'''The Watcher''', also known as '''the Entity''', is the primary antagonist of '''[[Saltburnt Manor|The House]]'''.

He seems to control '''[[The Reverend]]''' (or ''the Shepherd'') and is seeking '''host candidates''' from within the residents.

= Origins =
In June 2008, all residents were exposed to a memory share that showed part of the history suggesting the Watcher was created on Saltburnt grounds and previously assisted in developing and maintaining the manor. However, he apparently began to demand the right to add his own room(s) and was violently expelled. After that, his physical presence appeared to cause vegetation to die around him.

In March 2008, the Watcher communicated that he is looking for 'a host' in a '''[[Van#Message_from_the_House_and_Watcher|message]]''' to the Van stowaways. He also provided a coded list of 7 candidates. Subsequently, several have revealed themselves.

= People of Interest =
Like [[The House]], the Watcher has taken notice of specific individuals from Saltburnt over the years. Many of the messages are not widely known or revealed.

== Public Discussion ==
In the ensuing discussion after [[Van|the Van escape attempt]], the following groups of the residents named by the Watcher publically identified themselves or were identified by others:
# '''Host Candidates''' in order: Harry Goodsir, one individual unknown, Bob Reynolds, Buffy Summers, and two other potential unknowns
# '''The Liars''': Koby, Silco, Mithra Antonescu and Gwen Stacy
# '''The Wolves''': Domingos Choi, Shauna Shipman, Faith, Saber Tooth, Silco, Hawkins Fuller and Armand (the alpha) from '''[[Werewolf]] 2007'''

= Full Text =
== Memory Share (June 2009) ==
Available to all residents of the manor in the summer of 2008:

<blockquote>
You've never seen this one before. No one has. It's nothing out of the ordinary at first, except the unsettling feeling of wrongness filling the air. The sky is slate above you, as if England's June weather has stepped out of season and into autumn. The estate is the same as it ever was, magnificent and tall, its windows lit and bright. But then you see it: fingers reaching through a fissure in the ground and the bare hand of a naked man as he heaves himself up, gasping and naked as the day he was born, onto the dewy grass. He doesn't notice you there — too distracted by staring at his own soil-caked fingers, the way an infant studies their hands for the first time. He turns them over, then presses them into the ground, rising on wobbling legs.

As if it's been waiting for him, the door swings open to welcome him inside. You follow behind him — and he's not hard to find, footsteps leaving crumbs of earth with every jolt forward, hands caressing over hallways empty of artwork and statues and every gaudy, rich piece you've known the Balfours to collect — and watch as he stops, pressing his forehead to the peeling paint. "Yes," he says. "Alright. I'm here."

The days pass the same, only he's learned to wear clothes, linens that feel stolen out of time from a period of history you can't quite place. In a series of seconds, you understand the habits of his days: he walks the perimeters, tends to the grounds, mends the cracks in the walls and the warped floorboards and the mouse-ridden holes chewing through. You see, more than hear, the house itself responds happily in little ways: the fire's hearth flaring brighter, the warmth in the room embracing you like a happy hug. The man in the memory sits contented in a chair, stroking over its armrest comfortingly. "''I know,''" he says. "''I won't let anything in. I know what I'm for.''"

You blink, and more time has passed. He's stopped tending the house — you can tell from the cobwebs that haven't been cleared, the wallpaper that's started peeling at the corners, the thin coating of dust on the furniture where it had been polished to a shine. The man is at the end of a corner, hand pressed to the wall, muttering something you can't make out until you creep closer. "A room," he says. "I want to build one. I know how it's done — I've felt you do it, I know what it takes, I know this house better than anything alive." He pauses. "So show me how. Let me do it." He holds his breath. So do you. Minutes tick by. Nothing happens — no giving way, no room where there was none before. "I have given you everything," he says, louder now. "Every year of my existence. Every room in you has been touched by my hands. You owe me this." Nothing, still. He stays there for longer than you can count, staring at his hands and the wall, expression hardened by hurt — and something more. Something you don't understand, until the next memory.

