JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.

It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.

The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.

"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.

"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.

Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.

NOTES:

• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.

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You Taste Like New Flesh

( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )

The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm. Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.

"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."

The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.

Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.

Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.

Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.

Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.

Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.

Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.

Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.

The table awaits.

NOTES:

• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )

Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten. At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are. You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.

NOTES

• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.

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I am not worthy

( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )

Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot. First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence. Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall. They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.

"I am not worthy."

One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.

It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.

When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.

What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.

This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.

One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.

NOTES:

• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.

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OOC NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!

➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.

➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.

➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!

➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!

➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.

➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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Comments

[markingnight]

Sorry. Not much on a dragon that isn't dangerous.

[ In Ironeye's estimation, there were few better ways to get to know someone than to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with them in battle. Some crumpled under pressure, others bolted in fear. It seemed that Fray's instincts led him to take the frontline, even draw attention away from his comrades.

He was pretty good.

The dragon recoiled from Fray's blow, from which blood as scarlet as its flame spurted. This was not an ancient dragon, with scales of impenetrable stone. It lashed out with its claws, tried to crush them under its massive feet, but it could be wounded by normal means.

Ironeye, for his part, seemed to be determined to infuriate the beast -- he stayed within striking distance of the thing, emptying his shots into its head at every opportunity. At interval he would dart forward and stab the dragon with his dagger when it got within reach. It was like his life's mission was to make the death machine as angry at him as earthly possible. ]

Tail! [ And true enough, the dragon's tail was coiling around its body, just before it struck. Even a novice would understand that taking a blow from a whip like that could snap a man's neck. ]

[beaffrayed]

Starting to see that. [ Fray is, at the least, reassured that the damn thing bleeds; he can handle that much.

He'll not question Ironeye's methods...much...but the man seems determined to anger it beyond comprehension. It's not a style he's seen before, but the other man seems to know what he's doing and isn't getting himself hurt unnecessarily, so he'll hold his tongue.

Fray interjects with swings of his sword, punishing the dragon for turning away, and that likely makes it angrier...but it divides the beast's attention, at least.

Fray leaps back as the tail whips out, but not quite far enough; it doesn't hit him fully, but the sheer speed and power of it makes even a glancing blow an ordeal to endure. The painful reverberation jars through his body as he grips his sword more tightly, pushing back against the impact of the attack, rooting himself in place.

He wonders, will he be dream-sore or truly sore? How far down does it go?

No time to think about that; the dragon's turning to him, and he moves swiftly to draw its gaze from his temporary battle partner, making an opening. ]

[markingnight]

[ The beast roared, recoiling as the pain of Fray's blows gained its attention. It lashed out at the swordsman again and again -- and then, suddenly, it was backing off to beat its wings with the force of a gale. Ironeye seemed to take this as a very bad sign indeed; he was now running directly towards Fray as the creature lifted itself off the ground and began to put distance between itself and both of its much smaller challengers. ]

Towards the beast, where it can't reach!

[ What, like... under it? Because that certainly seemed to be what Ironeye was trying to get Fray to do -- sprint right towards the thing as it winged away. He had to shout over the dragon's roar: ]

Have you an ultimate art?

[ Was he asking if Fray had an ult? Yes. ]

[beaffrayed]

[ Backing away? Fray's about to retreat, to buy himself a moment to breathe and center, but that's not the right choice, it seems. Ironeye calls out, and he heeds the instructions, no matter how ridiculous they sound on first glance because run? Towards the dragon? Under the dragon?

This certainly isn't what he thought he'd be doing today, but sure. He sprints towards the dragon, and then he almost stops cold when he's asked a question he has no idea how to answer. He only doesn't because stopping mid-run when there's a dragon about seems a terrible idea.

What in the seven hells is an ult-- ]

I've never heard of such a thing. [ His reply is curt.

