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

arthur | inception | existing player

[pointedlook]

i. you taste like new flesh

[ When he comes to, he's on a blackened shore, the sand so tightly packed it had no give. Grains of it dig into his cheek, his palms, and the lap of glassy waves near the tips of his shoes nudges him further and further into wakefulness. Blinking, he listens to the push and pull of the ocean behind him and scrambles up inelegantly, heart pounding as he thinks of the limbo, of how it was said to be like waking on the shores on one's own subconscious.

Patting the pockets of his trousers, he comes in contact with the sharp sides of his die and pulls it out to roll on the stiff earth, uneasy as the white pips change with each result. Sighing, he sticks it back in his pocket and sits on the shore for a few beats, furiously trying to remember how he got here. Nothing comes, just a worrying blank.

Mouth pressed in a thin line, he levers himself up and dusts off the excess sand, turning towards the curved pathway leading towards a palace. There wasn't any use in staying here; the dark water had no answers for him.

In dream-like fashion, it takes little time for him to make it up to the heavy pearl doors, finding them thrown open in glittering invitation. Stepping through, he heads for where he can see the warm glow of lights, eventually coming to a banquet hall. A long table stretches onwards, unrolled much like a carpet, laden with silverware, chalices, plates, and the piled upon feast.

Taking a hesitant seat, maybe you encounter him:

a. marigold brandy
As he sips politely from a fluted glass, the contents of which sparkle as though droplets of water are catching the sun's rays. After he does, an effusive giddiness wells up alongside a memory, shared with the nearest person like a delightful secret between friends.

The scenery changes, the opulence of the banquet dropping away to the sleek, modern aesthetics of an upscale hotel. Arthur's sitting on a low, squared off couch, dressed in a three piece suit the color of soot and a patterned maroon tie. Next to him, there's a similar sharply dressed young woman in a structured grey suit coat and skirt, her long brown hair in a simple updo. There's an air of tension between them as other well-dressed people walk up the small staircase nearby, their expressions glancing about searchingly. Like they're trying to locate something. Or perhaps, someone.

"Quick, give me a kiss," he murmurs to Ariadne, whose alert swivel turns towards him. Automatically, she leans in and he meets her halfway, the press of their mouths soft, electric, chaste.

When she pulls away, she takes a look around again, noticing the agitated attentiveness of the people is still there, confusion coloring her tone as she says "They're still looking at us."

"Yeah, it was worth a shot. We should get out of here," he replies with a nod to indicate they leave, getting up swiftly afterwards.

Ariadne's expression is caught at the tail end, going from dumbstruck to a sly smile that says volumes.

Perhaps those amused volumes translate for you, too, stranger. Enough to accept the offer of a dance, even?

b. deviled kidneys
Slicing into this dish that spills forth a tangy sauce, viscous and tantalizing. He trims off a small, careful portion, wary of what's on offer here. That wariness has been learned and well-earned, as the first swallow unfolds a memory, struck from his mind with the sure blow of a smith's hammer to molten steel.

Off-white walls of a hotel room frame the scene as Arthur and another man slide into it, the door having banged open. Physics bend, the entire space seeming to be tilted on its axis, causing the other man to land up against the wall. Arthur re-engages their fight as he grabs fistful of his suit, throwing a punch with his right hand.

Rotating again, he ends up on the wall instead, taking a glancing blow to the jaw. Both of them are thrown onto what would be the ceiling while the room continues on its spiral, a gun skittering past Arthur’s feet as he recovers his balance. With the upper hand in momentum, though, his assailant catches the attack before it lands, tossing him bodily against the wall above the headboard.

Struggling some more, he has another near miss with the gun as it zips past, palm connecting with the solid surface of wall instead. Another turn of the room sees the two men fighting on the bed and Arthur summarily dumped off of it, slipping towards the closed bathroom door. Just as the other man gets his footing, looking to try to lunge for him, the gun careens in his direction and Arthur makes a frantic grab for it, managing to close his hand around the grip quick enough to take the shot. Mid-air, the attacker drops, slumped against him on the floor.

Breathing hard, he glances down at the body. His heart beats in a quickened tempo brought on by remembering the adrenaline, the rush, the bruising in his limbs.

Is violence a language you speak, too?

c. what’s a gala without a little music?
Standing a bit aways from the dining table, near one of the walls, seemingly inspecting some kind of pedestal. If one watches close enough, they may catch that said pedestal holds a blown glass vase. A blink and the vase is no more, instead taking on the shape of an antique gramophone, made of the same bubbled glass. From it pours the soft melody of classical music, set to the tempo of a waltz.

