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

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Comments

sofia falcone gigante | batman/penguin | new!

[femicide]

I. GRIEF — protect the family. (cw loss of family members)

[ Sofia knows none of the living or the dead here, but she has an excellent wardrobe for funerals, so why not show face? For much of the proceedings, she hangs back, quietly observing the crowds — though she can be heard telling Portia there’s nothing wrong with supporting a dominant species. And please do share details of the Foundation, for further support.

Either she lingers where you’ve stopped, or you find her in a hallway seemingly dedicated to a single family:

ISABELLA FALCONE, OCTOBER 7, 1959 — MARCH 20, 1994
CARMINE FALCONE, SEPTEMBER 5, 1957 — NOVEMBER 5, 2022
ALBERTO FALCONE, DECEMBER 29, 1983 — NOVEMBER 13, 2022
LUCA FALCONE, MAY 22, 1962 — NOVEMBER 22, 2022
GIOVANNI "JOHNNY" VITI, JULY 16, 1960 — NOVEMBER 22, 2022
CARLA VITI, DECEMBER 10, 1988 — NOVEMBER 22, 20222

And three more, after that.

Her expression remains fixed. Unreadable. Eventually, Sofia slips a golden cigarette case from the pocket of her fur coat. After she slots a fag between the v of her fingers, she pauses. Possessed by an instinct to connect that isn’t quite her own, she extends her hand and the case with it. ]

Banner year. [ Tipping her head at the closest placard, complicit Carla. ] Twenty-twenty-two. [ An accent not quite Jersey, not quite New York. She doesn't wait for acknowledgement. ] You know today is my birthday? [ Mind the glint in her eye (Dangerous? Darkly amused?), the crooked half of a smile, as she pockets the case and flicks open her lighter. The flame reflects in her big, brown eyes. ] Sofia Falcone. January third, nineteen-eighty-five. Dot, dot, dot.

[ Still kicking. ]

II. WINNER — i'll be your father figure. (cw: undernegotiated kink, poss dubcon, gunplay)

[ In one of The Otherworld’s lush playrooms, there seems to be surprisingly little decor. A blank canvas, so to speak. Only a woman, dressed for a finer affair than the club, the look accented with a red neck scarf. Sat back in the single chair present, revolver in one hand and cigarette in the other. The former could be a prop, or you could be in for an interrogation.

She flicks the barrel from your chest to the floor. Perhaps she won your auction and means to take her prize. Perhaps you simply took a wrong (right?) turn. ]

Kneel.

[ A drag of her cig. One brow kinks. ]

Kneel or leave. [ Gun to the floor and then to the door, illustrative. Voice long and hard on the vowels. Sofia blows out a puff of smoke. The safety clicks off. ] Don’t waste my time.

III. NETWORK — step into my office.

@s has posted to the saltburnt network!

ISO: Bodyguard. Don’t care if you shit laser beams. Prefer competency with hand-eye and firearms.
Compensation: Bespoke.

iii. @zombieboy

[masticated]

been fightin since the 50s, killin since i was born
you're not gonna meet anybody here like me

[femicide]

[ hm. ]

Do I also get to use your senior citizen's discount?

[masticated]

nothin senior about me or do you wanna find out for yourself

[femicide]

As it happens, this would be a very senior position. Unsuitable for boys, zombie or otherwise.

[ your username does not inspire confidence. ]

iii. 🔐 @WASP

[eidetics]

I don’t shit laser beams.

What’s your bespoke compensation?

[femicide]

That depends on you, don't it, or it would not be bespoke.

[eidetics]

Yes. And presumably there are things you are and aren’t willing to offer.

[femicide]

So you presume.
Are you likely to ask for something a lady [ lol. ] would not offer?

ii

[aldhani]

[this isn't the first time that cassian has been on offer to others (his time in duplicity had involved multiple stints in the people zoo, for one "crime" or another), but it's the first time he's ever actually been bought. he isn't happy about it; the collar, scratching at his neck, is entirely too reminiscent of the place he's left behind, and he stiffens the instant he's fitted with it.

even so, he knows the situation could be worse.

instead of now being at the whims of one (or both) of the rummage sisters, he's here, in the otherworld, eyes traveling from the gun, to the puff of smoke blown out in front of them, to the woman herself. she has a way of drawing that gaze, somehow; she's small, but she's striking. commanding.

a brow quirks up, and so does one of the corners of his mouth.]

You're offering a choice?

[notably, he doesn't do what he's told, opting to remain exactly where he is.]

