𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 ▣ JANUARY TDM

[saltburntmods]

JANUARY 2026 TDM: ETERNITY

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."

MARKET PRICES

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes, human auctioning, human furniture, voyeurism, dub/noncon.

The manor rings in the new year Saltburnt style — that is, in an abundance of hedonism, decadence, and debauchery. So strange, you might find it, that there was no official party planned from your generous hosts, who take any opportunity to flaunt wealth and hungry bodies, but it might be a boon in disguise. The holiday is yours for the taking, though they don't leave you strung out for too long. Through word of mouth comes an urgent invitation in the following days, the unveiling of a brand new wing of the manor. Didn't know there was construction going on? That's not so surprising — the contractors were paid for discretion, after all. Named after Portia and Jonty’s personal (and very wealthy) friends, Haven and Cove, THE RUMMAGE WING serves as an auction house where you can acquire rare and desirable goods and antiques. All proceeds go towards Rosie’s personal charity for the benefit of crabeater seals, although Bunny is spotted loudly telling her that they are the most abundant seals in the world. No matter.

Put on your hottest party dress and most expensive fits, because all are encouraged to drink, dance, enjoy the hors d'oeuvres, and celebrate your survival into another year. The newest visitors in for the holiday — and apparently a good auction — stand with their arms linked, obscenely tall and boney, their long unkempt hair a strange waterfall of green. Haven and Cove Rummage, a pair of sisters and dear family friends, are anything but normal. Upon closer inspection, their skin appears colorless and almost translucent but with makeup caked on for the party. Remember that it's rude and tacky to comment on appearances. Despite the unsettling nature of their appearance, they are in fact having a grand time, taking enormous interest in people-watching, long fingers pointing at several guests as they whisper among themselves. Throughout the night, their shrieks of laughter can be heard echoing across the room, shrill but equally melodic, like an out of tune bell.

During the celebration, in between bumping and grinding to loud electronica and pop music, the festivities are cut in half by an announcement telling everyone to take their seats, as the WEEK LONG AUCTION is about to begin. What curiosities are up for buying? Why — you, of course. Interestingly enough, in front of some of your dinner sets, rather than auctioneer paddles are little signs for the front of your shirt or dress, printed off with a number. Don't feel like putting it on? No worries — you'll feel compelled to the stage once your number is called regardless, though interestingly enough you might not be on the stage alone. Yes, some lucky guests are auctioned off in pairs, grouped together due to similar dispositions, or something familiar under the surface that binds them, or — hell, maybe you just look aesthetically pleasing together. Regardless, the Balfour's friends (who all share a passing resemblance to the Rummage sisters) are buying, if you're into a lovely (see: kinky) date night with a stranger. Of course, given that the auction is a week long, you might be sold off to the highest bidder more than once — a buyer is only given a night, after all. They wouldn't want to be greedy with you!

Not up for auction but still want to take part? Of course, you can toss your hat in the ring for a date night with any of those up for auction, lifting your paddle to raise the bet. But what do you have to offer? The price will be made known to you once the auctioning is done and over with, the Rummage sisters coming to claim — one sorrowful childhood memory, perhaps, or the last few years of your tragic life? Maybe the clothes off your back, or a bit of blood? Remember, the higher the auctioning gets raised, the more you'll have to pay it forward. Make sure you make the date worth it!

Those auctioned off are suited with gorgeous collars in jeweled tones, and only when the buckle gets clicked in place do you feel an instinctual pull to show off for your bidder, and impress them with the bounty they just won. Of course — it's not really you doing it. Your body and personality maintain the image of perfect servitude, but your mind remains your own, feeling trapped inside a body you don't really recognize as your own, having no outlet but an easy smile and a perfect bow, and beneath that — a claustrophobic feeling of being stuck. Additionally, those of you auctioned off in pairs will feel separation anxiety when parted, making yourself sick without presenting as a duo.

Ultimately, you're bought and paid for for one reason only — the pleasure of your bidder. Those bought by the unsettling Balfour guests might be pressed into challenging positions, displayed like living furniture sets for their amusement, a tray of freshly shaken martinis balanced down your spine, the only thing keeping you upright is your dedication to being a good table, or chair, or footrest. People might try to touch you, to break your concentration, to make it more challenging for you. Others might be bought for performance pieces, guests who like to watch while you're made to fuck your partner however they direct you to, while they sit smiling on the sidelines. Still yet, some of you might be put to the challenge of endurance or different sexual challenges that require cooperation, like one in a pair being bound while the other person tries to get you to come, where being too slow or too fast or too bad at the task gets you punished physically. Some, one might say most, just want servants for the night, forcing you to the role of bartender and demanding you serve with your partner in perfect synchronicity.

