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draino2026-01-03 10:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2026-01-03 10:00 am
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐'๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ โฃ JANUARY TDM
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 โ 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 ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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 isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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. Itโs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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. Itโs 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 โ 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 โย the contractors were paid for discretion, after all. Named after Portia and Jontyโs 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 Rosieโs 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 โ and apparently a good auction โ 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 โย 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 โย 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โย 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 โ 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 โย 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 โ 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.
The manor rings in the new year Saltburnt style โ 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 โย the contractors were paid for discretion, after all. Named after Portia and Jontyโs 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 Rosieโs 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 โ and apparently a good auction โ 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 โย 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 โย 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โย 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 โ 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 โย 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 โ 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 โ grand portraits in heavy golden frames line the walls, only these arenโt your typical Balfour ancestors. These hauntingly beautiful paintings feature guests familiar to you, though ones you havenโt 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 OโBroin. 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 partnerโs 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 youโre 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 โ a tiger, a dragon, and a turtle, signifying luck and protection โ have been hidden around the grounds. Whoever finds them all will win a prize โ 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 anotherโs 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 someoneโs 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 youโve 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, youโll find sugared biscuits wrapped in black wax paper, upon which are printed verses ruminating on death. A separate basket of โsin-eatingโ 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 โ 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 โ friends, lovers, those in between โ 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 youโve searched the halls for your companions, you realize those hallucinations mightโve held some weight. Undeniably, there are a number of guests missing. But where have they gone off to?
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 โ grand portraits in heavy golden frames line the walls, only these arenโt your typical Balfour ancestors. These hauntingly beautiful paintings feature guests familiar to you, though ones you havenโt 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 OโBroin. 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 partnerโs 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 youโre 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 โ a tiger, a dragon, and a turtle, signifying luck and protection โ have been hidden around the grounds. Whoever finds them all will win a prize โ 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 anotherโs 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 someoneโs 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 youโve 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, youโll find sugared biscuits wrapped in black wax paper, upon which are printed verses ruminating on death. A separate basket of โsin-eatingโ 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 โ 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 โ friends, lovers, those in between โ 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 youโve searched the halls for your companions, you realize those hallucinations mightโve 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 youโre not alone. One of the visitors โ Haven or Cove, youโre not sure which, although this is the first time youโve seen them separated โ 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, itโs 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 โ and your hands barely clear two feet before hitting iron. When you try to turn, youโre 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 Coveโs 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. Itโs 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. Itโs only when youโve exhausted yourself that you fall silent for long enough to hear the sounds of someone near you, muffled as if theyโre trapped. It could be someone you know or a guest youโve never spoken to, but itโs a lifeline. You call out to them, and they call back.
Communication between nearby coffins is the way you learn that youโre not the only one who has been effectively abducted. Everyone here has the same experience โ leaving the Remembrance Pool in distress, only to fall into Haven or Coveโs treacherous arms. Communication is also the one thing that keeps you from falling back into the terror of your circumstances. If your companion isnโt 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 โ 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, youโre 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 itโs 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 youโve taken to sharing lately, small trinkets can be found on the pillow โ 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 wasnโt 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, theyโve vanished, and youโre left with their parting gift: one bloody fingernail.
Panic will drive some of you to action โ 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 โย 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 whoโs 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ IT WAS DELICIOUS ! ๐
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 youโre not alone. One of the visitors โ Haven or Cove, youโre not sure which, although this is the first time youโve seen them separated โ 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, itโs 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 โ and your hands barely clear two feet before hitting iron. When you try to turn, youโre 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 Coveโs 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. Itโs 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. Itโs only when youโve exhausted yourself that you fall silent for long enough to hear the sounds of someone near you, muffled as if theyโre trapped. It could be someone you know or a guest youโve never spoken to, but itโs a lifeline. You call out to them, and they call back.
Communication between nearby coffins is the way you learn that youโre not the only one who has been effectively abducted. Everyone here has the same experience โ leaving the Remembrance Pool in distress, only to fall into Haven or Coveโs treacherous arms. Communication is also the one thing that keeps you from falling back into the terror of your circumstances. If your companion isnโt 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 โ 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, youโre 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 itโs 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 youโve taken to sharing lately, small trinkets can be found on the pillow โ 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 wasnโt 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, theyโve vanished, and youโre left with their parting gift: one bloody fingernail.
