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

help i love his face in that image

[sacral]

[ Joy runs over in an abundance that would seem ill-suited to this gathering if not for the way that the memory pours across his heart first, then his mind's eye. This belongs to the man who treasures it, not the dream pressing it to him in a soft unfurling. Golden, sweet, human-thrummed warm; the essence of it catches on Subaru's awareness like shimmering motes suspended in sunlight. Love exists in this moment that is not his, that he didn't have to fight to see or to prove the existence of. It is perfect in that it just is. Birth is a transcendental homecoming, a constellation of blood and trust in equality. Subaru is seeing — family.

Though the memory tolls through him as an ache of joy, the glance he flickers upwards is still somewhat schooled behind the gentle cover of his veil. He juxtaposes the face of that younger man, "Uncle Arthur", with the sleek, handsome one that considers him now. His hesitation might give away that his first instinct is to refuse, but he thinks better of being the reason that this happiness ebbs so quickly. ]

If you don't mind... [ Slender fingers traverse Arthur's palm as if in divination, a sensory experience in itself. Finally, his hand settles in the other man's. ] that I never really learned.

[ He stands, delicate build corseted by a sternness that doesn't entirely seem to be his own, but one that he's forgotten how to cast off. His attire seems to reflect that: somber and plain across his chest, but the slight skewing of his body hints at the mesh and pearl, a garden blossoming over the frail contours of his back.

He thought wryly of it. He still thinks wryly of it, but his attention chooses to be elsewhere. Subaru cants his head, as if one of those stray motes of humor has managed to imbue him too. ]

I skipped out on all the family gatherings that might have taught me.

[ A morsel given: prestige shirked. ]

it's amazing how young he looks when he smiles,,, i hope it soothes subaru's worn heart

[pointedlook]

[ His tablemate's expression is closed, the edges of it blurred by the dark shimmer of the veil. In the sunset colored flickers of light, he can make out the small moue of surprise. Or perhaps, consideration, the toffee-like milliseconds stretching with his silent reluctance.

Those long strands finally snap clean as he feels the slide of acquiescence along the lines of his palm, delicate fingertips seeming to read them as if they're language; a braille he isn't aware of. He holds in a shiver, the warmth of Subaru's palm in his sparking under his skin and catching on the spillover of his joy like a match to tinder. Buoyed by wonder, by the flex and release of muscle, tendon, and bone, Arthur easily helps the other man up and guides them away from the stiff tangle of chairs and unmoving Vessels.

There, in the intimate glimmer of candlelight, he sees the ghost of a smile in the tilt of Subaru's head. It feeds his own, draws it away from the grin of elation and towards something softer, the trace of a dimple showing in his cheek. ]

Let's catch you up, then, shall we? [ Practiced motion has him gently arranging their limbs in poise of a traditional waltz, the curve of his hand fitted to Subaru's waist. Pressed so close, his fingers brush the edges of the embroidery at the back of the other man's jacket, the heat of his skin bleeding through fabric and thread. ] Follow me, like this.

[ Arthur leads, slowly, the hand at Subaru's side carefully steering him into the steps. ]

[sacral]

[ Hands are a language. The mudras say so, the elegant weave of a hand-seal encompassing all cosmic phenomena, beginning and end. Phenomena such as this: a chance meeting in the throes of sleep, the supplicating touch of skin making terrestrial the will of the stars.

Subaru is easily-arranged even when he's in possession of an obdurate spine unused to gentleness; the hand not currently occupied by Arthur's naturally perches on his shoulder. The pale jut of his wristbone softens with how his fingers lay unassuming against the seam of his lapel. The petaled curve of his back yields less though, as if awaiting some other violence to visit it beyond the heat, the sways. When had someone moved him like this last? It was Hokuto, probably. For a moment, he's more in his head than in his feet, finding that the smile this man offers him feels unearned. Provoked by the drink that sent his memory cascading down as sunlight...

He still doesn't have the heart to look away. So human, too human; what can he do but nurture this elation? ]

I'm not the best study. [ A remark even has he follows suit, step by step. ] The apocalypse lacked dance instructors?