Regardless of what you're made to do, it's plain to see that the strange friends of the Balfours are invested in one thing and one thing only: observing the fascinating behaviors of you lot, laughing all the while. You're such a strange bunch, you know — enjoy your rowdy fun for the week, but once all is concluded the collars come loose and you fall back into yourself, once again aligned in body and mind.

A TIME OF REMEMBRANCE

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes, slight a/b/o.

You'd be forgiven for not noticing them on entry, but with your mind clearer and more observant, you'll spot in the new wing of the manor — grand portraits in heavy golden frames line the walls, only these aren’t your typical Balfour ancestors. These hauntingly beautiful paintings feature guests familiar to you, though ones you haven’t seen in some time. Emmrich Volkarin. Daniel Molloy. Roronoa Zoro. Alicent Hightower. Lucifer. Gideon Drake. Monkey D. Luffy. Aemond Targaryen. Quentin Toma. Caitlyn Kiramman. Lottie Matthews. Nick O’Broin. Travis Martinez. Nikolai Lantsov. Jinx. Furiosa. Alina Starkov. Paul Atreides. Spike. Of course, those of you new arrivals who haven't had time to miss anyone aren't left high and dry — dead friends and family members belonging solely to you join the portraits, seemingly plucked directly from your mind.

The paintings go on and on, proclaiming without so many words that guests who no longer walk these halls undoubtedly left a mark on Saltburnt — until the frames shift to a darkened silver, ornate carvings of leaves, teeth, and eyes wrought into the metal. The next set of paintings hold people far more familiar, because one of them might be standing right next to you. Eddie Munson. Ash Colchester. Silco. Wanda Maximoff. Lestat de Lioncourt. Buffy Summers. Jackie Taylor. Dean Winchester. Tim Laughlin. Oberyn Martell. Castiel. Parisa Kamali. The paintings continue down the hall, no explanations on the placards present besides a name. Lilies, chrysanthemums, and forget-me-nots decorate the hall. To fully ring in the new year, you must look upon the past without flinching. The Balfours have decided this is the opportune time to both honor and mourn the dead.

Guests are, of course, welcome and encouraged to mourn together. For the latter half of the month, the Iron Rooms of Malice have been converted to accommodate the ongoing remembrances, and are open to private mourning. However, once you enter, you're locked in with your chosen partner (or partners) for the next 24 hours — to fully mourn properly, of course. What's that? You don't actually know them, or who you're supposed to be mourning? Well, you've got plenty of time to figure it out. Each room is stocked with complimentary tissues, a charcuterie board, and twelve bottles of freshly imported Everclear.

To better get to know those who are still with you, whether they've died or not, a body-painting station is available every weeknight in the Chapel — tastefully situated, of course, to afford you and your chosen canvas some privacy. The only colors of paint provided are black and white, along with a soft, calligraphy-style brush, which you will use to paint each bone in your partner’s body, starting with their toes and working your way up to their head. Using the black paint provides a slowly burning arousal and a mounting feeling of euphoria. Your body begs for release, but you’re unable to touch yourself or find any relief until the painting is completed. The building strokes of white paint bring on death-like symptoms, such as extreme cold, slipping away from your body, and acts almost as a sedative. For those who have died, intense feelings can trigger the onset of your death consequence during this ritual.

Morning and weekend services go on as normal in the Chapel. If a guest who has died attends one of these services, over the next few nights you will begin to exhibit animalistic, almost feral tendencies. You will find yourself obsessed with the idea of guardianship over one person or multiple, though these qualities might extend to enhanced smell or hearing, increased aggression, and experiencing cycles of heat and rut. For those less into the literal behavior of animals, the Balfours have organized a scavenger hunt to lighten the mood amongst all the heavy mourning. Three different animal figures — a tiger, a dragon, and a turtle, signifying luck and protection — have been hidden around the grounds. Whoever finds them all will win a prize — one slimy kiss on the cheek from both Haven and Cove, which will serve as protection in the prompt to come.

After all that depression and sadness, a Celebration of Life will be held at the Remembrance Pool in the form of a reserved feast, hosted by none other than Haven and Cove themselves. Guests are given dark-colored mourning attire with brooches attached that are able to sense another’s grief, and the seating seems to be laid out strategically, in that you find yourself beside someone who has experienced a sadness similar to your own. You may feel urgently compelled to confess your grief to someone else, but for some of you it will manifest through the compulsion to physically comfort one another. For small confessions, hand-holding. For something deeper, you could find yourself pulled into someone’s lap, their hands delicately soothing your inner hurts. No matter what, even the most standoffish of you will feel the need to be connected as much as possible, through song, through dance, or through story. Everyone in the room feels on the verge of sobbing, whether you’ve lost someone or not, as if one minor comment could push you over the edge. Must be something in the air. Haven and Cove do the rounds to each table, silently expressing their gratitude for your presence with a brief touch to the shoulder, though they seem to linger especially at the tables where those are experiencing true grief, watching wet cheeks and outright sobs with a curiosity that veers upon sexual, smiles peeling up their lips like old wallpaper.