The cellar isn't damp or cold, the way you would expect a cellar to be. One might thank the heart at its center for that, beating with a warmth that surrounds you on all sides — the walls, the ceiling, the floors, all of them veined and pulsing like the very foundation of the house is beating and breathing, a living entity. A long time passes, the man staring blankly at the heart before he reaches, seizing it with both palms. There's nothing of the gentle man you saw in him earlier, resting happily in that armchair by the fire. "''I know what you are,''" he says. ''"I found you in a field. I built you room by room, stone by stone, I have given you every year of my life, and I know every part of you. Including this.''" His grip tightens. "''So I'm taking it. And you're going to let me — because without me you were nothing. You were dirt. I made you into something worth being, and this—''" he pulls, hard, "''—belongs to me. You don't get to say no to me.''"

For a moment, nothing happens. Your vision spins as the man is taken, and you're taken with him — both of your bodies dragged across the floorboards until the doors burst at their seams, sending the two of you sprawling across the treeline. In the distance, you hear the door slam closed with such force that the stone around it cracks, the house seeming to shake and tremble from it. From where you're standing by the forest, beyond the barrier you've come to know, the house looks like an impenetrable fortress. No open doors, no lit-up windows, no nothing that makes it seem full of the life you'd watched it hold. The man rises, blood pooling down his arms from the gashes in his wrists, but that's not what strikes you. It's the grass beneath his feet as he stands in it, yellowing and withering. Above, the trees drop each of their leaves, branches curling away from him. The hole he dug himself up from withers, blackening.

It looks at the house one last time. Then turns away, walks into the dark, and does not look back.
</blockquote>

= References =
[https://saltburntlogs.dreamwidth.org/58422.html#cutid1 June 2008 event]

[[Category:NPC]][[Category:NPC Communication]]

2026-06-29T01:50:03Z

China: /* Relationship with the Watcher */

'''Saltburnt Manor''', also known as '''''the house,''''' is an expansive luxury residence said to be located in England. The [[Balfour family]] resides there, with an expansive staff maintaining the rooms and grounds. Its primary antagonist is '''[[The Watcher]]'''. It changes form and layout constantly, infinitely larger within than its external appearance suggests.

= History =
Prior to the arrival of any residents, '''[[The Watcher]]''' seems to have climbed into existence out of the soil of Saltburnt grounds. A memory share indicates the Watcher believes he found and built the House, and he was subsequently expelled. Saltburnt has had current residents from the multiverse for approximately 2 years, since 2006.

A '''zombie attack''' took place in winter 2007, this assault of the undead led to the discovery of '''[[The Sibling]]''' in February, a being responsible for resurrections. Later, in March 2007, a forest entity called '''[[The Mesial]]''' was discovered in the woods.

Months later, a '''house fire''' set by an apparently possessed resident in September 2007 led to the discovery of '''[[The Heart]]''' and temporary destruction of the manor.

In both 2006 and 2007, '''[[Werewolf]]''' was an annual murder game that runs in October, which seems to have escalated between the two iterations.

Residents discovered '''[[The Library]]''' in January 2008, a collective that is responsible for the functioning of the eponymous room within the house (and fulfillment of requests).

Later, in March, several residents attempted to '''break out of the mansion in a [[Van]]''', leading to a three day housewide shutdown.

= Relationship with the Watcher =
The House and the Watcher have been at odds. Information publically available to the residents indicate that the conflict centers around the House refusing to give the Watcher what it wants, including [[The_Watcher#Memory_Share|changing the structure of the house]] and 'possession' of all residents (including subgroups such as [[https://salt.wiki.gd/The_Watcher#Public_Discussion_of_Groups_of_Interest|host candidates, liars and wolves]]). Everyone who lives at Saltburnt is designated '''a guardian''' against the Watcher.

= Geography =
New residents pick up the mansion is somewhere in England, but the exact address and coordinates are not known.