His attention turns from the vase-now-turned-gramophone as if disinterested and if he catches you looking, he’ll raise an eyebrow in question. ]

Well? [ You got something to say? ]


ii. there's something in the way you lay; CW: dubcon (aphrodisiacs), Ω role perks

[ Curiosity leads him down the curling staircase, the lush luster of crushed velvet a decadent invitation. Once there, he’s overtaken by the humid air of desire, entranced by the rows of open doors. As if led by the throb of his pulse, by the sudden and overwhelming need to feel the press of skin against skin, he picks a room. His fingers run almost reverently along some of the implements on the wall, tracing the soft leather of a collar, the fine stitching of a blindfold.

Each pass of his hand sees him absently tugging at his formal dress, the knot of his bowtie unraveling as surely as his logic.

To whoever passes close enough for him to call out, he’ll look upon with an intensity in his dark eyes and the faint curve of a wicked smirk on his lips. ]

Not a bad way to end the night, don’t you think?


iii. wildcard

[ Arthur’s canon makes him adept at manipulating dream spaces, so feel free to catch him making the wallpaper less ugly or the chairs more comfortable! Or, if you’d rather do something completely different, feel free to hit me up on vaulkner or PM pointedlook! ]

i, c

[dethangel]

[It isn't like Toki was intending to go see what this guy was doing, but if someone's looking at something so intently, it makes sense to see what's going on, right?

So when he turns, Toki's standing there, grinning widely.]

Oh, cool!

[The music itself is, well, kind of boring, but it's music, and the execution is great.]

Got any other stuff?

[pointedlook]

[ For a second, he blinks in the face of Toki's beaming, clearly doing a quick mental database check; they've never met in person, but the voice is familiar.

Ah. Toy store guy. Huh. ]

Sorta. [ Arthur shrugs with one shoulder, downplaying how much he could do. How much he'd like nothing more than to take this entire sick banquet and fold it in on itself, build the streets of Paris right over top of its remains. ] What kind of stuff?

I. C

[vocalistyodels]

[He notices the familiar figure of Arthur off on his own. Not that there's not people around, but he's clearly in his own little world for a moment and maybe he's curious what's got his attention.

After all the guy does seem like one for details. The ghoul catches the change, doesn't really understand what's happening, but this is a dream isn't it? Anything can happen. Sporting a pleasant buzz from all the alcohol he'll make his way over, before he's caught in the act.]

Not really my tempo. Never did get the hang've it.

[Waltzing that is.]

[pointedlook]

No? Woulda thought this was up your alley.

[ Maybe that's a little bit of a tease. He already knows that, technically, he's from before Cooper's time. Which in some twisted way, makes him older than the other man. But only sort of, because Arthur hasn't lived over 200 years. Not in dreams and certainly not in reality. ] How about it, though? Come dance with me.

[ Because, while small, he is caught in the flush of achievement at making this happen. At wresting some kind of control in his court, instead of playing by Sleep's rules. The victory is a boost of adrenaline, giving him a bit of levity as he holds a hand out for Cooper to take. ]

Promise I won't trip you.

i.-ish

[hallowedly]

( A party, and no one's laughing, and a troubled belle of the ball walks into a bar. Or perhaps it's the desolate dregs of a girl in her mother's finest and a state of disrespair and garment divestment, pearls strings noosing a throat too slim for the gasped, wet squelching of her greedy swallows.

Spirits now, golden and molten. She's been sweating, and her kohl's run loose on bloodied lashes, and she's danced the night away. She has drunk, fed and nursed of her nightmares' waters to excess. Builds her bile and bleeds her folly, and she drags her nails, short and blunt and crippled things, over the wreckage of velvet armoring the back of wide chairs.

Seishirou, beside her, has filled her cup five times over during the night's course to test the effects of each laced dish by proxy. He does not trouble himself with a sixth turn as he seats her, content to sprawl idly in his own chair like a well sated cat, fingers flirting with the strangled throat of a cup as Sleep's prickling irritation eats at his limbs.