For food and drink offerings, you’ll find sugared biscuits wrapped in black wax paper, upon which are printed verses ruminating on death. A separate basket of “sin-eating” biscuits sits adjacent; should you consume these while meditating upon a deceased or missing body, you can take their sins as your own as a way to alleviate their travels home, although you might feel a compulsion to act out some of their worst transgressions. Other selections include finger sandwiches, pork pies, scones, and vol-a-vents, along with chocolate eclairs, fruit kebabs, and lemon drizzle cake. The drinks are hearty and plentiful, perhaps the main course of the entire feast. Upon consumption, you begin to have curious visions of losing someone close to you in Saltburnt, should they be dead, dying, or simply gone missing. To anchor yourself from falling further into these hallucinations, skin to skin contact is required — the more intimate, the more effective. A hug or a kiss may spare you for a moment, but you really need to consider moving your mouth a little lower to truly pull yourself back to the present.

Even then, some of you might begin to notice that the crowd has grown a bit sparse. Surely your fellow guests — friends, lovers, those in between — have just gone back to their rooms for some privacy, either with a partner or to simply have a good cry on their own. Once night falls, however, and you’ve searched the halls for your companions, you realize those hallucinations might’ve held some weight. Undeniably, there are a number of guests missing. But where have they gone off to?

TRAPPED, SEALED, CONTAINED

CONTENT WARNINGS: buried alive, claustrophobia.

For some of you, the visions feel less like a dream and more like a blade, slicing to the heart of you, opening up your sorrow to something far more potent and devouring. It flows through your veins as deeply as your blood, your tears choking you, red-cheeked and blurry-eyed as you stumble from the Remembrance Pool. Away from the guests, you try to calm yourself in the quiet solitude, but you swiftly realize you’re not alone. One of the visitors — Haven or Cove, you’re not sure which, although this is the first time you’ve seen them separated — stands suddenly before you, too close, mouth stretched too wide as a cold, wet finger traces your cheek, almost lovingly, a look of grisly desire in their milky eyes. The touch makes you go weak. After sustaining so much grief, you suddenly feel at the end of your rope, your knees giving out when usually you would never succumb to such frailty. Before you have a chance to hit the floor, a pair of boney arms wrap around you, a wash of tangled green hair the last thing you see before your eyes slip closed.

When you open them again, it’s to utter and overwhelming darkness. It takes a moment for the haze over your mind to clear, the floor beneath your back unforgivingly hard, the air stale. You reach out — and your hands barely clear two feet before hitting iron. When you try to turn, you’re boxed in, the walls beside you just as hard, just as unforgiving. Panic creeps in slowly, then in a relentless flood as you push on all sides, even kicking your feet, only to meet solid, unmoving iron. The last thing you remember is Haven or Cove’s touch, and now the culmination of the so-called Celebration of Life has ended with you in a coffin, trapped and thoroughly alone. Any strength or ability that your body innately holds has left you. Those normally able to break through steel or magic their way to safety are left powerless. It’s only you in the dark, your sorrow a living thing pulsing in your chest, your fear swiftly growing in the enclosed space. Sobs come quickly, or wails, or screams of anger and cries for help. Your hands ache from furiously banging the lid, your fingernails bleeding as you resort to scratching the metal. It’s only when you’ve exhausted yourself that you fall silent for long enough to hear the sounds of someone near you, muffled as if they’re trapped. It could be someone you know or a guest you’ve never spoken to, but it’s a lifeline. You call out to them, and they call back.

Communication between nearby coffins is the way you learn that you’re not the only one who has been effectively abducted. Everyone here has the same experience — leaving the Remembrance Pool in distress, only to fall into Haven or Cove’s treacherous arms. Communication is also the one thing that keeps you from falling back into the terror of your circumstances. If your companion isn’t willing to talk, or you go too long in silent isolation, hysteria begins to bubble up, shivers wracking your sweat-soaked body, tears welling in your eyes. Just as it was at the Celebration, closeness remains the key to staying grounded — and those that take comforting the voices beside you seriously, whether you know them, love them, or hate them, are rewarded. With a slow creak, one wall of your coffin suddenly comes loose. With a few shoves, you’re able to knock it down, to reveal that the coffin closest to you has done the same, now joining your two caskets. Still trapped, but at least with company now. Settle in, because it’s going to be a long night.