That doesn't mean he has no options at all, however. It's easy to slip into the abyss, to summon forth that familiar darkness and feel his senses bow to it and waver. Black and red energy surrounds him like a mist and curls along the hilt and blade of his sword, his heart and breathing in perfect harmony. Just as he was taught. ] But if you need a decisive strike of me, direct me as to where.

[markingnight]

Then steel yourself. And when it falls, strike true.

[ The dragon shrieked, loosing a pillar of flame. It incinerated the stand of trees they had left behind, scouring clean everything it touched. Its heat, so much nearer this time, was like a tangible blow that blistered and ruptured all living flesh in its wake. A hart in its path, caught mid-leap, vanished as quickly as had the pilgrims.

Yet the creature's initial aim had overshot its prey, missing Fray and Ironeye both -- the dragon's flame was meant for striking targets safely distant. Enraged, the dragon continued to wing backwards. If it could put enough distance between their positions, the dragonfire that continued to pour from its jaws would surely reduce the bones of its enemies to ash.

In that brief window of time and distance, Ironeye unshouldered his greatbow and fired. The shot flew, and then came the blast of wind that followed like a sudden storm. The sound of its wake was like a thundercrack as it splintered the nearby trees.

The dragon fell. It was not dead; any fool could see the sputters and sparks of flame still trailing from its jaws. But as it fell heavily to the earth, it was clear that it had been caught off-guard. A swift hand could strike at its head, eyes, neck -- any point of weakness before it recovered itself and began its assault anew. ]

[beaffrayed]

[ Fray glances at the fire, feels its scorching heat even from a position of relative safety, and wonders morbidly if such wounds would carry over upon waking. To be burned to ash, then put back together again...

Well, there's still that intermittent ghost of pain flitting somewhere between stomach and ribs, so he ought to be careful with all this.

Ironeye's shot is true, resoundingly loud; he couldn't miss it if he tried. The dark knight is already running as the dragon falls, leaping to intercept with a powerful slash to the neck. He twists to pull the sword free, kicking away so it doesn't fall on him, which would doubtless be just as much a problem as being incinerated. ]

[markingnight]

[ With a spray of arterial blood, Fray's sword pulled free. The dragon dissolved into a thick cloud of white-gold particles -- magic? Some other power?

And then, so did the memory. Back to the banquet. Back to... wherever this was, Ironeye reckoned it to be like a fell dream. ]

Right. That's the last bit of kidney I'll have for the forseeable future.

[ His tone was wry, but Ironeye was a little put off-balance by the vivid nature of the vision. He didn't like it. ]

[beaffrayed]

[ Back to frippery and all this strange finery, without his sword in hand. Fray jolts back into...sort-of reality, seeing the man he'd just fought alongside across from him, and huffs.

It had felt vivid, real, too much so. What manner of place has he come to? It's nothing he's ever seen before... ]

Bloody strange effect... It's enough to put you off dinner altogether. I'd wager that everything on the table's got something wrong with it, if it wasn't such a sure bet that I'd find no takers.

[ He crosses his arms. And yet, the master of this dream will be watching expectantly, wishing them to eat...(Alien hunger, his and not his, curls tight in his gut.)

No way out, it seems. ]

Something that's not meat might summon something less vivid...mayhap. [ There's doubt in his voice, though, he doesn't think there's a 'safe' choice here. ]

[markingnight]

I took the first bite. This one's all yours.

[ Look, he wasn't above delegating a little responsibility here. Sure, they'd survived Ironeye's memory with no ill effect, but there was no guarantee that the other dishes would leave its diner the same. ]

Nice swordplay, by the way.

[beaffrayed]

Dragons aren't my usual fare...but I'd shame my profession if I didn't know how to wield a blade in all circumstances.

You're good with that bow, though you've got confidence aplenty to be enraging such a beast in close-range. I've not known many archers who would have escaped that unscorched.

[ He snorts at the delegating. You know what? That's fair. ]

Fair enough. I'll try to choose something that doesn't hurt too much. [ Like he has any idea what that would be.

