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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[obsidien]

Dealing with two has taught me that I truly do not have a fondness for them. [Rielle is the only exception.] As you've seen, they can be too dramatic to even gaze at.

[This might be the first time Sidurgu has ever mentioned the moment so glibly. But thanks to that, it brings to mind something important that he neglected to even notice.]

Or perhaps that was the influence of the one you're attached to-- whom I do not see.

[beaffrayed]

[ That gets a slight huff. ]

Aye, I remember that. Though...it was no normal circumstance that brought such a thing about. [ He'd protested, for all the good that did. Though he can't say it hadn't been funny, watching Sid have to handle two children and complain about it all the while.

It's...good. To hear him talk about it on his own. To be able to bear talking about it. ] ...Still, for all that you misliked it, you did well.

[ He can offer that much to him.

Fray tilts his head at that last comment; he's certainly noticed, it's impossible not to in his state, but he wasn't going to bring it up - no need. ]

...I've not heard their voice nor heartbeat, since this dream began - only my own, somehow. [ The dream-tide had separated them...at least, that's what he thinks has happened. It's his best guess; this hasn't happened before.

He does sound puzzled about it. ] If they're here at all, I'd not be able to tell.

[obsidien]

[Now Sidurgu turns his head to fully, properly gaze at Fray. The very thought that someone who only exists as aether is wandering about without the one who anchors him is... concerning. Can Fray even dream on his own? Perhaps. Sidurgu's still not sure about how all of it works, he's never asked the Warrior and is frankly not too interested in learning the logic lest it cause him a headache.]

That shouldn't be possible. How are you still here?

[Is that a hint of concern? Perhaps.]

[beaffrayed]

[ Can he dream on his own? Well, he's certainly finding that out now, isn't he.

Fray turns his head to look back at him, to meet his eyes after a fashion...but he doesn't lift the veil. Sidurgu can set the terms of the interaction here; it's not he who is the ghost.

After a moment, he just shakes his head. ]

...I'd like to say I've some idea as to how this has come about...but to tell you the truth, I'm as much in the dark about how all this [ gestures at himself ] is possible as you are.

[ The answer is: He has no idea! The faint hint of uncertainty threads through his otherwise steady tone. ]

[obsidien]

[Sidurgu reaches up as if to rub between his brows, but is stopped by his mask, and he grumbles wordlessly under his breath.]

I cannot divine the logic of this place. But, if you don't seem distressed or in any danger... [He shakes his head. Fray is fine. It's fine.]

This is a dream-- was it ever meant to have any logic in the first place? [Rhetorical, really.]

[beaffrayed]

I'm solid enough -- you ought to be worrying more for yourself. [ Strange though his existence is, it's Sid who's leaving a body and all that such things entail behind, if they both truly can't wake up from it all.

His recent experience with dreams is patchwork at best. Not as if he really experiences them the way the Warrior does. Rhetorical the question though it is, it sets him to thinking.

His head turns, his gaze drifts; from decoration to pedestals, to the countless watchers, to the being atop the highest one; then down to the table, in all its no-doubt-poisoned glory. ]

But I'd not say this dream's without its logic. We're being shown much, and bidden to partake of all it offers.

Almost feels like we're being courted. Or coerced. [ There's a dry, grim amusement in his tone. ] Give it a little change of decoration, and it's not too different from the dinners they hold in the Pillars, I'd wager...strings attached and all.

[obsidien]

A bright gathering to entice the less wary. [As his tail swishes to and fro, Sidurgu crosses his arms over his chest. He's not contradicting Fray at all. Of course he's picked up that this place is far more insidious than it seems-- there's a reason why he hasn't taken any of the food nor drink being offered.

Even a man who lives and breathes in a tavern knows better than to drink pretty-looking poison.] Such an elaborate web for a spider.

[He looks back down at Fray.]

But we are not the sort to be prey, are we?

[beaffrayed]

[ A slight shake of his head. ] Not in the slightest.

[ There's a pleased note to his tone, a fondness he can't quite hide. Though there's much he feels about Sidurgu being here, about how they are able to talk to one another, and how this dream acts...as always, he is comforted by his presence.

He taps a little piece of hanging jewellery, a soft tink of metal. ] Though I've felt eyes on me for some time now. [ A slight, mirthless laugh, more an exhale of breath than anything true. ] Partaking doesn't agree with me in the least, but I've the suspicion that to not partake invites the ire of the one who laid the table...and mayhap is responsible for all these same-masked guests.

[ Still, it may be worth risking it, rather than eating. But it's not much of a choice they're given, is it? ] What do you think, Sid? Would they force us to eat, if we dallied overlong?

[obsidien]

Force? Of course they would. The whispering in our ears was not an invitation-- it was a command. [Anything can be a command if said right, but Sidurgu, ever the rebellious spirit who bows to no one, can metaphorically sniff out authority figures just so he knows who to spite.]

No, I believe the true question would be is "how". If they would force our mouths open, or do something much more subtle.