He leans in for a drink — only for the girl to bat it away, greedy to grasp the cup instead, and in her haste spilling it over, thick and golden and ruinous, across the table's lace and its spread — and the gentleman ahead. Oh, dear. Oh, she's crying now, nursing her (Seishirou's?) drink, while Seishirou, who's never entertained custody of either pets or children, but finds himself before a cocktail of both now, now studiously presents a handkerchief for the young man's consideration. )

I'd say it won't happen again, but I'd regret to be made a liar.

[pointedlook]

[ For his part, Arthur has caught half the display Seishirou goes through, dark eyes absorbing the calculated way the other man has passed his servings off to a young woman. In a sense, it's a smart tactical choice–testing the effects of the food and drink on someone else before partaking (if at all). He'd respect it more if he didn't find it particularly abhorrent, especially as her symptoms get worse about halfway through the fourth (or second, he doesn't know when it started), tears streaking down her cheeks even as she continued to eat. Whatever sauce had been slathered over it has stained her lips a deep crimson, the color dripping down her chin.

The pair of them sit across from him now and he wipes his face clean of anything other than observance. At the first dull clatter of the glass against the table, he pushes his seat back, ignoring the loud scrape of the legs along the floor. His pant leg doesn't go fully unscathed, however, shimmery liquid soaking in and leaving a darker patch on the black fabric.

Glancing up, he regards the other man with cool professionalism, ultimately deciding to take the proffered kerchief. Sure, he could wipe the stain away with a wave of his hand, but why show his cards? Moreover, he feels a pettiness in watching the scrap of cotton change color as he mopped up the mess. ]

You're avoiding the game, entirely, is that it? [ He finally asks, wiping up the liquid that had slowed to a drip over the side of the table. Neatly, he folds the thoroughly dampened kerchief into a square, holding it out for its owner to take back. ] Thanks.

I, C

[shatteredlenses]

[While Ignis can't see Arthur do his manipulation of the setting, he does hear when the music starts and turns toward it, a curious look crossing his face. It was not originally there, so what changed? He can't imagine Sleep suddenly decided her otherwise oppressive banquet hall needed some livening up. Isn't that what the dance floor is for?

Part of the mystery is solved when Arthur speaks. It's only one word, but Ignis recognizes his voice from when they spoke across the Murmur before.]

Arthur? Don't tell me you found a CD player hidden in one of these corners.

[pointedlook]

Hey, Ignis.

[ His greeting is casual but limned with a hint of warmth. Despite them having conversed very rarely, he'd walked away with a good impression of the other man.

Huffing a bit of a laugh at the query about a CD player–it's absurd, to think Ignis knew what that was when he had gods the size of the Empire State Building wandering around–he steps a bit closer to him, remembering his visual impairment. With less distance, he should be able to pinpoint where he was speaking from, better. The hall was big enough that sound echoed a bit. That probably didn't help Ignis all that much in navigating. ] No, not exactly. Ever seen a gramophone, before?

i.c

[merged]

[ Her grin stretches wide beneath her burnished gold mask, teeth flashing as the dangling chains brush the corners of her lips. It figures he'd have some sway here; years of dreamshare would give anyone an edge. Not quite on par with that frisbee stunt he pulled, but still, it's impressive in its own right.

Even if his taste in music leaves plenty to be desired. ]

Couldn't go with something less stuffy, Arthur? [ she teases, laughter slipping out on a wave of alcohol. Her thumb hooks around the strap of the harness cinching her orange suit jacket tight. ] Couldn't pick Halsey? Nine Inch Nails? Johnny Cash?

[pointedlook]

[ Mask or no, Sharon is unmistakable. If not by the gentle tug across the tether then by the familiar flash of her grin beneath the luster.

Despite the teasing barb, he returns the expression, just a bit, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement even as he suppresses an eyeroll. ]

Yeah, yeah, calm down over there. [ She's ticked off a few options, but he goes with the first song along those lines that had popped in his head, the strain of classical violins coming to an abrupt halt before he corrects the needle and a new song plays in its place. ] Didn't want to tip my hand on the first go.

I wasn't sure how sensitive Sleep was to other people messing with her whole–[ Arthur gestures vaguely, to the space around them. ]–space. Consciousness. Whatever this is.

a little music

[snaggletooth]

Oh, nothing.

[ He denies, wandering straight up to the gramophone.

He doesn't need to get so close to watch the record spin. He doesn't need to look directly into the horn to hear the music spilling out of it. Maybe his behavior starts to make a little more sense when he sets aside his drink, at which point he presses both palms to the woodgrain, lifting it a fraction from the pedestal.