He sticks to his guess of not meat, and his attention is caught by a dish of plum-sized fruits. When he picks it up, it dusts his gauntlet-clad fingers with glittering silver.

He turns it over for a moment, contemplating it, and then removes his faceplate. He does not remove the veil, so it gives very little idea to as to what he looks like beneath it.

He bites into it, and feels nothing; for his dinner partner, however...

Helplessness, desperation, frustration. It burns, it hurts, like the darkness that claims him, in which he's going to pieces. Each vivid emotion is fuel for its fire as it swallows him up; he drifts lightheaded and aching.

"...Is this it? Is this all that awaits?"

Oh, it was a hazard of being a dark knight, he knew that, but still. Still! He'd not expected to meet death so soon, so quickly. He'd fought with all he had; it had not been enough. At least they'd gotten away...

In this jumbled tatter of emotions and memory, the wish is simple, heartfelt; I want to go home. Home is not a place for Fray, it is two people he holds dear, and vainly does he reach for it even as death claims him... ]

...Well, if there's any ill effects, I've not keeled over yet. [ He doesn't sound entirely certain of that, though, he doesn't trust a seemingly safe option... ]

Fray no.....

[markingnight]

[ Ironeye was silent for a moment. Though masked and hooded, the cant of his head and set of his shoulders were proof enough that something had affected him. Even when facing down the business end of a flying drake, he'd shown no hesitation. Now, he seemed downright somber. ]

...It seems we are comrades in more ways than one. I'll speak to no one else of what I saw, but eat no more of that fruit.

[ In no way did his words seem ominous at all, no sir. And another thing -- he had been the one affected, not Fray. Which confirmed that even those that did not partake could feel the effects of the feast. ]

he's fine and extremely normal about everything, it's fine

[beaffrayed]

[ What an ominous sentence that is... hey, HE'S the one who's supposed to say that kind of thing

He does put the fruit down, as strange as it is to leave it half-eaten. ]

...You've seen something of mine, I wager. At the least -- that makes us even, for it was your memory I saw first. [ It's only fair..in a sense. ]

That it does not always matter if you partake, only if someone near you does... [ He shakes his head. ] What a strange game this dream plays.

local dark knight holds it together ig

[markingnight]

[ 'Twas settled. They would simply have to take turns acting the edgelord. ]

I experienced your death. Your despair.

[ Ironeye simply came out with it this time. He knew the unsettling feeling of having one's secrets laid bare. For his own part, he had been grateful for the Duchess's discretion in not relaying his truth to everyone else. ]

Perhaps we were simply unlucky in our choices. That wine, for instance. It could be poisoned.

[ Ironeye joke lolol ]

too busy berating the wol and/or everyone else to have an emotional crisis

[beaffrayed]

Did you? [ That gets a quiet sigh. ] ...It's past, at least. No longer fresh.

[ Only a scant handful of years past, but still, it's better than the raw pain he'd felt at the beginning, mingled with the Warrior of Light's own. He'd lost himself in it, for a time. It had been good, to lose himself in it.

Ironeye's comment about the wine gets a sharp little laugh. ] If it were, we might be excused from having to further partake.

what could possibly go wrong

[markingnight]

[ Ironeye nodded. It wasn't his inclination to poke at an obviously old wound, even if a part of him was curious. ]

And now you're here. What misdeeds earned you a spot at this table?

[ He took a piece of lamb, put it on his plate, and did the only sane thing -- pretended to eat it. The ol' pushing your food around razzle-dazzle. Maybe that would satisfy the harpy. ]

...Don't suppose you see a hound anywhere.

looks at the entirety of drk job quests....

[beaffrayed]

[ In any other circumstance, he might be curious, but Fray suspects that revelation will come regardless of whether either of them want it or not. ]

Me? Being the embodiment of good sense and pragmatism, likely. [ Amusement tinges his voice, another joke he doesn't explain. ] Or heresy, in the eyes of some.