[femicide]

[ cigarette still between her teeth — ] Sure.

[ with a roll of her shoulders that says why not? sofia could see his stiffness from the floor, too, and perhaps that’s exactly why she bid on him. a man who doesn’t like the game, but who plays it, anyway. she can understand that. empathise with it, maybe.

she tips the cig away from her mouth, tapping the ash from the end. ]

We already saved the seals. [ dangling the gun from her fingertips, generously pointed below his crotch. ] Cassian, right? Very heroic. [ she blinks twice. uncrosses her legs. ] The seals, I mean. Your name comes from the Latin for empty or hollow.

[ hallow, in her accent. ]

[aldhani]

[some people are puzzles that are easier to put together than others, just by watching them for a time. this woman, though, is harder to read; it's not for a lack of trying — cassian's gaze remains focused, switching from the gun, to the cigarette, to her face, and back again — but he doesn't learn much, beyond the initial impressions. that's interesting.

so he stays.]

I wouldn't know what it comes from. It's just a name.

[a name that'd been given to him at the age of nine, that he'd kept ever since. it's his turn to lift one shoulder in a shrug.]

What will you do if I take the first option? [kneeling.

he still doesn't move.]

[femicide]

[ it’s just a name. easily stripped from you like dirty clothes. peeled back like old paint to reveal the true finish underneath. maybe if you’re a little nothing, huh. hollow. but a name is everything, in a family such as hers. to the five families, in fact, with dominion over gotham. to true sicilians like her father’s father, who nearly had it taken from him by a dipshit at the american border. even to her brother, who got a stupid fuckin’ falcon tattooed on his chest.

to sofia, the proverbial coin flipping between her fingers. heads or tails. falcone or gigante. ]

Do feel free to pick a new one, if it doesn’t suit.

[ suggested mildly, with a magnanimous widening of her arms, no evidence of any turmoil to be seen. a slight smile. ]

I’ll offer you more challenging work than that of a particularly inelegant drinks’ table.

grief

[retrogressive]

Happy birthday, Sofia Falcone! It's truly an honor to meet a woman with — [ she points through each portrait, counting swiftly. ] nine dead loved ones.

[ the case gleams in invitation, sapphira delicately plucking out a cigarette, then holding it forward so sofia can light it for her. she's carrying nothing of use, her overdone mauve and gold dress standing out garishly among the mourners. from the nearby decor, a stolen chrysanthemum sits nestled in her dark hair. ]

You must be the most favored in your family. Congratulations. [ she is, for all intents and purposes, sincere. she flicks the ash of her burning cigarette to the floor without taking a drag. ] I mourn the loss of fifty-seven of my dearly departed. I can give you a tour. It won't be very good, because I don't remember all their names. But they were very dear nonetheless. Which one of these was your favorite?

[femicide]

[ sofia watches her first. lights her second. at most favoured, her smile evens and widens, luminous in the hall of their dead. nevermind the twitch at the corners — or the tight pull of the muscle in her jaw. most favoured. beloved daughter, niece, cousin until self-preservation dictated otherwise. most favoured, in squalor for ten years, no visitors but one. ]

You might say I created my own favour, as an enterprising woman is wont to do. [ her eyes flick up the line. she considers lying because one should always consider it, but — ] Berto. He was my brother. [ softer. ] Most dear.

[ she sweeps out her arm, inviting sapphira to lead. a woman reminiscent of her block at arkham, to be sure. ]

Please do. And tell me, does your family believe in contraception?

[retrogressive]

I believe you most certainly did. You're here, aren't you?

[ here being more of an abstract concept than a place she's solidly confident in naming, considering she's only just just arrived. but waking up to servants and gilded faucets and a closet full of shimmering clothes is a clear weakness of hers, when indulging isn't technically part of the plan. the plan can always be rearranged. updated. ]

Berto. [ a sigh, as she pins herself to her arm. ] Thank you for your sacrifice, Berto, and allowing me the pleasure of Sofia Falone's company. So kind of you ask. We didn't have that around, I don't think. They told me just don't let anyone come inside you. Do you do that?

[ they begin to walk, sure enough finding a long row of portraits, all of extremely plain, no-nonsense faces — no jewelry, no makeup, nothing of note, until she gets to one man in particular. Burnished red hair, a square jaw, his eyes a goopy white color. no resemblance whatsoever to sapphira. ]

This is my father. [ clearly with no intention of introducing the rest of the bygone faces — ] Captain Deadwiler. I painted over his eyes when no one was looking, to show that he might be having a vision. I inherited those from him.

grief.