== Map ==
A [[Map of Saltburnt|map]] was acquired from [[Library|the Library]] by Gwen Stacy. The title reads: REGIONAL MAP OF THE AREA. LOCALITY: ENGLAND, APPROX.

<blockquote>
The estate stands proud in its less-than-humble glory, sketched with unnerving architectural accuracy, from its perimeter to its lush hedges. A dark X reads: '''YOU ARE HERE. DEFINITIVELY. FOR NOW.''' As Gwen studies its lines and divergences, she’ll note it reads as an ordinary map would — rivers that stretch into lakes, boundary lines that transform into sprawling paths. But the farther her eye travels from Saltburnt’s ground, the more disorienting the details become. Roads split, reunite, and stop short of continuing; next to them, someone has written ROAD?. Another trail says '''TOWARD ENGLAND PROPER''' followed by '''NEVER MIND'''. At its far corners, someone has labeled a coastal cliff with '''PROBABLY TO THE EAST''' and, opposite it, an open area that has been darkened with shading: '''AREA NOT ACCESSIBLE'''.

North of the estate’s main gates, the charcoal strokes shine with darker polish, as if they’re a recent addition. Someone has scribbled in a cluster of trees, aptly labeled: '''THE WOODS WHERE VOICES LINGER'''. The path continues in looping, impossible circles before reaching a circle of cottages with a name notable to many: '''THE FLOCK (DEFUNCT?)'''. A smattering of figures chainlink their hands together, but only seven seem to be colored in a foreboding shade of red. Nearby, an increasingly frantic hand has scribbled '''SEVEN CHOSEN, SEVEN CHOOSING'''. Surrounding the commune, a jagged perimeter can be seen, though it appears to be split in various places.
</blockquote>

The [[Map of Saltburnt]] was accompanied by other notes and items.

== Changes Over Time ==

The grounds expanded in [https://saltburntmods.dreamwidth.org/3668.html February 2008] to include a road and train station, roughly around the same time that several residents acquired vehicles.

== The Multiverse ==
The mansion appears to be connected to a multiverse from which the residents are drawn. No public information is currently available on this, though some residents are conducting private research.

= References =
[https://saltburntmods.dreamwidth.org/2120.html?thread=1118280#cmt1118280 Gwen's library request]
 [https://saltburntmods.dreamwidth.org/3668.html Setting page]

[[Category:Location]][[Category:NPC]]

The Watcher

2026-06-29T01:48:43Z

China:

'''The Watcher''', also known as '''the Entity''', is the primary antagonist of '''[[Saltburnt Manor|The House]]'''.

He seems to control '''[[The Reverend]]''' (or ''the Shepherd'') and is seeking '''host candidates''' from within the residents.

= Origins =
In June 2008, all residents were exposed to a memory share that showed part of the history suggesting the Watcher was created on Saltburnt grounds and previously assisted in developing and maintaining the manor. However, he apparently began to demand the right to add his own room(s) and was violently expelled. After that, his physical presence appeared to cause vegetation to die around him.

In March 2008, the Watcher communicated that he is looking for 'a host' in a '''[[Van#Message_from_the_House_and_Watcher|message]]''' to the Van stowaways. He also provided a coded list of 7 candidates. Subsequently, several have revealed themselves.

= Public Discussion of Groups of Interest =
In the ensuing discussion after [[Van|the Van escape attempt]], the following groups of the residents named by the Watcher publically identified themselves or were identified by others:
# '''Host Candidates''' in order: Harry Goodsir, one individual unknown, Bob Reynolds, Buffy Summers, and two other potential unknowns
# '''The Liars''': Koby, Silco, Mithra Antonescu and Gwen Stacy
# '''The Wolves''': Domingos Choi, Shauna Shipman, Faith, Saber Tooth, Silco, Hawkins Fuller and Armand (the alpha) from '''[[Werewolf]] 2007'''

= Full Text =
== Memory Share ==
Available to all residents of the manor in June 2008:

<blockquote>
You've never seen this one before. No one has. It's nothing out of the ordinary at first, except the unsettling feeling of wrongness filling the air. The sky is slate above you, as if England's June weather has stepped out of season and into autumn. The estate is the same as it ever was, magnificent and tall, its windows lit and bright. But then you see it: fingers reaching through a fissure in the ground and the bare hand of a naked man as he heaves himself up, gasping and naked as the day he was born, onto the dewy grass. He doesn't notice you there — too distracted by staring at his own soil-caked fingers, the way an infant studies their hands for the first time. He turns them over, then presses them into the ground, rising on wobbling legs.

