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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
grace le domas | ready or not
[Tap, tap, tap.
It's a familiar scene. Grace, sitting out the front of a large manor, looks nonplussed with what may be happening around her. Her fingers hold a cigarette between them, unblinking as her eyes stare out beyond the fence as if it's so close to get there. Even if her dress is torn, shredded and burnt, bloodstains on the white lace, she's got her shoes on, ready to bolt.
She's done it before though. She's escaped before, too. But it wasn't this house, and there were bodies in her wake. She's not above it if it gets to it, but her foot taps against one of the steps she's sitting on. This time there are no sirens, no one coming to whisk her away. She's just here. And she'll be here tomorrow. With another cigarette between long fingers, contemplating how to get out of this rat cage they've somehow got her in.
She'll get out though.
Inhaling a long pull from the cigarette, she exhales out the smoke after a moment before one of the servants is offering her an ash tray. Coolly she just looks up at him and flicks the rest of the bud into one of the bushes. Normally she would have more regard for the plant life, but even if she burns the bush down, it will spawn again in the morning. So she just stands, leaves the servant to find the discarded cigarette butt, eyes back on the clearing in front of the house and the grass beyond the gate.]
They're teasing us.
( let them eat cake )
[It's not a wedding reception, but the party feels too much like calf being fattened for the slaughter. She learned that once already, being brought into a room for a family game. This feels too similar. The chess and even the game of hide and seek with the diamonds. The cake is a new touch though, beyond even the complexities of an expensive wedding cake. There's only sweets here it seems, though she would try to avoid it all if she could.
There's nothing about this party that she trusts, being pushed into another fancy dress, this time white tiered lace with a bust beneath to hold her in. It's more sheer than she would like, but she knows what this is, and if they expect her to simply run during the slaughter, they've brought the wrong girl here. Ask her what happened to the last family that tried to bring her down.
What she does decide to do is collect the diamonds though. It might help her gain more information. Most people seem to indulge, and she can't blame them. She didn't know what was coming during her wedding reception, sybaritic and too opulent. She's learned it now, and for all the riches this place or the La Domas estate could give her, she would happily return it to never know.
But carefully she moves through the landscape of party goers, most already blitzed out on whatever they're passing out here. Her goal is to attempt to keep her wits about her and start collecting those diamonds. They shine in the lights glittering around. Her sole focus is fixated on that. At least it feels like it's something she can do-- something that has to have a purpose.
So she starts collecting, finding the little stones hidden in plain sight. She dips her fingers in flower pots, moving around the statues adorning the lawn. The gardens as extravagant as she expects, and it's easy to get herself lost in them, wandering a little farther from the party. Until someone offer a diamond in their palm. Grace looks up, squinting in disbelief, that paranoia not too far and niggling at the back of her mind. But she can use an ally right now.]
Why are you helping me?
( midnight's dream )
cw: biting, gore, bloodplay
[She stumbles out of one of the rooms, out of breath and with the lace dress in even more tatters than it was previously. Her hair is a mess, really all of her is at this point. Heavy breathing leaves her looking that much more deranged, though at least she has her sensibilities about her. Hands cling to that diamond necklace draping over her neck, doing nothing to help hide her heaving breasts.
Eyes flick up as her hand clutches on the inside of her thigh. She pulls it back to find blood, making her inhale sharply. There's another mark on her chest, but not as severe, the lace soaking it and turning the wide a deep red. It's almost worse than the blood splatter. If there's any consolation at least the gashes in her back aren't bothering her anymore.
Apparently she has this scent on her though, and she's not sure if she can make it back to her own room with this frenzy, stumbling against the wall though the thought of the bites themselves have more of an effect on her than she wishes. She looks down the hallway, trying to gauge the best route back despite her lingering around the hall like she should look back.]
let them eat cake (sorry grace, have another occult rich boy)
I'll be honest ... all I wanted was a drink. But they replaced one of the ice cubes with this thing. [ Realizing this might sound totally gross, he hastens to add, ] I washed it off. But I'm not particularly attached to it.
[ That's a really pretty dress, he wants to add, but he worries that could come across creepy. Or unwelcome in another way: Maybe this woman has just as fraught a relationship with her outfit as he does with his. ]
oh no, not again
It still leaves her on edge, but she tries to not take her paranoia out too much on him. Her eyes look back at the diamond though, because she is set on collecting these, even if she's consumed a few of the glasses of champagne herself to get them. She could have dumped them out, but fuck this place, she needs a drink, too.]
Alright. [She stretches her hand out to take it, a little tentative, but she gives him a natural smile.]
And you don't want anything in return?
[Seems sus.]
no subject
I mean, who knows what the masters of the house think makes a good prize? Maybe it's a cake twin.
[ Despite his misgivings, it's hard not to return Grace's smile. The diamond passed off, Matt's hands itch for another drink; he grabs one off the nearest table, this time checking it to make sure it contains neither ice nor precious stones. ]
Although, if I can ask.
Did you ...?
[ He trails off, as it occurs to him that asking did you mean to come here is an absolutely insane-sounding question. ]
no subject
She wonders where he falls, though he seems sober. That's a good sign. Grace can't let her own guard down now, but she gives a nod at the mention of the prize.]
I doubt it would be something useful. [A weapon. A way out.]
Did I... what? [Because that's such an open ended beginning to a question, and she's not a mind reader. And 'did you mean to come here' is not something she is expecting to be asked. From the few she's encountered, most seem to be trying to escape.]
no subject
Well, as long as it's too late to not ask the insane question he wants to ask-- ]
Did you come here on purpose?
I mean, [ in a mild attempt to massage the question, ] do you know anyone here? That you came to see?
[ It doesn't sound at all like small talk, of course. More like someone struggling to recall a nightmare. ]
welcome to saltburnt
[ The voice from behind her is British, but definitely not the refined accents of the Balfours. Johanna wanders down the steps to stand beside Grace, casual and relaxed, following her gaze across the lawn. ]
They get off on that shit. I think it comes with the public school education.
no subject
Her eyes turn to look back at the other woman. Grace has come from a poor background. An orphan. She married into money, and technically is the now sole owner of an ungodly estate (literally). But her origins are meager, and she doesn't know the reference she's making.]
What's wrong with public school education? [That's what she had in the states, too poor for any kind of private school.]
no subject