[pointedlook]

[ Despite the stiffness of Subaru's spine, the rest of his limbs are imbued with an elegance that would be the envy of any prima ballerina. That is, of course, also excepting his mind; they may not know each other well, not at all, but he knows the look of someone lost in their head. Someone peering inwards, like the desperate do to a wishing well, riveted on the ripples of memory.

Arthur does not ask what ghosts have taken his place.

Instead, his light smile remains, the bubbling warmth of the drink still suffusing the ebb of blood in his veins. ] I think you're picking it up just fine.

[ More than, honestly, even with the slow starting pace. Subaru follows with near-uncanny intuition, picking up on the steps as if he could see them happening fractions of seconds before they occurred. So, he has no trouble flowing them into a more normal pace, only giving his partner a gentle nudge against his side to indicate the change. ]

That's been my impression of an apocalypse, yeah. [ Arthur raises an eyebrow, the remark so offhand it feels almost out of place. ] Is that what was happening, before here?

[sacral]

You don't seem surprised to hear that's the case.

[ Subaru studies the lay of this man's expression, the subtle emotive arithmetic of puzzling him and his ghosts out. Making real the ephemeral, translating him into some unspoken dream language. A wishing well is fitting; he's pressing pennies into his partner's palm for him to find, for him to be lucky. He doesn't need to see to the bottom, only to where his silver constellate offerings land.

He follows the cue, the compliment, and leans into the cup of Arthur's palm on his waist. ]

But dreams make many things believable.

[pointedlook]

Met someone who'd lived through nuclear winter. And another, who said Earth didn't exist anymore. [ Is it still concerning, yes. Is there anything he could do about those possibilities? Those things which have come to pass in a reality not his own? No.

Instead, he takes the information in, tries to understand how it happened and why. Maybe they could avoid something happening like that in the future. Maybe the information could simply serve as a record for people who no longer existed but should be remembered anyway. ]

Dreams are only limited by a person's imagination. [ So, he's not disagreeing. ] And even then, they may extend beyond it; the subconscious does more than we're aware of.

[sacral]

[ Acceptance presses to his mouth more than a frown does. It's not the first he's heard of it, that their realities and times aren't the same and perhaps not even related. But they are here together like bone and shell, plastic and glass, hollowed pinpoints where the same thread might pass through. Fragments spun onto dream's soft stretch of fabric, each arranged by practiced hands to play color and texture off of one another so that a familiar pattern might emerge.

To focus on it takes from his focus on moving, and so he becomes more pliant in his curiosity, smoother in the way they spin through tendrils of candlesmoke. ]

If you're aware of that, then we must not be at this dream's limit.

[ An unsubtle recognition of his dance partner's aptitude for something Subaru also knows. ]

[pointedlook]

[ Dreams connect all of them. Even without the suffocating observance of Sleep, that liminal space between unconsciousness and waking was full of invisible but interconnected threads. It tied person to person and in more cases than one would think, human to animal.

So, it's perhaps unsurprising that Subaru's attention is piqued with his answer. What's intriguing, though, is how he relaxes into the contemplation of the topic, as though it has a meditative effect on him; the stiffness drops from his limbs, a fluidity taking its place. ]

Well, it does belong to a proclaimed deity of sorts. I'd question how boundless a god really is if their dreams had limitations. [ Gracefully, he turns them, getting further and further from the dining table and prying eyes. ] And if you're aware of the boundaries of a dream: have you ever pushed on them, before?

[sacral]

[ A healthy thing to question, the will of a god's dream. Subaru knows well how close the gods can be, how they love synapse and the circuitry of human skin. Perhaps by being here, they are also dwellings rather than the dwellers, belonging made manifest. The following turn, further and further still, decants his tensions. ]

No, I don't have the ability to see into dreams. At least not as I know them, which are more tools of prophecy. [ This sprawling, homecoming cathedral of pearl, blossom, and rib is already more than he knows, even if familiar. ] It's here...

[ He runs the lay of his hand downwards from Arthur's shoulder to his chest, the lunar flat of it coming to rest over his heart. ]

The boundaries of the heart are what I'm more familiar with.