Panic will drive some of you to action โ 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 โย 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 whoโs 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ IT WAS DELICIOUS ! ๐
DIRECTORY
no subject
Thank you. You're very sweet. No wonder Yelena likes you.
[easier to admit, with food-grade paint thinner in her blood, that Yelena has a good heart, discernment, a cleverness and strategy about the way that she kills—all the more impressive for her talent at combat. the thought brings another memory to ava. one that closes her hand into a white-knuckled fist, for an instant. her brown fingers go lax again, the next moment.] Care to join me on one last stop on the apology tour? Give you some tasty, toxic liquor for your trouble.
[yes, yes, she knows. she knows that melissa originally gave her the damn bottle. doesn't mean it can't go back and forth between a mentally distraught thirty something-year-old assassin and the teen soccer player. ava knows she shouldn't ask. and yet.]
no subject
[ Mel reaches out for the bottle, figuring that sure, she'll take a sip and then hold onto it so Ava doesn't get even more wasted. She's never had straight Everclear before, which shows as soon as she takes a sip and then very nearly spits it all over herself. Holy shit this is bad. ]
Ugh, it burns. [ She sticks her tongue out, screwing her eyes shut. Eughhh. She's still gonna keep the bottle, though. It's safe with her.
After she's suitably recovered (well, she can feel the liquor sitting in her stomach like it's on fire, but nothing she can do about that) she asks, ] Where are we going? [ Last stop on the apology tour, let's kick it. ]
no subject
ava gets her ass fully up. it takes more effort than normal. she gives herself a little shake, pausing briefly to check that the teenage girl is, likewise, vertical and passably stable on her feet. she reaches out, claps a comradely hand on mel's back, like they're going to battle and mel needs the lung capacity. (to be fair, she was considerably younger than melissa when they began her training.)]
Look for a portrait of a white girl, black hair, willowy. Right side of face all scarred up, fake eye in the pit. [she turns her head, raccoon eyes resolute, straight ahead. starts down the hallway with the inexorability of a soldier marching to her last horizon.] Her name was Antonia Dreykov.
I shot her in the head.
no subject
There are so many pictures, people she recognizes, people she doesn't, all of them staring out at everyone who walks by. It's fucking creepy. It's sad. It makes her stomach hurt. Maybe that's still the Everclear. ]
You—why? [ What happened to make that necessary, she means. Not "why would you do a thing like that," she's far beyond that kind of reaction at this point. ]
no subject
That was the job. That's how Yelena and I know each other. Same industry for ages. Heard about her, of course. But we only met when we were tasked to kill each other.
[she gestures vaguely with her mascara-smutted fingers, making sort of a ring in the air. four people, each assigned to murder the next. it'd been a great idea, but the incinerator had been the real clincher. mostly, again, thanks to yelena. she shakes her head, sniffs damply, her eyes making their way up the portrait hall.] I'm shit chaperone, aren't I? Going to give you bloody nightmares. Scary old women out to kill you. Don't know how you're taking this so well.
no subject
[ She has seen. So many horrible things. The concept of a bunch of women all trying to kill each other is kinda like, whatever. Well, she's sure it wasn't whatever for them, as it was happening, but hearing about it secondhand is certainly not going to traumatize her. It's just making her a little sad, because Ava is sad. ]
Like half of my soccer team is in these portraits. [ She has enough dead people visiting her bad dreams already. ]
no subject
Give us some Everclear. We'll pour one out for her. Then maybe your mates. [a glance at melissa and her weird child-sized stoicism. mystifying. impressive. vaguely alarming, in combination with the notion of walls and walls of dead teenagers around here. but ava can't find it in herself to be anything but grateful.] You guys were drinking already, right? Sneaking around behind your parents' backs or something.
[she's heard people do that, when they don't grow up in a lab prison.]
no subject
Okay. Let's do it. You wanna... maybe... say a few words?
