
Maybe they remember what it looks like when she's screaming. (Did Elias ever see her scream? She doesn't remember, either.)
Outside of this imagery, Roza herself stands swaying, just slightly, approximately six feet behind Elias himself. She stares at the back of his head, eyes narrowed. Pantheresque, she advances upon him, hips and legs settling into a hunting walk. This lasts until she is closer to six inches behind him, whereupon she says, quietly, a thready panic silvering her voice a half-octave higher until it sounds like it might break, ]
Elias. Elias.
[ She's picked up some new tattoos since he saw her last. ]
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elias shifts slow on his heel to face her, regulating his fear into something else. relief masks fear masks–]
Roza? [his voice wavers where it wouldn't, a break in the 'a', a strike through the severity of the situation, of elias. he can look at her, but he looks at her self first: waist up, trailing (scanning) over arms and staring too long at her neck and the snake that lives there now. she's not the same, he can see it in her eyes. but how long has it been? doesn't matter. he's not who he used to be, he's not there anymore, so he swallows and buries and the rest down.] What the fuck.
[a twisted solace is felt here, the selfish kind that he doesn't have to be forced into this world alone and they stand nearly toe to toe and he takes too long to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her in so tight, dipping his head to nose into her neck to inhale skin that has hints of smelling like home.]
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But she eschews the idea that it is Vesko, if only because his presence gives her that strange marriage of familiarity and fear: someone who knows her at her worst and weakest is here. Someone who knows what it's like to live hunted. Vesko did not encourage this form of attachment, particularly Roza's chief doctor; Roza has never asked if Mays behaved jealously toward him, but that's only because to do so would admit Mays at all. For the span of nearly twenty seconds, she presses one palm light against the back of his head, welcoming, and thinks, I won't say it, because you'd hate it, but now that you're here, I'm going to protect you. ]
You —
[ She withdraws from their embrace only enough to shift her posture. Roza's hands frame Elias's face, smoothing down to the sit of his shoulders. She must examine him carefully. All throughout, she's talking, talking, talking, the dam of nervous energy loosed, ]
You're here. I'm glad you weren't here last month. There were wolf spirits and the universe wasn't talking to me at all. Are you well? Are you in one piece? Let me see. Ah, I can't believe this place took you, too!
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he is not handling this well. his mind is a flurry of images, of more feeling than coherent thought, compressed into noise to be violently broadcasted in roza's direction. too much too soon, or maybe just too fast.]
I'm fine. [eyes up, up to the ceiling, the corner of his lips tugging down. he can't take it.] I'm good, alright? Roza, [gaze snapping down to her, voice rough, and this isn't how he wants to do this, standing in the middle of the room with her encapsulating, frenetic magic falling around them. quieter, emotion on the edge of his tone, he is saying this for her:] stop.
[elias battles with the thought of creating space between them for the sake of bringing himself away from the cliff he's on, yet he doesn't move away. if he's only getting her now, then he'd better edge the line. she's bringing him down in her way, but he's so dysregulated it's hard for him to appreciate.]
Let's– be still, for five seconds. Just breathe.
[i'm freaking out, and he has to be the one to lead here, and when was the last time she took five seconds?]
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She's stressing him out worse. Something symbiotic might happen. ]
Okay.
[ She breathes slower on purpose, the way she might when meditating, but does not instruct him to do the same. Rather, she'll see if it's catching. Instead she remains near, ceasing her sway, her tremble. She must become steady as the trees she climbs. Roza's only further addition: ]
There's nobody else here. From home.
[ No Vesko. No one who knows, natively, their respective histories. No one who Googled something or saw a newspaper article or a snippet of a podcast about that state-sanctioned rehabilitation center that got closed down amid whispers and rumor. This alienness creates its own complications, but in all of her multiversal travels one thing has remained constant: Roza would rather contend with the malice and cruelty of other worlds than the worst of their own.]
cw drug use mention
roza is like if elias dropped five tabs of acid and three hits of cocaine and didn’t think about spacing them out. what he does he does in excess, because if he doesn't, nothing happens.]