In the rest of the manor, the Celebration of Life is long over and many of you are searching for your missing friends, haters, and loved ones. Calls and texts keep going not only unanswered but undelivered, although for some of you more absent partners, not getting a text back might be normal for you. As you check their rooms or the beds you’ve taken to sharing lately, small trinkets can be found on the pillow — an earring or a watch from your missing companion, as if someone is toying with you, mocking you, trying to push you. Doing a sweep of the room, you begin to find more and more disturbing breadcrumbs. A neatly bound lock of hair left by the sink. Their favorite or most worn piece of intimate clothing left out on the bed, where it wasn’t a moment ago. When you open the door, your heart pounding, you come face to face with none other than Haven or Cove, looking far more translucent than before, their tall, skinny frame reaching the top of the door. Holding out something for you to take, they smile widely and say only one thing. Looks like your darling is calling out for you from below! Before you can even think of attacking, they’ve vanished, and you’re left with their parting gift: one bloody fingernail.

Panic will drive some of you to action — the hint below might be all it takes to lead you to the crypts under manor, though some of you might have to follow a more instinctual pull, guiding you to your trapped loved ones. Through it all, you have the sense of being watched — your pain or panic voyeuristically enjoyed by some unseen eyes. Still, after some time, you finally find rows and rows of coffins lined up in the crypt, some of them pushed up against each other. A chaotic search ensues to identify who’s who, and then the strongest and most magically skilled among you try to pry open the lids. It's just your luck, that not even those with amplified powers have any success — these coffins are sealed shut with something inhumane, and the moment you hit, pound, saw, or cause harm to the coffin, the person inside abruptly cries out in pain. Somehow, the coffins have been linked to them, and the more damage you cause as you try to open it, the more it hurts them. How bad do you want to get them out? More importantly, how bad do they want to get out?

Just when all hope is lost, your favorite sisters Haven and Cove, and their strange brood appear, to offer a deal: if you really want them out of their confines, will you take their place? Just for an hour. You might feel inclined to attack the strangers, which is understandable, and only met with their growing, ferocious amusement. They don't seem capable of death or even bleeding — thick saltwater will pour out of their noses, coating their disturbing smiles in a shine. Regardless, you either take the deal or not. One hour willingly in the depths of your panic and sorrow, or leaving your partner high and dry, in the thrall of their suffering.

The Rummage sisters and company will make good on their promise. Otherwise, by next sunset the strange company has left, seemingly by stepping into the cracked open frozen lake and turning into seafoam, ending whatever magic was trapping those in coffins, and freeing them up. Upon reuniting with your bed, there will be a note on your pillow, written in haunting script that can only have belonged to the sisters. It reads:

THANK YOU FOR YOUR GRIEF — IT WAS DELICIOUS ! 😋

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

lux ethier — oc (new character)

[commentary]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

CW: none

A. [ Lux wakes up confused before she realizes she has a headache, mouth dry and hair a mess, Not Good punctuated by the grimace with tightly shut eyes. The light that floods the room is no help, and in one horrifying second, Lux knows that everything is wrong. This is not where she fell asleep, but it is where she woke up — and that can mean only one thing. Eygr must have taken over her body and led it to wherever It pleased. ]


Did you… what did you do? [ She asks It, annoyed and worried, spotting the pills by the bed. One flick of the hand and they float over to rest on the palm, inspected while the Thion in her head remains silent. Maybe It's gone to sleep. The next flick of her hand makes the glass of water float smoothly to her, drinking before downing the medication that better help. ]

—

B. [ The covers are shoved aside, then she walks to the first door she finds. It leads to a bathroom, which leads to another room, apparently unvisited by the stiff staff of his place. No worries — Lux moves a finger and the curtains snap open, light entering the room like a truck through the walls. ]

Wakey wakey! I've got questions, if you've got time.

[ Doubtful that they don't, if they were sleeping late. ]

MARKET PRICES

CW: mind-reading/possible mind control, open to being nsfw (OTA)

[ Something formal graces Lux's closet when the announcement is made, and it so just happens to fit her perfectly. She makes her way to the auction, participates on the bidder's side, and wins the round. After they unceremoniously cut her open to accept payment in blood, an offended winner makes her way to claim the auctioned person that caught her eye. Her lips don't move, but her voice is clearly heard in their head: ]

Don't worry, I'm not doing anything to you. Just wanna talk. Okay?

[ She asks okay?, but she doesn't intend to give them much of a choice. Honey over vinegar and all that.. ]

TIME OF REMEMBRANCE

CW: possible nsfw, open to heat & rut without mention of pregnancy, please!

[ It's all so strange — this display of the dead, either to honor them or to treat them as the little animals Lux grew up observing and touching like each and every one was a novelty. She tilts her head at the paintings, walks down to see where it ends, how much death one single manor can contain in its atoms.

Whether it be here, or after the painting ceremony has awakened something feral in the guests, or if you've just found one of the three animal figures, Lux speaks up as soon as she spots the scavenging hunter. If it seems like she's been following them for a while — surely that's just a silly thought. They would've sensed her somehow, unless she'd been purposely hiding herself from their perception. ]

What're you up to? [ Through a bit of charming little laughter, ] I have no idea what's going on.

