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

Harry Goodsir | The Terror | current character

[mygoodsir]

market prices

[Harry is there for the seals.

This is not a joke; Harry has no idea what species are and are not endangered in 2008. The idea of wildlife conservation wasn't something people really gave a shit about in the 1840s and for all he knows the relentless march of progress has wiped out thousands of animals.

So he's there, dressed up nice, expecting to bid on antiques and hoping that said antiques might be from his own time. Imagine, getting a little piece of home in this place!

It is with growing discomfort that he realises the auction is for people. Some of whom he knows. The discomfort grows into mild shock and horror as he realises that some of the bidders have extremely inappropriate plans for those being bid upon.

Harry Goodsir has the softest, squishiest of hearts and a remarkable lack of self preservation instincts. If he sees someone onstage who looks uncomfortable with this situation? Up goes the bidding paddle. Over and over and over, with no regard as to how in debt in this may put him.

It's fine - if he has to pay in sorrow his pockets are deep.

Upon winning, he will approach his new acquisition with a nervous smile.]

Ah. Hello. It appears that I've... purchased you? For an evening.

a time of remembrance

i.
[Oh, he could have his own gallery wing of portraits of the dead. As Harry walks down the hall he sees a painting of a ship and its crew, an all-too familiar tableau, and then simply a series of portraits.

Including his own.

You can find him staring at any of these, looking resigned.]

Pointless.


ii.
[He shows far more emotion upon discovering a portrait of one still among the living. Harry stands in front of the painting of Tim Laughlin, his eyes wide and his breath rapid.]

No. Not him.

[He will turn to whoever is nearby.] We need to find out why some of them are up here when they are not yet gone.


iii.
[Later, in a black suit with a lovely Victorian mourning brooch pinned to his lapel, he sits quietly and will listen to any confessions of grief people may be compelled to share.

As the evening goes on he grows increasingly upset, hazel eyes perpetually brimming with tears. He looks around frequently as if seeking someone, and will periodically clutch at people's hands or arms.

(He will vanish by the end of the evening. Uh oh.)]

( market prices / ish )

[deadnerve]

[The bidding on the auctioned people's well underway, with numbers called leading people up to the stage alone or in pairs one after another. Devon's been kind of zoned out, still wearing his chosen 'slutty outfit' for the evening, including the ears - albeit one is now a little bent. His reasoning is it's better to be slutty and bid on than not bid on at all. He's yet to see it matter as he hasn't been called.

He sits down next to Harry, bored, taking up someone else's seat and leaning to drink their champagne while the bidding on someone in the background continues.]

Ey, what's up doc.

[mygoodsir]

Not a doctor, Devon.

[Whispered. It's a silent auction, Devon. Although there's plenty of murmuring going on anyway.]

You're looking... cute?

[deadnerve]

[God, Looney tunes was lost on you from the start. He shrugs his shoulders and leans to take Harry's glass next, looking to see if he's got anything in it to drink.]

Remind me to introduce you to Playboy. Unless you already know about it?

time of remembrance - 1.5

[viver]

[ Somewhere between murmuring pointless and before finding the dreaded portrait, Zephir crosses his path, standing tall as ever, except — slouching, somewhat, a different light in his eyes as he searches and searches and … finds.

Harry, dear Harry, so devoted that he gave up his eye to the one guest who could make something beautiful from excruciating violence. Zephir smiles, black calligraphy on his skin, but the line of his lips falters, showing teeth, taking in a breath that traces a path of Harry's scent back to his wandering body. Zephir walks to him, closes the distance, touches his face and feels the pleasant warmth of sunlight and a dormant beast passing through him like a ghost. Wordlessly, he leans down, brushes his nose against Harry's neck, steals his scent in a gradually deeper inhale. ]

Something's happening to us, love.

[ Us, not me. Harry is a part of this now. ]

[mygoodsir]

[Harry's expression is one of concern and it doesn't change when Zephir leans down.]

What are those marks on your skin?

[He moves to try and look at them more closely.]

[viver]

Someone offered to paint me.

[ Black paint enhanced his arousal, made him want intimacy and mindless sex. Yet another thing this place used to alter Zephir's body, his wants, needs, and he's been enjoying it as much as everything else — including the urges that have been building for a few days now, ever since he observed one of the weekend services and left wondering what would come from it.

It's time to find out. ]

This place is changing me. It wants you to be mine.

[ Not 'it wants me to think you're mine. Zephir places his hand on top of Harry's, fingers curled around it, bringing it to rest flatly on his chest. Beating fast, to the tune of a relentless instinct. ]

You feel it. What you're doing to me.

a time of remembrance - i

[molloys]

The act of sitting for portraiture? I have to agree.