Nobody. [repeated back to her like a confirmation. he flexes his hand, splays it on her hip. five four three two one. he can't be this close anymore, so he pulls away. too much, too much as he runs his hand over his face.] Okay. Okay, so– so what?
[does that matter?]
You're saying you and me are here out of some fucked coincidence?
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Nothing. Fear bleeds away.
Her head shake is tiny, rustling the sit of her hair against her cheek. Distance draws her body and brain both away from him. Personal space reestablishes itself. ]
No. But it's not the old bad news. There are no scientists.
[ With renewed focus, ]
You want to go somewhere quieter? I have a room here.
[ Her head tips, now, in the direction of where she sleeps. ]
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Yeah, I do.
[roza escapes by going outside. elias escapes by going anywhere with four corners and silence. when he follows her, it's clear he's debating the urge to check every door they pass, like they'll hold a secret he can't see or she hasn't found. when they reach her room, he doesn't sit, but he does have a feeling of unsteady comfort. the space is very her, which is nice, it might be the only nice thing he's noticed that he hasn't catalogued to steal or destroy.
if stealing is even worth it.]
When was the last time you saw me?
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She does sit. Edge of the bed, legs long in front of her, her booted heels pushing against the wooden flooring. She minds Elias closely without striving for any kind of persistent eye contact. Roza knows he likes to look for exits. ]
I was in the Gates, and I called you. I was working. After I left the scene.
[ Her hands fist against the softness of her red and black bedspread, bracing herself against it. Her body leans back into this weight, portraying an attempt at comfort where she knows Elias may find very little.
A thin tendril of shame snakes its way up from inside the back of her brain. People here don't know her as a Northwest pass-around, and neither did Elias, originally, to be fair, but she was certainly a fixture at parties and low-tier stages, playing stupid games with stupid men who loved smarter women that were not, emphatically, Roza Zaripova. She is struck by the impulse to try to impress him with her changes, and recognizes the urge as anxious in nature. ]
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references to violence & sa
cw continued and emeto
eyes on me
He places his hand over Elias' wrist, but not to dislodge it from his shoulder. It's for the contact, as if that will draw answers without asking questions. ]
Far from home, love.
[ Zephir props himself on both shoulders next, contemplating. What would grow from him? What sort of plant would Zephir get if he stole a seed from an open wound? ]
It's called Saltburn. Have you heard of it before?
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Can you not– fuck. [a little regretful, a little guilty as he sits back on his haunches and pulls his hand away to run it over his face.] Sorry.
[sorry, he just attacked you. sorry, he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. sorry, he doesn't handle waking up in new spaces well.]
No, I haven't heard of it.
*elbows not shoulders ok thank u
You've traveled a long way, I think. You're in a different world, but you're not alone. There are many people like us here. Some have been here for longer than others, some of us get to leave right away, others have to stay a while.
The Balfours own this estate. [ Saltburnt. ] They aren't expecting you, but they won't be shocked that you're here.
[ ok so anyway ]
Do you smoke?
head shoulders knees and toes
he doesn't waste much time in creating even more distance between the two of them, sliding off the bed with about as much grace as a drunk cat, blocky movements and heavy footfalls while he moves to a dresser and rifle through clothing. the room is nice. wealth is everywhere. the place (and zephir, if this is his room) can afford to lose a shirt.]
I smoke. Are you asking because you have one or because you're trying to get me out of here? [pulling on a black sweater,] Because I'm already on the way out if you don't have that cigarette.
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There's something to Zephir's smile, as if he's having a conversation with a ghost, or hearing that ghost play a nostalgic tune just for him, opening the pack, plucking one single cigarette out. He'd like to keep Elias around, if only because he's so sure that once he's gone, so will the blanket of this feeling be, of being watched by many grand things.