---

[ Info here. Lux is possessed by a 'Thion' called Eygr that gives her psychic powers. Let me know if these would/wouldn't work on your character, and feel free to sense that she's possessed! ]

welcome - b

[temujackie]

[ Melissa does wakey wakey, but only kind of. She groans and throws an arm across her eyes to block out the light, but it's too little too late. Her other arm feels across the bed like she's checking something, but it's empty aside from herself. Not totally unheard of, so it doesn't alarm her.

In fact, she sounds more petulant than concerned when she lowers her arm from her face and says, ] God. What? [ Then, even more bewildered, ] Nat, what the hell?

[ No offense, it's just that Natalie never comes to their room, much less this early. Melissa's gaze shifts to the clock on the bedside table. ... Okay, it's not early, but the first point still stands. ]

[commentary]

[ Lux tilts her head thoughtfully, brows drawn together and lips pursed, dark hair slipping from her shoulder to her front. She's wearing silk pyjamas, long sleeves and two buttons, flowy trousers in pastels that suit her rosy skin color. She imagines the girl is mistaking her for someone else — perhaps someone from staff called Nat, who comes over to draw the curtains like that other maid did for Lux? Except there's something in there about this Nat never coming to this room — and softly crosses her arms as she steps over to the bed. Blonde hair, like Lux sometimes wishes she could have. There's the firefly or a desire to touch it, like she always wanted to touch the animals within her reach, loving fascination behind the selfish urge. ]

My thoughts exactly! What the hell. [ Conspiratorial, picking up the name from Melissa's thoughts, what follows has the melody of a question: ] Who's Natalie?

[temujackie]

Umm. My friend?

[ Kinda... yeah, no, they are friends. Mel inspected her body back in October, which she definitely would not do for just anybody. They even made out last month. It was nice.

Melissa sits up, rubbing her eyes with a yawn. She's eschewed the fancy pajamas provided by the manor in favor of a sports bra and boxers, and the sight of Nat in the really nice silk ones is like—it's just weird. It doesn't fit.

Actually, none of this fits. "Who's Natalie"? The fuck. Why's her hair that color? Oh nooo. The last of the sleepiness drains out of her, only to be replaced by anxiety. ]

Are you, like. Body snatched? [ Oh no!!! ]

[commentary]

As in... the slang?

[ Yas queen body snatched. Using humor and feigning cluelessness, trying to pry at any thoughts that bubble to the surface and give information Mel isn't capable of offering. Or is unwilling to? Never leave out any possibility.

Lux shakes her head for a little reset and to take two figurative steps back. ]

Sorry, I should've asked your name first! I'm Lux, and I have no idea where I am right now. Could you help me out?

[temujackie]

[ The... slang?

Not important. Melissa is staring at her, trying to figure out if she's being fucked with and if so, whose idea it was. The other girl's voice even sounds like Natalie, but the words she's saying make zero sense and also sound way too... nice? Nat Scatorccio would never say "I should have asked your name first," for one thing. ]

It's Melissa. Hold on, um—

[ Mel grabs her phone off the table and texts are you in my room rn telling me your name is lux to Natalie, then hits send with narrowed eyes, waiting to hear the chime. There's nothing, and a few seconds later she receives a no, weirdo text back.

Melissa flops back against the pillows with a distressed sigh. ]

Uh... okay. Sure.

[commentary]

[ The next move is to try and pick up the words Melissa sends out, then read whatever she's reading from her inner voice. Even someone who's seen and been through the amount of weirdness Lux has finds this situation particularly weird, from waking up in a strange place and chatting to a strange girl who thinks she's staring at the proof that doppelgangers are real.

Part of her sets the wakey wakey situation aside for the burning curiosity sparked by this Natalie. Do they look exactly alike? Is Natalie like her, or even a version of her? Lux has siblings, but she doubts her mother and father pulled off a real life Parent Trap. She did fantasize about that, though. The idea of a long lost twin sister somewhere out there, and all the fun things they'd do together. ]

Okay, Melissa. Oh, first — can I sit down?

[ If the answer's yes, she'll go ahead and sit on the bed, hands on her lap, face turned for the eye contact. And if says no... 🧍‍♀️ ]

Where are we?

[temujackie]

Oh. Sure.

[ The beds are huge, so there's plenty of room, but Mel still curls her legs up to avoid any weird touching as Lux sits on the edge. It's not personal, but she's very weirded out right now. ]

They say this is England, but it's not really England. The house is called Saltburnt. [ Umm. ] Sorry, um, you look exactly like my friend. Like, identical. [ She messes with her phone until she finds a picture of Nat and hesitantly turns the phone around. See? She's not crazy. This is crazy. ]

[commentary]

[ England but not, a house that has a name. Like an animal. Lux looks away to think about that, then returns her gaze to see the photo on the phone. Turns out Mel is right about Lux and her friend. Hair and makeup aside, ]

Oh, wow. I can't blame you for mixing us up.