[revvedup]

[ max has started to wonder if there's a method to getting out of here that she hasn't figured out yet. some of the portraits had been familiar (mostly people she's seen since arriving here, so far), but there's a small woman she comes across who seems transfixed by the set of portraits lining this particular wall, and it doesn't take long for her to see why. even without the names etched underneath, she bears a resemblance to them all in some way.

the woman moves, then speaks, extending a cigarette case to her. max shakes her head, but the woman barely seems to notice, moving on to light her own smoke before declaring her name and birthday. and the year 2022, something else she doesn't have to clarify the 'why' about when it comes to it being a banner year. ]

Looks like. [ there's a touch of sympathy in her tone, even if the woman doesn't seem sad. family's complicated. ] I'd say happy birthday, but.

[ seems kind of inappropriate, given the givens. ]

[femicide]

[ not a smoker, then. not much of anything really. a girl at a funeral who knows how to act and what to say. maybe because she believes those things to be right.

dime a dozen. ]

You can say it. Or cent'anni, though we ought to snag the champagne for that. [ she writes the translation with her cigarette. ] “May you live one hundred years.” Now, the odds are not in my favour, given — [ the givens. a glance down the line. ] But it’s tradition, not prophecy.

grief

[saucius]

[ Meetra listens politely before leaning in ever so slightly. ]

Was it you or... [ She gauges the woman's reaction before continuing. ] Accidents happen? Highly coordinated, specific accidents, in some cases.

[ The numbers mean diddly squat to Meetra, so she just shrugs. She doesn't even know how these people measure years yet. ]

Any birthday I can walk relatively intact from is a good one, I'd say. And you look positively intact, which is even better, so hey, so far so good.

[femicide]

[ her brows hike with the question. no evidence of the many misfortunes behind her eyes. her mother, by her father’s hands. her father, under the scope of some jumped up psychopath. her brother, by the slimiest wannabe pezzonovante this side of jersey. and the rest — ]

No, but would you believe that’s the very thing I told the police? [ voice lifting, ] My family has such sway, in the city. [ the only city that matters. ] Even death by lightning, by flood, an act of god, I would question.

[ she snaps the cigarette case shut with a clack. ]

Positively. [ intact. whole. when she took a bullet to the brain in arkham and the heart in her own goddamn driveway. ] And you seem…close.

[ a few screws loose. ]

[saucius]

No matter the place, men tremble at the idea of a woman taking the lead. [ The Jedi might have been fairly agnostic of such ideas, but they all lived in a big galaxy chock full of big, fragile, male egos. Then again, few things stood the test of a lightsaber to the crotch. ] And all that sway went to you? That's enough to make the wrong kind of person get all sorts of ideas.

[ She's definitely the wrong kind of person, Meetra. Nosy as all hell, unable to keep from trouble, brave to the point of stupidity; the woman could have been surrounded by hired muscle and she would've said the same thing. ] No disrespect meant, I hope you understand. Ambitious people have a burden to carry.

[ Meetra simply smiles sweetly. She is who she is, a product of idealism, sacrifice and betrayal. She would be actually insane to think all's good up there. ]

Thanks, you could've been far more unkind. We all have shit to work through, don't we? That's what being alive means. You shovel shit, and then you die. [ She mimics picking something up and placing it aside. ] And you hope the spot you cleaned does some good in the long run.

I'm going the insane route (winner);

[perfectionner]

[ Whenever Lestat ventures into Otherworld, he never chooses the same room twice, rarely enjoys the same company outside of his already favored guests. When you've endured going on centuries now, few pursuits are capable of exciting anew — but, of course, he's convinced himself of this before ever crossing paths with the dark-haired beauty wearing that scarf like a slash of blood across her throat, smoke curling in the air around her.

He has to assume the gun she points in his direction is loaded, even if its bullets would only be a minor source of irritation. Still, his mouth quirks with visible interest as he holds out his hands, defensively, allowing the door to audibly creak shut behind him. ]

I imagine there are other men who have learned the value of that lesson before.

[ He sinks to his knees in a controlled descent, hands falling to rest atop his thighs. ]

Do you issue all your orders at gunpoint?

iii - @phoenix

[cinzas]

not to be a hater but what do you need protection from
sentient feather dusters?

[femicide]

Can you read?
Your typing suggests you can, and so I direct you to the “load previous posts” functionality, which will prove enlightening.

[cinzas]

fappy new year
party tricks
broken feet and video games
fishing for drama
vampire lore
how far back am i scrolling