[corrigan is standing nearby, wine glass loosely held in one hand, eyes trailing absently over the portraits with vague curiosity, but no outward recognition – including when he skims over the one portraying his own father, stony-faced and narrow-eyed. instead, he turns his attention to the stranger, who seems to be considering his own visage with grim resignation.]

You’re much better-looking in person, I’ll have you know. [a sip of wine, looking between the portrait and the man.] Mmm, yes. Much.

[mygoodsir]

[Harry turns to face the voice and...

oh no. he's hot.

Only slightly pink in the cheeks, he scoffs softly.]

Ah. It's the beard.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to speak aloud. But I meant more that... ah, well. Nevermind. I don't mean to go morbing on.

[molloys]

[corry smiles, softening at the hesitancy in the man’s voice, the blush, the stammer. he’s susceptible to that sort of thing – softness, authenticity, a rare find in his typical day-to-day. the mutton chops are actually sort of endearing, but he doesn’t say that, just nods towards the surrounding portraits.]

Friends of yours? [a beat, then corry motions to his chin, stroking at his own stubble, never quite cleanshaven, always the slightest bit rakish.] It’s the beards. [then he smiles, nudges his elbow out, bumping into the man’s in a subtle, unspoken show of – something. how he’ll react will inform what corry does next.] I’ll tell you if you start morbing, deal?

Remembrance - iii

[fix]

[ Iris' hand falls onto Harry's shoulder. Light as a feather, warm enough to be noticed, the grip barely there. He might have completely missed it if it weren't so pale it offers a stark contrast from his balck clothes. The dress wasn'ther idea, but she decided to wear it anyway. It'snice, and she hasn'thsd amny nice things in her life. ]

You, kind sir, are quite haunted. [ She walks ar8und him until she's in front of him, hand still on his shoulder. ] The burden you bear, it could kill a man. Perhaps it already did? How much would you suffer before you find peace?

[mygoodsir]

I've no burden I would not carry again.

[It's something he's thought about: if he had it all to do over, what would he do differently? Would he turn his back on all the men he'd failed, knowing now that ultimately he hadn't helped them? No. No, he couldn't do that.

His hand lifts to rest over hers. The touch makes him feel a little less alone, a little less like sobbing.]

Peace is rarely a constant, my dear. And suffering is sometimes deserved.

[Softly, he must confess his failure. His crime.]

If I am haunted, it is because I am responsible for much death. Both accidental and not.

Please. Sit.

nooo my typo x.x

[fix]

[ She sits quietly, hands on her lap, eyes slightly above his head. She can see them, if barely, the many paths, many choices, many changes. He is truthful, she gives him that much. ]

No suffering like the one we inflict on ourselves. The one we feel most deserved, even if we don't show it to anyone else.

[ Her gaze lowers, settling on him. Eyes that seem to pierce through his flesh, grasp at the tangle threads of his soul. Still, she will listen, and only listen; it's impolite to peek without permission. ]

I am hardly fit to offer absolution, but I can at least offer understanding. If you'll take it.

market prices

[beeyatch]

[ Mari's smile is nice, pleasant, warm. Anyone that knows her would be getting weird vibes from her already. But the collar is on and Mari can't do much beyond throwing a proper fuss inside of her head, while on the outside she's the spitting image of a servile young woman. ]

You have. [ She sounds positively chuffed about it, too. As if that was all she wanted. For now, she does. Mari takes a step towards Harry, hands clasped behind her back. Her head tilts to a side, black silky hair cascading over her bare shoulder, the smile everpresent. ]

What would you like to do?

[mygoodsir]

[She doesn't look any older than Shauna or Melissa, he thinks, and anyone who reminds him of his adopted cannibal daughters is going to be safe with him.]

Tea, I think. [He links arms with her and leads her out of the auction hall. After a moment's dithering, he heads toward the kitchen. He thinks the servants are probably all busy with keeping the auction stocked with food and drink, so sneaking in to simply make a pot of tea and pilfer some biscuits shouldn't be a problem.]

You must have just arrived, yes? I must apologise for... well, everything, really. This place loses its collective mind worryingly often. But I assure you that you're perfectly safe.

[His voice is soft as he rambles on.]

You sound American. There's an awful lot of you here so you shan't be wanting for company in that regard. Oh, I'm so sorry - where are my manners? - I'm Harry Goodsir. What do I call you, miss?

Oh, here we are! We'll put the kettle on and relax. That will be nice, won't it?

[He has no idea that she's not actually able to say no.]

[beeyatch]

[ She holds on to him with ease, falling into step as they walk, eyes fluttering around, curious, but ultimately devoid of much light. Inside, Mari groans at the man rambling, but the longer he staves off the creepy shit he will most likely have her do, the better. Why rip a band aid if you can just let it sit there? ]

Yes, I just arrived. And I am safe. With you. I trust you. I am Maria Ibarra, but everyone calls me Mari.