As if it's been waiting for him, the door swings open to welcome him inside. You follow behind him — and he's not hard to find, footsteps leaving crumbs of earth with every jolt forward, hands caressing over hallways empty of artwork and statues and every gaudy, rich piece you've known the Balfours to collect — and watch as he stops, pressing his forehead to the peeling paint. "Yes," he says. "Alright. I'm here."

The days pass the same, only he's learned to wear clothes, linens that feel stolen out of time from a period of history you can't quite place. In a series of seconds, you understand the habits of his days: he walks the perimeters, tends to the grounds, mends the cracks in the walls and the warped floorboards and the mouse-ridden holes chewing through. You see, more than hear, the house itself responds happily in little ways: the fire's hearth flaring brighter, the warmth in the room embracing you like a happy hug. The man in the memory sits contented in a chair, stroking over its armrest comfortingly. "''I know,''" he says. "''I won't let anything in. I know what I'm for.''"

You blink, and more time has passed. He's stopped tending the house — you can tell from the cobwebs that haven't been cleared, the wallpaper that's started peeling at the corners, the thin coating of dust on the furniture where it had been polished to a shine. The man is at the end of a corner, hand pressed to the wall, muttering something you can't make out until you creep closer. "A room," he says. "I want to build one. I know how it's done — I've felt you do it, I know what it takes, I know this house better than anything alive." He pauses. "So show me how. Let me do it." He holds his breath. So do you. Minutes tick by. Nothing happens — no giving way, no room where there was none before. "I have given you everything," he says, louder now. "Every year of my existence. Every room in you has been touched by my hands. You owe me this." Nothing, still. He stays there for longer than you can count, staring at his hands and the wall, expression hardened by hurt — and something more. Something you don't understand, until the next memory.

The cellar isn't damp or cold, the way you would expect a cellar to be. One might thank the heart at its center for that, beating with a warmth that surrounds you on all sides — the walls, the ceiling, the floors, all of them veined and pulsing like the very foundation of the house is beating and breathing, a living entity. A long time passes, the man staring blankly at the heart before he reaches, seizing it with both palms. There's nothing of the gentle man you saw in him earlier, resting happily in that armchair by the fire. "''I know what you are,''" he says. ''"I found you in a field. I built you room by room, stone by stone, I have given you every year of my life, and I know every part of you. Including this.''" His grip tightens. "''So I'm taking it. And you're going to let me — because without me you were nothing. You were dirt. I made you into something worth being, and this—''" he pulls, hard, "''—belongs to me. You don't get to say no to me.''"

For a moment, nothing happens. Your vision spins as the man is taken, and you're taken with him — both of your bodies dragged across the floorboards until the doors burst at their seams, sending the two of you sprawling across the treeline. In the distance, you hear the door slam closed with such force that the stone around it cracks, the house seeming to shake and tremble from it. From where you're standing by the forest, beyond the barrier you've come to know, the house looks like an impenetrable fortress. No open doors, no lit-up windows, no nothing that makes it seem full of the life you'd watched it hold. The man rises, blood pooling down his arms from the gashes in his wrists, but that's not what strikes you. It's the grass beneath his feet as he stands in it, yellowing and withering. Above, the trees drop each of their leaves, branches curling away from him. The hole he dug himself up from withers, blackening.

It looks at the house one last time. Then turns away, walks into the dark, and does not look back.
</blockquote>

= References =
[https://saltburntlogs.dreamwidth.org/58422.html#cutid1 June 2008 event]

[[Category:NPC]][[Category:NPC Communication]]