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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
no subject
The payphone?
[he says 'payphone' in the same tone as 'i'm disappointed'. it sounds right. the words go in one ear and out the other. dots are connected and disconnected again. roza has had time impressed upon her in this manor and world, and it shows. he clocks the parts of the room that are organized versus unorganized. snaps a glance in her direction once more. his mind is working in bullet points and he wants her to underline them.]
And when did you get here? [elias wasn't ever stupid or dull or missing the parts in his head that mattered– he wasn't given the proper attention, so his world had been compressed, small in the palm of his hand, but he has the intelligence for noticing. he wouldn't survive without the noticing. roza has her entirety paying attention to him and he's returning the favor, thoughts skidding to a halt if only to return the exchange of i see yous battling in the space between them.] Why are you looking at me like that?
no subject
I got here in May. Every month they have events. Some worse than others. That one was a carnival.
[ A new feeling rises up in her, tidal: the urge to bicker. Roza is not sure if this feeling is natively hers or his, and she's simply absorbing its likeness. Like maybe she's a stress ball he can put hands on and squeeze, working her into new and temporary shapes, willingly malleable. Since it's not a relational condition to which Roza is opposed, she tests her hypothesis. First through body language — with eyebrows raised, she throws herself back against the bed, exhale a mostly-noiseless sigh out. Her hair frames her like a raven's wing halo, all shiny black and catching the low light. ]
But I was looking at you 'cause I didn't know if I'd ever see you again in person at all. Much less here. Much less now.
[ Sotto voce, ]
You surprised me. I didn't bring you. I promise.
no subject
I know you didn't bring me here.
[why would you say that sits on his palate like sour candy. is elias supposed to blame her, was he ever going to blame her? the short answer is no– and his mind only went there for the tiniest, most minute of seconds that he had to let the thought pass and swallow down the lump of doubt in his throat before it became an accusation.
but he takes the bait, as roza has always known how to cast a lure and she is stretched so prettily on the bed without a care in the world. her adaptability is infuriating.]
Why are you so relaxed about this? [why are you okay with this. why won't you look at me anymore. why are you pretending like everything is fine.] Am I supposed to be calm?
[he's moved. finally. standing at the edge of her bed with his head cocked and eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a slanted, unpleasant frown.]
Well?
no subject
Their lives separate and circle back to one another like they're following a greater orbit. Maybe it isn't her fault, per se. Maybe they'll just always end up in the same fucked-up situations at the same time. Continuing her display of mild intransigence, even if she can't put her finger on what it is they're disagreeing about, Roza places the line of her forearm over her eyes, rendering half her expression unseen. ]
You get used to it. And I have... I've met people here. That makes it easier.
[ A beat in which she experimentally bumps his knees with hers, hips twisting forward on the bed to allow long legs to connect. ]
When I got here I ran through the dining hall in my underwear trying to go outside. I was trying to find Danny. [ Bestower of the bite mark tattoo on her inner thigh, also new. ] Someone good to me took me to the lake and I swam and I got better.
You don't have to be calm, but do you want to go to the lake? [ It's not quite the season any longer, but that has not stopped Roza ever; she's swum in water that should have killed her. ]
no subject
Someone's always gonna want to help you.
[people look at roza. they don't look at elias the same, and if they do, he'll use and bleed them dry before they have the chance of doing it themselves. she's better at turning the other cheek than he is. she got used to it, she might even like it, which he can't decide is true or not with her face half-hidden.]
No. [he's in the mood you have to shock out of, the anti-help and anti-kindness sitting in an unhelpful knot in his stomach, growing more and more like resistance with repulsion settling on the edges.] The lake's your thing, not mine.
[and even though the lake would help and has helped in the past, he wants to be difficult, wants to be petty the same as she's been petty with him. bite and be bitten, solve his problems how he needs them solved or don't bother. which is ridiculous and he's being (almost) purposefully inconsolable by remaining as angry as he is.]
no subject
She makes a small, unhappy sound of disagreement, mm-mnn, and elaborates immediately thereafter. ]
People here are more — I don't know, solicitous. At home they'd just ignore me.
[ Her natural comfort as both recipient and administrator is physical touch. Roza experiences the persistent urge to twine fingers through pantloops, to press her face against his abdomen, to sling an arm around Elias's shoulders — but he's not of the same needy make, and has always been better at making himself an island. If he wants that from her, he'll show her. ]
But okay. You tell me what you want. If I can do it, I want to give it to you.
[ Roza has ways of quickly conveying information, for example. What she has to show him is many degrees of upsetting, but they have survived worse. It all depends on whether he wants to think or not think. Oblivion is easy to find in this house. History is harder. ]
no subject
fuck you i hate this you solve it i don't want to solve it, i don't know how to solve this i don't know what i want.]
No. [is the knee-jerk, trigger-tongue sound his mouth makes. eyes up to the ceiling and a frustration filled sigh later, elias redirects his emotions.] Okay.
[can he relax? most definitely not, but roza's making an effort for him, so he makes an effort for her in sitting down. on the edge, ready to launch himself back up if he has to, but sitting.]
I want to know everything about this house.
no subject
Relenting, trepidation a wary shadow and downward flicker of lash, ]
Okay. Okay, I'll give you what I know, but I'll have to touch you to show you.