[beaffrayed]

[ Fray hums thoughtfully, inclining his head in a nod. He sees no further need to add to the words, not when he agrees with them. He simply observes the room for a few moments longer, contemplative.

It's harder to notice on others than on himself, simply because he doesn't know nearly so many of these people, but he does note a certain commonality between those who don't partake, compared to those who do. He extends a hand in front of him for a moment, watching with a certain morbid fascination as color begins to ebb from it. With such fading comes the prickling embers of hunger, a strange sensation for someone who's not needed to eat in years.

He glances over to the other man to see if something similar is happening to him. ]

You start to fade if you don't eat, seems like. But despite the displeasure of our unseen watcher, it doesn't look as if anyone's standing forth to force us to, so it might all be subtleties here.

[ He wonders that if you can starve to death in a dream like this -- what consequences would it have? This one seems so vivid, but then again, all dreams are... ]

[obsidien]

[Sidurgu doesn't need to ask if Fray can eat-- he can read between the lines. He watches the motions, the way the hand seems to lose its colour like ink leaving a brush to seep into paper. Sidurgu lunges forward, grabbing Fray's wrist in alarm.

The conclusion? It doesn't matter if he can eat or not-- if he does not, he may die. And that thought sends chills in his spine, enough that Sidurgu forgets that he should inspect himself for anything similar.

(So far, nothing. Yet.)]

What does it feel like? Do you feel faint?

[beaffrayed]

[ Fray simply lets him do it; there's not even the slightest flinch or startle at being grabbed. He glances at him, the movement of his head turning jostling the veil enough to reveal a glimpse of golden eyes, still preserved - but that's all.

His glance is worried, though. At least Sidurgu doesn't seem to be suffering the same effects...but maybe it's only a matter of time. ]

No, not at all. Only the sense that I'm being watched more closely than before. [ A slight pause, then, in a more surprised tone: ] Though the actual hunger, I'd not expected to feel.

[obsidien]

[Of course Fray would feel hunger, because why would he not in this place? He can't imagine that was an easy feeling to put up with either, given everything in Ishgard.

The thought just makes Sidurgu even more concerned. This may not be his Fray, but he is still Fray.]

Then this does not become a question about how to resist them, but how to save you. ["Save" might be too dramatic a word for this situation when Fray still seems so calm, but Sidurgu still chose it anyway. He is not about to continue staying calm.]

I shall admit, their methods are more dangerous than we expect, just look at you.

[beaffrayed]

[ Hunger had always been a constant gnawing concern in childhood; even after he had left the Brume, that had lingered. Though the memories are distant now, harder to recall without physical ties, he's hardly able to forget. ]

I ought to be saying all that to you. I hardly think you'll be spared the same fate, should you go too long without...

[ Calm he might be, but there's worry in his tone regardless. He cannot be human again, he cannot be (and he refuses to pretend to be) the Fray that Sidurgu wants back, but he wants to care for the other man all the same...the memories of who he once was still burn on in him, after all. ]

Doesn't seem as if there's much of a choice. I'll have to eat eventually. [ He can't stop looking over at Sid, clearly trying to see if that fading is beginning on him too. He has the absurd thought that it'd be hard to tell in some places, given the Au Ra's coloration already... ]

[obsidien]

[If Sid had begun wasting away, no one would even notice, not with his pale skin and the mask hiding his emotions. It's the perfect excuse for Sidurgu to just ignore all of that in favour of focusing on Fray.

So he does.]

I am Au Ra, surely I can handle the lack of food better than you and your Hyuran body. [And he waves a hand at Fray's... everything. Is he technically still Hyur? He still looks as such.]

[beaffrayed]

[ It's why he watches him so keenly; if the Au Ra were to fade, he's no doubt that Sidurgu would ignore it. ]

You've no proof that's how it works in a dream. [ Despite his worry, some amusement creeps into his voice regardless. ] I'll not argue whether I can endure it more than you, but I'd not be so quick to say that it won't affect you just as much in time.

[obsidien]

[To that, Sidurgu places his fists on his hips, leaning over Fray with his tail swishing.]

Do you have another idea? Any insight as to how this world decides its rules and enforces them? No, I doubt it. [He's just going to barrel on like this.] When there's already a problem, we should handle it first, rather than focus on preventing another.

[beaffrayed]

[ He doesn't even step back, just planting a fist on his hip in much the same way as he stares up at Sidurgu. ]

... [ He sighs. ] I've no objection to handling the situation in front of us -- but I'll not stand by idly if the same happens to you, know that.

[ He will glance over at the table though; that prickle of hunger from before is becoming more urgent, more gnawing. He has to pick something, he supposes, but he has no idea what any of the effects are... ]

[obsidien]

[They're just going to do this, then. They're just going to have a stand-off.

Sidurgu taps his foot on the floor, waiting for Fray to make his move.]

Yes, yes. Now go on, and fix your predicament.