[ He pauses there. ]

But sleep is spiritual. The two are often connected.

[pointedlook]

[ Tools of prophecy—well, that's not unheard of. While the nature of dreamshare isn't that, he's still from Earth and familiar with the Grecian tales of oracles.

He's about to ask what ability the other man has when he gets it, a slim-fingered hand smoothing down his chest, the heat of his palm soaking through the light material of his shirt. Startled by the oddly intimate touch from someone with such a serious countenance, his breath hitches. Their dance, however, remains in tempo, a study in easy grace. ]

Dreams can reveal what the heart wants, yeah. I'd argue they're always connected, even if we're not always aware of it. [ The subconscious is full of mystery. ] How does one study matters of the heart?

[sacral]

[ Gentle action hemmed by resolute words: ]

By studying its ghosts.

[ Most things have a cadence: the holy sea at the palace's gate, the muted flutter of candlelight. This place breathes, but not as closely to him as his companion does. To feel this man's rhythm falter slightly beneath his palm causes him to finally move it, touch retreating back up to the line of his shoulder.

Obliging and settled, he ventures a likewise curiosity. ]

How does one push on the boundaries of a dream?

[pointedlook]

[ Eyebrows go up a fraction; it makes sense, of course, but it's still startling. ]

Like a medium of some kind?

[ Not that he's a believer in the supernatural. Spirits and hauntings and the like just didn't seem possible.

Either way, his partner is well attuned. Or perhaps sensitive, as he withdraws the hand he'd placed, setting it once again upon his shoulder. ]

It depends on who the dreamer is and for what purpose they've constructed a space. [ Here, he doesn't think he could lift the veil of the banquet and reveal a maze hidden underneath. ] Better to start small, as well, and watch for any change in the atmosphere.

[ As if to provide an example, he tilts his head towards a nearby pedestal with a decorative bowl on it, the shape of which changes, curving into itself for a brief moment. The silver filigree design remains as it's become an oblong music box, gently playing a tinny version of Clair de Lune. ]

[sacral]

[ Momentarily distracted from his question, Subaru follows the line of Arthur's line of sight to the bowl, attention rapt on its shift. A similar make, inlaid with delicate whorls of silver, but undoubtedly changed by his attention and skill. Its chiming in miniature finally gives them something to dance by, another bit of personal scaffolding that Subaru commits to memory. So small a thing in this place of impossibility, yet its meaning is vast. It can be changed.

His fingers twitch a little in his grasp, awareness fanning in likewise recognition that such a change might draw attention. Such caution comes intrinsically, even if his awe softens it. Overhead, the flowers shift, but the beast doesn't breathe in accusation, doesn't peer too hard. ]

Then, do you know? Who our dreamer is, and what she intends with this space? [ What she intends with us sits on his tongue, close to burgeoning off it in the thick bloom of his curiosity. He's heard a little by now of their patron, but not enough. ] Or...

[ On the next turn, Subaru's gaze draws away from the music box and back to his dance partner. ]

Is it that you're comfortable with being rebellious? [ Almost rhetorical. It doesn't seem to unnerve him, even if he thinks he knows the answer already. ] I don't get that opportunity often, you see.

My official title is onmyouji. It's similar to a medium or diviner... but exorcism and protection rites are also part of my work.

[pointedlook]

She wants worship, but that hasn't been well defined, if you ask me. [ Was worship submission? Was it indulgence? Was it an erosion or a merging?

Each new horror adds more to the picture as much as it muddies things. He privately still thinks everything she does is to drive them to the brink, get them desperate enough to beg for her to intercede. Too bad he'd go down in flames before he bent a knee to some fucked up god thing

So, perhaps he quirks a smile verging on sheepish when Subaru makes such an accurate assessment. ]

I don't like being told what to do. [ And that's him, stripped of the research, the paranoia, the utter determination. Rebellion, built into his bones and blood. ]

Exorcism—as in ridding someone or something of being possessed? [ Huh. ] I'll admit, I don't know much about that kind of thing. I don't believe in ghosts or spirits.