Hm! That is a physical object. ]

They did look strange dancing to no sound.

[ One eye on Arthur, he turns back to see for himself how well this compliments the impromptu dancers under the ivied awnings. His interest is piqued. Someone who can control the dream that controls them is no doubt valuable, enough that there is only sense in keeping relatively quiet about it. ]

[pointedlook]

[ A small furrow develops between his brows as he gets the breezy answer. Slowly, it clears up when the younger man walks over, pausing to set his drink aside, and then carefully lift the entire gramophone from its place on the pedestal.

Checking for illusions, possibly. Seeing if it was simply a trick of the light (or the mind). Clever. ]

Knowing Sleep and the strange food, it's possible they're dancing to something only they can hear. [ Arthur lifts one shoulder in a shrug, though he's certainly not arguing it's odd. The dancers don't seem to notice all that much, continuing to spin on in differing tempos. ]

Might not be loud enough, either. Big space, shit acoustics.

[ Although he's sure he's already been made, considering the sharpness of the other man's gaze, he catches his eye as he carefully adjusts the volume of the music, letting it carry just a bit further. ]

i. c; fuck it we ball

[vixenish]

My, my.

[ she's smiling as she comes over to him, watching him shape a gramophone out of a vase with a keen and amused eye. ]

Could this be that "lucid dreaming" you once told me about, Arthur?

[pointedlook]

[ Ah, of course Lortel would notice; she's always on alert, keen eyes rarely missing a detail. His guard drops a bit, amusement curving his mouth instead. ]

The very same. Looking for a demonstration?

eminem_tossing_a_thing_at_you.jpg (ii)

[deathstealer]

[ Desire is a thing that Ranni has not felt for centuries. As she discarded her flesh, so too did she discard any needs of a physical body: hunger and thrist, sleep, intimacy. Indeed, she had been quite pleased to go without -- as a biological creature, she had often abhorred the need for eating and sleeping, only doing so reluctantly so that she could get back to her studies.

Here, in this realm of reality and dreams, desire has returned. First, it had been for warmth, as the cold plunged to such depths that it had chilled even her. And then, for connection.

And now, for touch.

As she observes the writhing mass of bodies in the den below, clad in a pale lunar grey dress of gauze and revealing metal, Ranni's gaze catches on a familiar figure. Arthur's smirk is an inviting thing, subtle but revealing. She approaches, slips past, and circles him like a shark in bloodied waters, one hand reaching out to adjust his loosened bowtie. ]

If the fare upstairs was magicked into compulsion,
one can only wonder what satiating desires of the flesh will do.
In truth, this arousal in the air is entirely false,
and yet, so many of us fall under its spell.

[ Key word: us. Not just everybody else; her too.

She stops at Arthur's back, two hands on his hips, two at his shoulderblades, and leans up to murmur in his ear: ]

The question, truly, is this:
dost thou gladly fall,
or shall thee resist?

hello :"3c

[pointedlook]

[ Curiosity lights up his eyes as he watches Ranni glide into the room, the smokey gauze of her dress seeming to flow like water with her motions. Even as she circles him in a manner akin to a predator—and isn't that a thrill—he simply watches, dark eyes alert but interested.

She finally stops behind him, something he acknowledges with a slight turn of his head. At the light pressure of her hands at his waist and shoulder blades, his breath hitches in anticipation.

Her question, though, leaves him smiling, just a bit. ]

I could hardly turn you down, Ranni. [ Maybe there is a bit of unnatural lust simmering in the air and in their blood. But, his regard for the odd witch-doll woman is not magically induced; he likes her, plain and simple. As if to punctuate the point, he gently tugs one of the hands from where it curls over the angle of his hip and brings it up, brushing a kiss to the backs of her jointed fingers. ]

wildcard sort of??? outfit slightly NSFW ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[longwillows]

[A trained dancer she is not, but Kalmiya never lacks in enthusiasm for a new endeavor, especially one so expressive and intimate. And it's far from her first time dancing; she has natural rhythm, and she's had lessons here and there from the more musically inclined in her cohort, enough that she doesn't need explanation for the basics like following the time signature or where to put her hands. Plus, she's been in more than one fight that's felt kind of like a dance, which feels like it should count.

She is also, as Arthur already knows, deeply attuned to the movements and desires of a partner. Particularly his, given the strength of their Tether. It's been a huge aid in keeping up with the sensual but precise steps of the tango he's been leading her in; that split-second advance of intention for where his feet are going to go, the occasional echoing grip of her own hand at his shoulder telling her when she needs to adjust.