[ Roza aligns her body with Elias's, so that she can resume direct eye contact. Her hands open to him, palms up, very lightly scarred with the pair of open eyes she earned in the hedge maze. On her forearm, the mongoose waging war against the cobra will at least be recognizable, amid all the other ink she's acquired over the past seven to eight months. Sometimes Roza thinks her body is a junkyard of attempts to make it belong to herself, or failing that, to somebody who loves its fickle and fragile nature more than Roza herself does.
What he's asking of her relies more upon the spirit. Her stronger suit. ]
A couple things first. Elias, you'd laugh at this normally, but I got married. And I don't have Jel-Yel here, but you've probably noticed that already. I'm telling you these things so you're not so surprised when you see them in my head.
no subject
the 'marriage' mention process slow, molasses through his brain from one synapse to the next. the information creates a rippling effect, and he thinks about how much he's missed since he's seen her, while missing nothing at the same time. how was he supposed to know, when her months and months in this world is his few days, not even. the feeling he has isn't jealousy, or maybe it's jealousy's cousin, being left out of something important, an event he would've liked to know about.
his brows have worry in them, knit together, the line in his forehead a near-permanent mark since he arrived.]
How come you don't have Jel-Yel? [he doesn't ask for the – her – husband's name, because he's seen inside her head when she shares and he'll get the name there, he knows that much. but this question is more specific and complicated, and the house might give him this answer, but he wants to hear it from her, or–] Never mind, get it over with.
references to violence & sa
[ She loops his fingers up and through hers, until they form two shared fists, rather than resting flat palm to flat palm. Roza's head tilts gently, acquiring an avian posture; when she moves this way, it is one of the few times her careful social conditioning recedes in the manner of a green sea sparkled with Noctiluca scintillans. Its movement exposes the empty seashells of her strangeness, a revelation of distant inhumanity.
The raven's wing of her hair makes a curtain for her cheek, a shadow for her eyeline. He says get it over with and her jaw works with minor uncertainty. Her spirit opens up and pulls his in toward her in a slow, methodical dance. At this particular juncture she is leading. The memories aren't whole; she deliberately spares Elias the things that concern her which may be unnecessarily upsetting, the majority of which occurred in the previous Kidnap Place.
Waking up naked in the cold wintry woods, however: included. Her first house there in Rubilyk, a ramshackle cabin, half-destroyed: included. Being tracked down by Danny Johnson at a little market by a little carnival by a big half-frozen ocean: included, as well as first impressions regarding the sucking chest wound that is his spirit, black hole boy born hungry meets a girl made to compulsively fill empty silences and spaces and people, too. (The undercurrent of constant sexual violence, endorsed by what served as the state there, that's something she keeps mostly reserved. But he might get glimpses of the gut-churning fear, how it settled inside her like a stone. It's a little like how she reacts to cages and police.)
Finally, there in the manor, he sees flickers of a month of losing herself to Other Roza, a month of reclaiming herself to follow, along with some internal lingering questions about how much she's really gotten back. The acquisition of an opaque line inked around her throat, a wedding ring made to match. The Shepherd, the fire. The lawn, strewn with tents. Finally there is Werewolf, and the bodies of the dead piled together and the ones that came to life underneath her hands, their resurrections marked by her borrowed magic translated through the language of her beliefs. Guilt pours from a tap. It makes a bath that wants to drown her. She sits on the edge and sometimes thinks about letting it.
Forming, like the newborn buds of a winter tree: the memory of Elias himself arriving, through her eyes. Half-light, half-dark, but never consistently either. In her mind he is shot through by hard geometric shapes and color, like the displays at the nightclubs or outdoor raves he sometimes frequents. Sharp-edged and with holes taken out of him, pierced by the SLC's procedures, but he holds his blood inside himself and does not give it to anyone for free. His hands are always pressed to those wounds, preserving himself, with gritted teeth, with keen eagle eyes. Sometimes if she's very good and he feels ready, he lets her press them, too, Roza serving as his little tourniquet. All that black that lives in him is only augmented by signal flares of liveliness, as if to say I'm still here, I'm still here. For all you tried to do to me, I'm still here.
Afterward, in the silence, there is only breathing, shallow and then deep when Roza reminds herself not to get light-headed. The rise and fall of her sternum. Her eyes looking somewhere past Elias's shoulder. It hurts to remember. On an exhale: ]
There it is.
cw continued and emeto
the shepherd distracts him, as if elias has any control over the pattern of events unfolding, as if there's a pause button and he can stop or rewind or fast forward. there's only forward and he is gripping roza's hands with increased pressure. the commune makes his feelings do irrational things, seeping over his very delicate boiling point and pushing into the memories on her behalf. no more guilt, only anger. take this fury or die, where is your fury, roza?
then there's elias, through her, and he has a hard time with this part. possibly worse than the other memories, or maybe every moment has blended in an ugly picture and he doesn't know what he's looking at, if this is him, if those are his eyes and his wounds, some wounds he doesn't even remember. most wounds he does. yes, that's him. yes, he's alive.
'there it is', her soft voice muffled, and he pulls his hands away to press the heel of his palms to his eyes and hide how red they are. too much at once dredged from the pits of his mind, he thinks he's fine and he can hold the memories in and the nausea in and what about the time they made him get on his knees and no, he can't, and he's up to walk as briskly as he can to the bathroom and empty the bile from his stomach into the sink.]