[ He clarifies; a simple statement of fact rather than a way to dissuade the conversation. Honestly, his attention is rapt on Subaru, curiosity sparking in his expression. ]

[sacral]

[ That word seems to inspire some sort of recognition in him, though its presence is intrinsic and flowing, marrow-deep. His expression is exceptionally clear and also momentarily faraway in his consideration of what worship might mean. He learned early what it means to exalt, what it means to have ritual enshrined into one's heart.

And for as long as he can remember, he wished it was anything else while wearing its vestment and its divinity.

Anyone else. He wasn't so lucky then. Maybe he still won't be so lucky now, either. ]

As all gods do.

[ In his element and then out again, his attention descends as a nod, this time into the knowing upward curl at one corner of his mouth. ]

It was just a job. [ Suspicious. ] But belief goes a long way in what you experience and what you don't. Most people go about their lives never interacting with spirits... so, most people can live peacefully never knowing because of that. It takes an incredible amount of emotion to attach a spirit to the physical world in the first place. Ghosts want to be heard by someone willing to listen.

[pointedlook]

All of them? Maybe, I wouldn't know. [ What's in the Bible or Torah or Quran? There's prayer, that much he knows, but the rest is a mystery, each religious tradition or belief more puzzling than the next.

Well, he's never made it a habit to spend a ton of cycles on thinking about things that probably didn't exist, so he's not going to get into it now. ]

How does one just end up in that kind of job? [ Seems very ... specialized. ] So, believing in spirits means you're more likely to encounter them? Seems to be a self-fulfilling kind of experience.

[ Almost too convenient. But, there is a kind of sense to it. ] Is it true, then, that ghosts usually have some kind of unfinished business?

[ Why else would they want to be heard, is his thought. ]

[sacral]

[ Whereas many would see the pragmatism as a narrow corridor, Subaru finds it — grounding. He finally smiles, faint. ]

I live in Tokyo. My family has protected Japan for thousands of years. [ As it turns out, even a day job as illustrious as spiritual protector of a whole country can be a family business. Behind the mottled lacing of his veil, his one good eye still catches the light, self-aware. ] I was simply next in line.

[ His explanation is also pragmatic, but he trusts that Arthur understands enough about the inherent complexities to take it for what it is. Duty clings to him, a visible weight. ]

You're also correct. Those who were so misunderstood in life, or those who didn't get to choose their deaths are the ones who cry out the loudest, because no one alive can know how they feel. Though... [ Briefly, his gaze shimmers away. Clan Sumeragi is only one half of the equation. ] the living also make more transgressions against the dead than you might think.

[pointedlook]

Ah, family business. [ Somehow, he hadn't even considered that. Even now, he wonders how a family gets involved in that kind of work to begin with. But, despite his personal questions, it does make sense. Especially in regards to how neutral and professional Subaru appears to be in discussing his work.

In a way, he feels a sense of sympathy for his dance partner; duty weighs on his shoulders, laced into his syllables, but he doesn't appear to care much for his trade. There is knowledge, that much is clear. But where is the passion? Maybe he's making too many assumptions, especially of someone he doesn't know well at alls ]

What kind of transgressions?

[sacral]

[ The cadence of his smile shifts, amorphous, smoky. ]

People make monsters of what they can't let go of.

[ A simplicity. Subaru has never thought to withhold his capability. Not even if it always seems to exclude him from the shape of his own humanity where it lies ill-folded to the tender, animal knots of his body. He's held many things in a similar fashion, things that yet lived and breathed and bruised and bled, even if it was to no kind end. Subaru has offered peace to many but in his mind that is still unsaved. An animal that finally feels protective warmth in its dying moments still dies — ]

...a vengeful ghost pacified to let go of its final resting place still knows the taste of violence. Giving a happy daughter back to her lovesick mother means killing the husband she resurrected, in her eyes. Twice, the man dies. Twice, the daughter dies.

[ His gaze is weighted but cool with knowing. ]

Grief makes almost any sin seem bearable to commit.

[ Including that of the taboo, the occult. ]