She does the utmost to keep up with him to the tune of the music he's set on his contraband gramophone, matching each swivel of the hips and flick of the feet with enthusiasm if not perfect technique. The crystals that dangle from her ensemble click mildly and scatter colorful prisms of refracted light as they swing about with each motion, punctuating the excitement in each step with sensory delight. And of course, there's no containing her giddy laughter when she successfully executes a particularly fun or more complex move, as she's overwhelmed by the joyful rush of pride and the electricity of touch.

After some time, in a lull of slow closeness with forehead nearly pressed to his, she lets out a breathy chuckle—a little winded and warm with the exertion of new movement, but nowhere near the end of her adventurer's stamina yet.] This is a little harder than combat forms.

[Especially with high-heeled shoes, in which she is more accustomed to fucking than dancing.]

eyezooms

[pointedlook]

[ As with most things Kalmiya related, dancing with her is a bit of an adventure. She responds with enthusiasm when he asks her to dance and then with her usual barely-checked excitement and curiosity when he suggests they try something a bit more upbeat.

Which is how, for the past half hour at least, if not more, he's been showing her how to tango. Already used to dancing, she picks up on the tempo and the steps with relative ease. And as he suspected, she understands what the dance is about, the sensual and synchronous nature of it. With their tether, the sync goes even deeper, makes it more possible for them to keep pace despite the abbreviated lessons.


Whatever missteps there are, it doesn't really matter; they're having fun. Her laugh vibrates through the air like a peal of bells, her giddiness flowing over. Blonde curls flutter with motion and the pulse of her magic. The crystals hanging from her outfit click and provide a cool counterpoint to the bronze flush of her skin.

Caught as they are in their bubble, he can feel the tension of the last month slough off, his focus only on the steps and on the overjoyed brightness of Kalmiya's eyes. He's grinning so much his cheeks hurt as he sweeps them into a dramatic turn, their steps in perfect tandem.

Eventually, the music does slow—a more seductive number he remembers off the album—and sees the two of them pressed close, only a breath of space between their brows. Exertion leaves a light sheen on their skin, punctuated by a blush, hair starting to show the very beginnings of disarray. ]

Well, sure— [ He gives a small, breathy laugh. ] —more fun though, I bet.

[ Certainly, there's an allure to combat. It isn't dancing with an enthusiastic partner, however. ]

How're your feet? [ Dancing in heels ain't easy. ]

wildcard (marigold brandy & deviled kidneys)

[hexrot]

[ jayce may look a touch different from his usual brand of bedraggled— clean shaven under his black-butterfly winged anomaly mask, a short haircut, striking white tux and double pauldrons decorated with deep reds and gold. he looks the way he used to, youthful, even— fit to walk amongst the higher class. if he had to indulge in something, he'd go with the choice of less repercussions: brandy. although deviled kidneys have found a way onto his plate, he could easily overlook the dream's misconduct in favor of a memory that he's missed— one that graces his thoughts and extends with infectious joy.

for some moments, the table is no longer a table. it is an office, sputtering with adrenaline and anxious hands on machinery. the air whirrs wildly with the magnetic charge of a blue crystal's overflowing magic and two young men daft enough to try and tame it. jayce is even younger, then, only an academic student in his early twenty-something's along with viktor still healthy enough to accompany him in encouraging crimes. sneaking into the dean's office, gathering his confiscated research and running the risk of banishment, the both of them. but viktor believed in his theory, and jayce— always needed someone to share the dream with.

it works, before they're caught; the doors swing wide at the entry of the dean and the authorities, but by then, jayce, viktor and arthur are already floating in a magical space of blue. and he cannot stop laughing, flying, poking at hovering items that waltz through the air and teleport from one place to the next. the both of them, kicking at the air and levitating from the charge. it's the dream come true. it's a partnership born: it's how hextech was birthed, and its fathers were at their happiest. ]

[pointedlook]

[ Despite having met Jayce in person, it still takes him a few moments to recognize the other man. Last time he'd seen him, he'd looked more than a bit bedraggled, with long hair and a grown out beard. This version of Jayce is like the glimpses he's seen when talking to Jinx; younger looking, clean shaven, full to the brim with optimism. His back is straight, stride confident. If Arthur didn't know any better, he'd say it was a totally different man.