[ Fray doesn't do the same, though he does take one of the silver cups full of wine. Doesn't drink, just swirls it around and stares at it... ]

Would that be a beast, or a moniker for a warrior? [ He's heard both. ]

Re: looks at the entirety of drk job quests....

[markingnight]

The former. I was thinking that a beast might appreci --

[ Wait a second. ]

Heresy?

[ Was this humor on Fray's part? There weren't many who would lightly use the term, at least not where Ironeye was from. ]

[beaffrayed]

[ Fray simply nods. ]

Aye. There was a runaway girl -- Rielle. Noble birth of course, if she was like me they'd not have cared a whit. But we protected her, heard her out. When the temple knights came...they wanted her, of course. I objected.

[ He shakes his head, after a moment of silent reflection. ] Though to be called heretic, that can mean all sorts where I was from. Most often, it's merely a label the powerful use to enact cruelty on those below them, under the pretense of purity.

[ Boy, someone sounds bitter. ]

[markingnight]

Those who fall outside the precepts of order must dealt with. [ His head dipped briefly, like the beak of a perching bird. Though he managed to sound almost dispassionate, there was a tension in Ironeye's baritone like a bowstring drawn taut. ]

A familiar story.

And then? Did you shield her from that cruelty?

[beaffrayed]

Aye, we agree on that much. Though what counts as order to you and to I, that's a different thing entirely, I'd wager. [ A dark knight enacts justice when all other laws falter, no matter the consequence. But what are the tenets of Ironeye's justice? He knows not. ]

I did, and I paid for it in the death you saw. So do such stories often end. [ There's a slight melancholy tinging the words. ] My friend carried on that protection in my stead, though I'd rather not have left them both so soon.

[markingnight]

A stout friend, then. Loyal to the end.

[ And then Ironeye was silent for a moment, weighing Fray's words in some inner calculus of his. This was an uncomfortable sensation, feeling like he owed a man something. Still, there was something they shared. ]

Where I am from, those who die and yet live are... unwelcome. They fall outside the laws that ought to govern life and death. Therefore, they are hunted as aberrations of that order.

[beaffrayed]

He is. It's my hope that he lives long, as I did not. [ It was a balm to him, to know that Sidurgu and Rielle yet lived.

He listens to the other man's words, a considering silence falling over him before he speaks. ]

You spoke before of that affliction...that the order of life and death was all upended. If there's no permanent death to be found, what do you do with such lawbreakers?

hope this is clear, Shit's Complicated 🤷‍♂️

[markingnight]

Your question touches on too many threads at once. To unwind them would take time. [ It wasn't that he was opposed to explaining, exactly, only that Elden Ring lore was kind of convoluted ] But if you ask of me, specifically:

I am one of them. I, like you, am already dead.

[ Therefore Ironeye did nothing with them in particular. He was more likely to be hunted on the principle of law, than be the one to do the hunting. ]

The words I spoke earlier... "Those who fall outside the precepts of order must be dealt with". They are not mine, but the sentiment of the zealots that cling to remnants of the old order.

IT'S OK, I UNDERSTAND. elden ring lore is like this

[beaffrayed]

Aye, is that so? Then the difference between the zealots I know and the zealots you know are not so far after all. You've proven a decent sort, at least from where I sit.

[ Still... ] ...It's a difficult fate to bear. [ Not just dying, but... ] To go into death, then through it entire...

[ His voice falters a little, as if he's having trouble arranging his thoughts. ] Well. Hardly easy, is it? My condolences to you, for what little good it does.

when the clearest answer you can get is "Maybe. Perhaps 🔮✨." 😭

[markingnight]

So quick to condemn me, are you? [ "Decent"? Why would you do him like this, Fray. Ironeye's voice had a clear ring of amusement to it as he slipped some of the unwanted meal under the table in a neat sleight of hand. It belonged to the floor, now. Floor Dinner. ]

[ Yet rarely had anyone offered him condolence for his situation. An odd experience, for someone who for a time had forgotten he was even dead. ]

You seem a decent sort yourself. Maybe that's why you're quicker to see it in others.