[ She reaches over to bring the phone a little closer, dark hair slipping from her shoulder. Parent Trap confirmed? There's another possibility: that Eygr took over, changed her appearance and played with a new identity, then something buried him back down to let Lux wake up instead.

No. That's too complex for Eygr. Incredibly farfetched, too. ]

Does she ever have white eyes? Actually, fully white.

[temujackie]

[ Okay, that's a very specific thing to ask. ] Um, no? Does that happen to you...?

[ They've established that this definitely isn't Natalie, but it still looks like Natalie and sounds like her—mostly. Nat has that permanent growl in her voice from smoking so much. Now that Melissa's more awake she can sense that there are definite differences besides just the hair. Their faces looking exactly the same, though? Weird. ]

[commentary]

It does! Here: [ She straightens her posture, takes a deep breath and focuses, eyes closed. She's using her powers where Mel can't see them and where she won't have to feel them; opened, her irises are seemingly gone, white as the sclera. He places a gentle finger on her cheekbone, just under the lower eyelid. ]

Sometimes it happens when I use my abilities, like this. Sometimes it happens because Eygr took over. That's the Thion in my head — do you know what a Thion is?

welcome / b

[wolven]

[ The curtain rings rattle; the light shines in. Facedown on the sheets, Ethan twists to glance, bleary-eyed, at the intruder. Sleep-mussed, he huffs out a wry laugh as he rolls over, peering for a beat — the kind of beat that's a little assessing, a little like he scents something on the air — into the round of Lux's face. Wide, bambi eyes. Neat, shiny hair. Different, from how everything about him's a little worn in. There's dirt under his fingernails. The silvered scar on his arm itches, but only for a second. ]

Ain't seeing other ways to spend it. [ Voice low, gravel rough, Montana bound. He sits up at the headboard, idly patting at the bedside table until he finds what he's looking for: a pack of cigarettes, pulling one from the pack to light it then and there. ] You part of the staff?

[commentary]

[ She watches him as he watches her, taking the time to try and pick up any thoughts, seeing if there's an opening to look any deeper. Ethan looks like he belongs anywhere but here, carrying a special charm that tells a story written on his skin and the dirt under his nails, one chapter on the scar, another in a pack of cigarettes being his priority while he's still in bed. Lux's eyes watch his hands while she listens to all the details in his voice, detour rewinded so she's back to looking at him, hands clasped behind her back.

Swaying lightly on the balls of her feet before she steps further into his room, Lux's smile friendly with a hint of guarded. She doesn't imagine staff start their day by wandering into rooms wearing silk pyjamas, but she also wouldn't have imagined herself waking up in a random manor on the countryside, either. Anything is possible. Apparently. ]

Nope! I'm not sure I'm a part of anything right now. [ Pointing behind her with her thumb, ] I just woke up in the other room. Do they... work for you?

[wolven]

[ Around another laugh, muted through the pinch of filter through his teeth, ]

Can't imagine how.

[ But anything is possible, apparently. His thoughts are a tickertape of the same — a long, dirt road; headlights in the distance; his hands around someone else's wrists; cheap, peeling motel wallpaper; four legged, rather than two — exactly three nights ago, before he opened his eyes and ended up here. The paper catches. He inhales. He rolls his neck one way then the other, vertebrae releasing with low, singular cracks. He doesn't do the done thing of exhaling his plumes upwards. Instead, he lets it hang, gray and hazy, lingering in the space between them. Smoke, nicotine. Opulence, light. Every wild animal knows exactly what a cage is, even if what it looks like changes.

Another beat. Magic has a particular scent, a specific cue. This isn't that. He narrows his eyes anyway, his focus orbiting all her little movements. The exact friendly pitch of her smile. ]

That you doing that? [ His free hand makes a motion near his temple, as if he's trying to swat away some fly. Something small, frustrating if it grows any larger. ] Could ask, before you start reachin' around inside of me.

[commentary]

[ Every wandering thought is a pleasant drop of rain on her arms, cool and small, brushing against skin and becoming a part of her mind with every drip, drip, drip. She likes watching the world through others' eyes, animals and humans alike, incapable of shedding the part of her who lost herself in nature's trinkets and wished she could keep one or two to herself.

(Four legged, rather than two, and her breath catches momentarily. Thion comes to mind, but she decides that's incorrect almost as soon as the word strikes. A man possessed by a Thion wouldn't be a man at all.)

Something else, then. Something new, something that's been around for a long while. Lux is forever the girl who wants the insects to crawl over her fingers and feel the fur of any mammal, soft or coarse. That's when she realizes she's being watched, too, beyond what normal people do when they're politely looking at the person they're talking to. Lux's eyes widen slightly, a rush of excitement when, again, she's struck with something unexpected. He knows. ]

Oh.