(Maybe he is; some events change you forever.)

Either way, his greeting is warm as Jayce drops into the seat next to him, taking a sip of the liquid gold brandy. The banquet drops away from them as cleanly as a dream being rebuilt, an office taking its place. It's clearly an academic's room, with various tools, experiments, and research scattered about. All of those details fade into the background to the ongoing sparking and humming of a small blue crystal, which an even younger Jayce and another young man are completely focused on. If he had to guess, that would be Viktor; they were partners, right? The air is thick with magic, with the buzz of adrenaline generated by the knowledge of illicit activity—a feeling so familiar that he can't help but smile.

Wide doors swing open, a cluster of authorities coming in, led by the dean. They're fractions of seconds too late, as the entire room has already been buoyed into the air, the blue of the crystal making it feel both otherworldly and oceanic. Objects float past, weightless as the delighted hearts of Jayce and Viktor. ]

Didn't take you for much of a delinquent. [ Amusement colors his voice, making up for his eyes being shadowed by the silver of his mask. ]

ii.

[tennisgrip]

[ Jiseop's down here because he... well, he doesn't know why he's down here, other than a pull he can't describe, the same kind of thing that makes a housecat run out the front door the moment it's left open. Freedom, he realizes a moment later. When the man in the near room calls out to him, his voice and dark eyes inviting, Jiseop is free to answer that invitation however he wants for what is, in many ways, the first time in his life.

He's fully dressed in the digitized camouflage of the ROKA's Granite-Bs, combat boots laced to the top, uniform jacket buttoned—but, despite his dressing the part, he's not Army property here. What he does here won't end in a courts-martial; it won't be a new posting in bumfuck nowhere, it won't be another black mark on his service record, another year spent stagnating as a captain. It won't be anything, and it won't get back to anyone. It will be between himself, and this man, and while the other party doesn't look anything like Sergeant Park or Jung-seok, lacks the strong, heavy jaw and undeniably masculine square face they both shared, he's attractive in his own right. Jiseop has always liked dark eyes.

He stops in the hallway without entering the room, cocks his head to one side and regards him. He doesn't mention that he's just starting the night. ]

I can think of worse ways.

[ Jiseop grins, and then he does approach, though he stops short of where the man's situated himself to prop himself up on his forearm in the doorway, legs crossed lazily, one foot resting on the steel toe of its boot. He's aware that his lanky frame takes up most of it. His ex-wife had always liked that about him, that he was tall enough to get into the M.P.s—and taller than this guy, looks like, so there's a chance that it may hold the same appeal it does for women. ]

You come here often?

[ The distinctly American turn-of-phrase comes out cocky, and he wants it to, even if the meaning of its use, and the added desirability—education, a family that can afford an English tutor, contact with Americans—isn't going to land like it will at a bar in South Korea. ]

[pointedlook]

[ From the first tilt of the other man's head, he's intrigued. And he's rewarded by a dazzling (if slightly wolfish) grin, a lean against the doorframe that's just the right amount of cocky to send a zing of interest down his spine.

Discarding the fluttering cloth of his undone bow tie, he walks towards the door, chin barely tilted to meet his gaze. Reaching out, he runs his fingers down the placket of the man's uniform, lingering on the buttons.

Charmed, despite the corny turn of phrase, he smiles a little wider, the hint of his dimples showing. ]

No, but if you do, maybe I should.

ii.

[sorte]

Oh, well well, looks who's down here ahead of me. [ Aventurine cants his head with a smirk towards Arthur before glancing along the wall at the array. ]

And that depends, doesn't it? [ his voice holds a suggestive edge to it, and it certainly does come off as an invitation.

he sits back onto the nearest couch's armrest. ]

Never would have guessed you have this kind of wild side. Or are you just feeling a bit adventurous tonight?

[ now it's clearly a challenge. ]

[pointedlook]

I got curious. [ He restrains the eye roll that he wants to give to Aventurine for the barb. As if coming down here earlier says anything about him as a person other than his nosiness.

Arthur watches as the other man saunters in, eventually perching on the sofa's arm, legs splayed for balance. For a few moments, he studies Aventurine, noting the fancier clothing, the fine stitching, how much more comfortable he seems, even with the edge in his voice. All details tucked away for later. ]

People tend to take me at face value, so that's on them. [ Challenge accepted. ] How about you, is this a familiar scene or am I getting some kind of dubious honor?