Quietly, he holds it out for the stranger to take; one or the whole box. Next, Zephir digs out a lighter to start burning his cigarette away. That will be held out, too. ]
I don't expect you to leave, I don't expect you to stay. Though I'd like it if you did. This place has many plans for us, love. I think we're meant to understand why it planned for us to wake up together.
[ One deity who's coming up on his first anniversary here, a newcomer that is something beyond and yet not quite there. ]
What's your name?
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he takes the lighter when it's offered and doesn't give it back.]
Elias. [he says, voice thick with smoke on the inhale. he doesn't know why this person wants him to stay or why he's calling him 'love'– is it a cultural thing? he shakes his head, keeps enough distance between them that he doesn't have to crane his damn neck.] And I don't need to figure out why we woke up together. It just happened. There doesn't need to be a meaning to that.
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[ It's not always a choice. Here, however, he suspects it is; Elias could very well walk out and never think about him again. With a drag of the cigarette, Zephir counters his attempt to establish some distance between them, as if they're old friends, as if he has a proposition. ]
I'm Zephir.
[ And he holds out a hand. ]
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[roza would say something like that, about the meaning of life or the meaning of an event having more to it than mets the eye. or as little as you want, but elias doesn't trust the words from a stranger or their hand, gaze pointedly lingering on the offer and back up to zephir's face. his silence is as good and loud as any no.]
Okay. What kind of name is that?
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this got lost hello
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eyes on you
Yeah. Yeah, gimme a sec.
[ she wraps her sandwich in a cloth napkin and pushes her chair back to stand. she gestures at one of the balconies. once they're behind the curtains and downwind, she pulls her cigarettes from the pocket of her pajama shorts and offers him one. ]
Lighter's in my other pocket but my hands are full.
[ he can fetch it for them both as she bites her own cigarette from the pack. ]
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even that part isn't normal. elias hasn't ever sat in a dining hall. his voice is low, like sleep is still lingering around the edges.]
I got you. [one hand, the one of a thief, slips into her pocket for the lighter while the other snags one from the pack. he clicks the lighter on for himself first (chivalry is dead today, held between his teeth) then lights hers. inhaling deep, he takes one glance over his shoulder toward breakfast on the exhale.] God, you have no idea how much I needed that.
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[ she used to be new, once upon a time. new and without cigarettes until someone bummed her one and then she figured out who to ask to keep her in nicotine. ]
It gets easier to navigate. Doesn't get any less weird, but you get used to it.
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[a question that isn't formed like one, a certainty to his tone that implies he doesn't require an answer. adapting is 'getting used to' and elias doesn't want to do any getting used to, but he'll adapt for the sake of survival.]
When'd you get here?
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[ lest he think she is just incredibly well-adapted, which admittedly she was because she went through her different universe and post-wedding survival emotional clusterfuck in a different universe, grace adds with a smile: ]
But I've been here before so I'm sort of cheating.
eyes on me
Last he remembers, he was in a sigil sleep. Raíz's people know better than to wake him up in the middle of one, because his healing time fractures. Best case scenario he's a little sluggish for a couple days; worst case, he loses track of time and place, can't tattoo again until all circuits are back on board. Short term memory slips.
Bone's gripped awake, and the world's a shock of eyes and morning light. He doesn't remember his own name, for a minute, let alone have any idea who this stranger is. Just squints at him, groggy, bleached hair fluffed in every direction. ]
Easy. Hey.
[ His voice husky with disuse, Bone doesn't sit up or try to push the other man off of him. Just scrubs a hand over his stubble, brows knit, trying not to fall right back to sleep. ]
How many days've I been out?
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What– [split-second confusion while anger re-settles in the lines of his mouth.] you've gotta be joking. Why the fuck would I know that?
[pointless. useless, actually, as he gives the stranger one final (and unnecessary) shove before he moves off the bed. there's no reason for elias to linger in a room with a guy who doesn't know a damn thing. a tactile creature, he runs his hand along the wood of a dresser, then the cabinets, searching for a shirt. bone is as good as nonexistent to him now.]