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draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
Entry tags:
"๐๐๐๐" โฃ MAY TDM
MAY 2024 TDM
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. Prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
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."
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."
LET THEM EAT CAKE
CONTENT WARNINGS: sex, drugs, alcohol.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior youโve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, youโre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy โ this isnโt school, you arenโt being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, thatโs other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights โ some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can โ anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice โ with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior youโve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, youโre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy โ this isnโt school, you arenโt being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, thatโs other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights โ some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can โ anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice โ with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, cannibalism, sex.
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes โ but did you find it a littleโฆ addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didnโt eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh โ well, cake โ someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes โ but did you find it a littleโฆ addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didnโt eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh โ well, cake โ someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
DIRECTORY
no subject
( she shakes her head when he holds out the cigarette, tempted as she is. )
no subject
[Said so casually it can't be anything but the truth. Iggy lights up, smiling.]
My goodness, you're adorable. What do you call yourself, sweetie?
no subject
she looks up at him, this tall lithe blonde who's made her comfortable with such ease. ) Betty. I normally don't let anyone get away with adorable but I'll allow it this time.
no subject
Betty! Short for Elizabeth? [He gives her a little bow.]
Iggy. Short for Ignatius.
Sorry for the adorable, I just get excited to meet clever and amusing people.
no subject
in the moment, she gives him a wry look. ) Only my mom calls me Elizabeth. And she stopped getting away with it when I left home.
( and that's only when Betty's on the edge of trouble. ) Nice to meet you, Iggy.
You're a breath of fresh air, you know that? ( sweet too, she thinks, but doesn't say outloud. ) Do you know anyone here yet? Anyone else?
no subject
[Iggy grins.]
Little old me? Thank you!
And no, no, not really. I have seen some absolutely delicious looking specimens wandering around. You?
no subject
( she channels her inner Veronica, ) Who are the hotties?
no subject
[Iggy claps his hands together a few times, delighted.]
I have no idea of their names. But! I've seen some gorgeous older men. And this one guy... young guy, dark hair, has these intense fuckboi vibes? But in a sexy way. Like you know it's a bad idea, but oh well.
Have you seen our hosts at all?
no subject
she thinks of him in the hood -- thinks of him under her home. ) I haven't.
Only Giles. I asked him to call me a car and he said it would arrive in five minutes about -- ( she pretends to check her watch, but isn't wearing one. ) Two hours ago.
no subject
[The perils of topping six feet.]
Mmm. Yeah. I get the feeling that this isn't really an optional stay.
You wanna see if we can get mimosas?
no subject
her brow knits and for a moment she no longer looks like the easy-going girl-next-door before that expression flutters away. ) A mimosa sounds like exactly what I need. That and a little people watching.
( she takes the initiative herself to hook her arm through his, as if they've been the closest friends the whole of this time. ) You don't think they close the kitchens after brunch, do you?
no subject
[Iggy doesn't shy away, he just starts leading Betty away from the exceedingly boring books.]
Even if they do, I'm relatively confident that I can pour champagne into orange juice.
Where are you from, Betty?
no subject
Betty lets out a soft hum. ) My, my. A man of many talents.
Have you heard of Rivervale, Iggy? ( or maybe there's a riverdale where he's from and her home is on the other side of the coin, in another universe. )
no subject
No! It sounds scenic. Is it in America?
[He's determined to pretend he actually knows what states are where.]
no subject
I haven't been skiing in ages. ( but she nods at his question. ) A sleepy little town in upstate New York. Nothing ever happens there.
( except so much she can't wrap her head around it sometimes. )
no subject
Ohhhh. I've always meant to go to New York state. Go see the Burned-Over district. But I don't think that's upstate.
I'm from a fairly small city myself. But much further north - I'm Canadian. Nothing ever happens there, either.
no subject
Sometimes boring is better, don't you think?
( they're in the kitchen then and Betty takes the lead, a little beeline toward where the mimosas are still available in pre-poured glasses but bottles are still on display. ) What do you say we take a bottle?
no subject
Hm. No. [A perfectly silent giggle.] No, I don't!
I say you're my new bestie, Betty.
[He grabs a bottle and opens it, letting the cork fly off to parts unknown. It's pretty clear that he's of the opinion that anyone who owns this house is rich enough to handle any property damage.]
Come on, let's go do something extra stupid.