[ Mari cringes internally; she hates her full name, that extra "a" that makes it not distinctly an English name. Not Mary, but the Latin version. ]

I love tea. [ Mari hasn't had enough tea to know, really. ] Yes, we can relax. You are very nice, Mr. Goodsir. Would you like me to prepare the tea? Maybe some biscuits? You can sit and relax. I was usually tasked with preparing the food for my friends.

[ And she moves next to him, ready to take over preparations, hands opening cabinets and seeking the proper accompaniments for a nice tea session. ]

ii remembrance

[cinzas]

[ She really doesn't know what to do with the mounting dread and sorrow of the people she passes by. She may, at some point, track down the portrait of her father, left in pieces when Polly's mother was done with him, but for now she stares and grimaces, cringing because she feels so out of place in their suffering.

Polly stops abruptly, before a grown man with the same haunting look in his eyes, pleading at the air or some higher force she has yet to meet, turning to her as if she might be the conduit. ]

I— what? I don't—

[ Her tone shifts, helpless with a pinch of frustration. ]

Are you okay, man?

[mygoodsir]

No. No, I am decidedly not okay.

[He stops and takes a breath, exhaling sharply. He visibly composes himself, smoothing down his vest and fixing his coat.]

My apologies.

The portraits on these walls are almost exclusively of the dead. Almost. This one?

[He taps the portrait of Tim Laughlin.]

He is very much alive.

[cinzas]

[ Well, fuck you too, is what she would've said if he'd gone further and hadn't taken that breath and gained some composure. Good thing Polly held back her own Lack of Composure, in a moment where she would've forgotten the graveness of seeing hundreds(?) of dead people portrayed like they're in a hall of fame, and forgotten that you kinda need to have some empathy when someone is decidedly not okay with that. ]

... It's cool, man.

[ She's glad she didn't act like an asshole. ]

Must've been a mistake, then? I'm not sure how you fuck that up, but... like you said, [ gesturing, ] That guy's still alive. People are incompetent no matter the occasion.

remembrance iii

[nightsung]

[ The further Shadowheart is removed from her discarded faith, the more she realizes that the loss Shar espoused was no real loss at all. Which was, she supposes, part of the point: if you hold nothing within you, no love nor attachment, you can lose nothing. An empty vessel full of a goddess’s lies.

By the Remembrance Pool, Shadowheart feels the depth of the love she holds in her now. For her friends, from Faerûn and other worlds entirely; for her sweet rabbit and the two men she wakes up with every morning.

Her eyes are blurred with tears as she looks for a spot to rest. She’s grateful when the bench she finds is occupied not just by a familiar face, but a friendly one. One she knows won’t sneer at her for her attachments. ]

May I sit with you, Harry?

[mygoodsir]

[Harry looks up, his own eyes red rimmed. Still, he summons a trembling smile and moves over further.]

Of course.

[One she is seated he leans in slightly.]

I admit I am glad to see you. Not to see you distressed, of course, but this place... it is good to see a friendly face. I fear I've spent too much time reminiscing on those I've lost and my heart is heavy.

[nightsung]

[ Shadowheart doesn’t quite manage to return the smile, though she does reach for his hand, just resting hers atop it. The dark wound in the back of hers aches, as it always seems to, lately. ]

There’s a deliberate cruelty in these rituals, I think. [ She should know, having been indoctrinated into many. ]

Our grief is just spectacle, to them.

remembrace, with a twist

[rationalism]

[ after their conversation on the network, grace drifts back to the winding hall of portraits to meet harry. it's not so bad for an ice breaker.

you know, if you ignore how horrific it actually is.

a line of of portraits of a single family; father, mother, children and their spouses, young grandchildren, a spinster aunt. tony, becky, daniel, charity, alex, grace herself in her lace wedding dress, emilie, fitch, georgie, gabe, helene. all of them (with the exception of fitch, georgie, and sweet gabe) with the same surname. grace's name.

le domas

all of them with the same date of death, except for grace. ]

My in laws.

[mygoodsir]

[Harry studies the portrait carefully, hands behind his back. He looks quite a bit like a man in an art museum taking in all the little details.]

The American version of the Balfours, hm? Not royals, but well-to-do.

They all died the same night. I hazard to guess this was not accidental?

[rationalism]

Yeah.

[ grace's hands are clasped in front of her, fingers knit together and twisted enough to turn her knuckles white. she was fairly blasé on the network but it hurts to look at them still. to look at her among them, where she thought she would belong. ]

It was my wedding night. I was part of that family for not even one whole day and they didn't want me.