[ The first few seconds of silence linger like she's wearing guilt on her lips. Then they shift into a smile, bubbly laughter as she's faced with her faux pas. She's sorry, but only that she got caught. ]

People tend to say no. Or they just don't believe me, which — might as well be a no.

[ Someone's been living by the forgiveness, not permission rule. Speaking of: she walks closer, sits at the foot of his bed on the opposite side, leaning her weight on one hand. ]

It wasn't painful or anything, was it?

[wolven]

[ A hum rattles out of him. The kind that sits low from his chest, amusement full of disuse, brows furrowing and unfurrowing between one inhale and the next. She's like something made of air. A silken girl, floating on the breeze, light as a feather and collecting forgivenesses. She smells like it too — brackish, which says magic. Ozone, which says something other than magic. Enough blood that her flesh is human, the faint pulse of her heart echoing into his own ears. Melting into his. Thump, thump, thump. ]

Like bein' bit by a mosquito. [ He allows, after a beat. As in: annoying. Not something people regularly reach for. Leaves you with an itch after, more aware that it happened than it was happening at all. Ethan shrugs, only lightly eyeballing the fact she's closer, twisting to place his smoke in some gilded fucking ashtray. His messy little graveyard, marked by a still smoldering pyre. ] And I'm not people.

[ Leaning forward, it draws the line of his body closer to her. The mattress barely creaks. Underneath the covers, knees raised, both arms come to rest on the round of them. He smiles without teeth. ] Don't think you're people, either.

[ His arm extends. Loose, relaxed, the jut of veins underneath skin, healthy and large and alive. He offers her his hand palm-up, marred by callouses and cuts and fingertips smelling like smoke. ]

You want to see?

[commentary]

[ Selective politeness dictates that she stop prying, missing out on more impressions, as sweet as a gifted flower, red and velvety. There's other things to observe, in the physical world and the now, midnight-dark hair slipping when she tilts her head to listen, then to wonder.

Relaxed, lips part for a grin, amused by the comparison to a mosquito. She has poise, she feels at her best when she's pretty and composed, but there's humor outside of that scope, a charm that she can see both in the sky and the dirt. He's of the dirt, she thinks. Earthly, rich; dens, hunting grounds. Alive. ]

I'm mostly people.

[ Smile guarded on her lips and plain in her eyes. It feels like flirting with someone you met by chance. The flirting is in doing what Fully People can't really do; of course she's drawn to it, with or without having heard his name out loud. ]

Yes, please.

[ Lux takes his hand, a lady accepting the invitation to a waltz. Isn't it? ]

[wolven]

[ Her hand alights in his. The way it lands, it puts the pad of his fingers under the cluster of veins at her wrist. The papery-soft skin there. The point of her pulse, all wrapped around graceful bone.

The maw opens wide. He lets her in.

There are no ways to defend yourself against the Unseen Work. Not where Ethan is from. Not unless you practice the Work yourself. But there are rules to the magic of his home, some that translate more than they don't — that the mind of an animal is harder to see than the mind of a man.

It's a man's thoughts that greet her on the surface, tangible and anchored in words: he is tired, he is confused, he is bored; he is thinking about going to piss, going to find more cigarettes, going to find coffee; he is cautious, he is curious. He thinks she is pretty. He likes the way she smells. She does not smell the way people smell.

And then, beyond: the further inside of Ethan the connection runs, the darker it gets. Shapes and images arise. Like watching through warped, old glass, blurry pictures and muted sounds available to her: the breath of an animal, running, panting. The feeling of cool, wintery dirt under paws. The way nights taste when you are an animal, because Ethan is an animal, and even when Ethan was a boy there was always the animal. Course fur snags against branches as he runs. He watches from afar, two yellow, golden eyes directed at the stables where the horses live, where they stamp and whicker and flick their tails nervously. His tongue lolls inside a mouth full of canine incisors. The taste he loves best is fresh marrow from bone. These are the things he lets her see: one page at a time, a flipbook that blurs together until it makes a shape of a wolf that runs, and runs, and runs. ]

[commentary]

[ The door opens. A door to a house that's empty but lived in, sensations instead of furniture, wants and needs instead of the trinkets and decorations lit by a white brightness entering through the windows, hiding what lies outside. All white, all empty, alone in this room where the only person in the world left, but could come back at any moment.

Another door opens. What lies beyond leads her deeper into the earth, that imagery of dirt and dens made remarkably real, darker and darker until there are shapes, and she's no longer looking in. She looks outward, she's a passenger while the world slips past her, carried by a host that lives in the past and runs like there's more to leave behind than what lies ahead.