[ People are supposed to do that, right? ]
no subject
[starting off on blasphemy. fantastic. ava grimaces like someone punched her in the mouth with a lemon, an impression not helped by the fact she still has very messy raccoon eyes ground into her makeup. her fingers tighten on the neck of the everclear bottle. really seems like two disservices in one. giving a dead woman paint thinner, and a speech from herself? but fuck it. she's had a few sips already. takes a breath.] All right. Okay. [a long sigh, shoulders up and down]
Antonia Dreykov. I am ... sorry I shot you. Didn't know what was going on. Should've asked more questions. [there's an uneven pause, fluttering with the irregularities of ava's breaths. but she has enough muscle tone that she's not swaying on her feet, at least. she can't end it there, she knows. there's a long, dragging pause as she searches her mind for something a little less dire and embarrassing to end on than her own stupid mistake.] Yelena cared about you. Might as well assume the other was true. So I'll look out for her.
[a loud sniff. she raises the bottle. tips it. a long, thin stream of clear liquor runs out, glittering in the low light of the mansion hall.]
no subject
That was good. [ She lifts her head, trying to give an encouraging smile. ] I think she'd appreciate that. [ It sounds like they were pretty much strangers, and it's hard to eulogize a stranger, but all things considered, Ava covered the main points. ]
no subject
Okay. All right then.
[she feels—something. different now? 'complete' is the wrong word. fucking exhausted, maybe. her shoulders rise and fall. and then, abruptly, she shoves her arm out in melissa's direction, holding out the bottle.] Your turn. [where them dead kids at?]
no subject
[ Okay.
Melissa takes the bottle back and, figuring it's only fair—she did agree, after all—leads the way down the hall until they reach a stretch of portraits that are, primarily, teenage girls. It's like looking at a series of yearbook photos that have been sized up, but the vibe is somber, because the portraits being here mean that all of these girls have died. (Girls and one boy who looks maybe thirteen.) ]
Um, [ Mel begins hesitantly. The thing is, she wants to say something, feels like she should say something. How to begin is what's making her pause. ]
Rachel, I know we weren't friends, but I hope when you got impaled by that chunk of the plane it happened too fast for you to know what was happening. Laura Lee, sorry for always rolling my eyes whenever you talked about Jesus. And it was really brave of you to try and go for help. Javi—
[ She stops, suddenly, voice choking off with real guilt. After several moments, she manages, ]
Sorry we didn't look out for you better.
no subject
You're all right, Melissa. That's good.
[a brief lift, a thump down. not hard, just enough to be felt, to give a rhythm that echoes the palpitation of a heart. a friendly scuff. then she lets her grasp fall, down to mel's elbow. giving her a nudge, to remind her of the bottle of everclear. for when she's ready. it's a terrible ritual with an absolutely egregious choice of liquor, but also—classic.]
no subject
Thanks. [ She looks down at the bottle for a moment and then lifts it to pour one out for the Yellowjackets. The ones here and the ones still far away. ]
no subject
Didn't interrupt you, did I?
[how many of these portraits could be the ones melissa lost? halls and halls of dead people around here. she isn't sure where the soccer team ends and the horrors of other loss begin.]
no subject
[ Think of it less as an interruption and more as saving Melissa from something she didn't wanna finish doing anyway. ]
I don't really want to keep going. [ The others, Laura Lee and Rachel and oh, shit, she forget Crystal—they were all tragic and awful, but none of them were her fault. She had no responsibility, or at least no more than anyone else. The more she starts getting into the things that happened late in the first winter and then after that, the less she can absolve herself, and the harder it is to speak about them.
She brings the bottle up and takes a swallow of the Everclear, grimacing. ]
no subject
Maybe spreading it around does help a bad mood. Come on.
I think we should get something to eat. Yeah? [it's not a maternal feeling, exactly. but what you should do, looking out for someone. if yelena's a candidate, she's not very well going to withhold the urge from a girl half her age.] Soak up some of that infernal paint thinner.
๐
Also, if it gets them out of this hallway... ]
Yeah. Thanks.