The first animal she ever inhabited was a crow. Smart things that owe you for life or hold a grudge passed down to the next generation, depending on what you did right or how you did them wrong; they say they're as smart as a young child, but that was never the side of their brain she was interested in. It was the body — how it moved, the muscle memory of using wings to fly and land and take off again. It's always been how the body inhabits reality that she's wanted to feel. There is a creature that's a passenger in her body, after all. Of course she'd want to do the same.

Ethan lets her inhabit him — not the body, but the memory of a body, all the way from winter under his paws to the blood he will have in his mouth, because he wants it, because bones were made to be crushed like sugar cane.

This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for her, so Lux smiles, eyes closed to bring all the other senses out. She squeezes his hand and brushes his knuckles with her thumb, the way she'd stroke the wolf's fur if it were here. ]

[wolven]

[ She isn't scared. Not of the body, or the memory of a body. A sensation bores through the images, a wriggling worm through an apple, an animal's eye and a man's mouth: plain, heavy interest. The thrill of something strange. A newness so rare in a world that's stopped surprising him. Her thumb strokes over his knuckles, a soft, slow thing, and her eyes are closed but Ethan's are open. Watching with focus. Looking with deliberate, pulsing intent. At the soft sweep of her lashes, and the fullness of her cheek, and the very human flush to the shape of her mouth.

Lowly, ]

What do they call you?

[ Focused. Quiet. A bare murmur as the door begins to close — not cleaving the connection, but letting it go. The wolf runs and the trees around it blur and shrink back into the dark; the moonlight fades, leaving only the great, distant breaths of a creature whose work is not done, even in memory. Singular little deaths as trees begin to wither and rupture. Stars winking out. Back from the memory of coolness and into the acrid scent of smoke, the too-clean bedsheets, the mystery of waking up in an unfamiliar sun.

Ethan is still holding her hand. Palm-up, as if a waltz. In the light, curtains open in full, the unnatural ring of his eyes briefly gleam like a hello. ]

[commentary]

[ He carries her away from his memories, leading the dreamer back to the waking world, and Lux opens her eyes. The blue iris is gone for a moment, the connection in their hands requiring her to use Eygr's powers for stability, lest she get lost in his memories or be suddenly kicked out, like being asked to sit up too quickly after lying down with her head hanging from the edge of the bed. This way the blood doesn't rush and empty out, one breath taken to end a meditative-like moment, smiling back at the eyes that glint for one moment, a coin in the water reflecting the sun, gone as quickly as it said the same hello. White eyes gradually gain their irises back, the longer she goes without using her powers. ]

Lux. The other one is Eygr, but It isn't talking.

[ it shouldn't be for quite some time, if all goes well. Eygr's surfacing tends to be for unfortunate reasons and bears even worse results. ]

What's your name?

market prices

[monstronaturae]

[ it's an unfamiliar intrusion that she doesn't expect. but agatha's not holding her mental shields up. because she has no control over her body or her magic. the flicker of doubt might be palpable underneath the control the collar's already exerting. ]

Sure. You should try knocking next time.

[ some of her tone's harshness is lost. a little watery, punctuated by discomfort and fear (this was too reminiscent of her time under the scarlet witch's spell). still, it's more brusque than her preening exterior.

the collar taps into something real that's been buried deep, intrinsic. a need for attention, a desire to prove herself. she wants to be good, if only someone will let her.

she bites her lip as her grin spreads. ]

Anything you need, honey?

[commentary]

Would you open the door to a stranger?

[ The most unhinged justification for intruding a stranger's mind: you wouldn't have let me otherwise. Lux smiles like she's taking her time observing Agatha's features and committing them to mind, in the pause between meeting her prize and brushing some hair behind the woman's ear, fingers following a strand down to the tip. Careful touches, poise and warmth for the human being she just won. The dissonance is condemned to get worse. ]

I'm Lux Ethier. [ No introduction of the creature living in her skull, not yet. ] Will you tell me your name?

[monstronaturae]

If I were curious enough, I might.

[ telepathy is a difficult thing even for witches to master. despite the discomfort, the accompanying hum of uncertainty, agatha is intrigued. without the looming threat of vulnerability, she might not have minded the hand in her hair. it's a familiar start to so many games she's played. but this—

the collar stops her from taking a step backward or catching the younger woman's hand in her wrist. it doesn't let her reach out with something gentle in return either, even as agatha's body hovers closer, seeking out proximity. ]

Of course. [ her voice is a purr as she bends in a false curtsy, with no skirts to lift. ] Agatha Harkness — at your service.

[commentary]

[ It's — nice, to have someone acting like this, even when Lux can hear the other, genuine thoughts somewhere in there. If not literally, then a blurry shape of them, displeased and thinking of alternatives to accepting the fingers in her hair. ]

Agatha. [ The quirk on her lips that makes her look like she's not sure how much to smile. It's a polite attempt at showing warmth. As much warmth as the occasion calls for, anyway. ] It's nice to meet you. What would you like to do?

[ Her version of how can I make you comfortable. ]