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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
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.
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.
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.
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.
ᛗ
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:
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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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).
• 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.
ᛗOOC 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!
➤ 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!
edelgard von hresvelg | fire emblem: three houses | new player
[ What is belief to a woman who stopped believing in anything long ago? Did a Goddess respond to a little girl's prayers when her family was tortured, torn apart, and left to die? Did anyone come to save them?
No. No one did. So what belief can she possibly have in anything or anyone, save for in herself and her dream?
And so Edelgard, red armor drenched from water, her crown eschew, does not fear the depths of water when she tries to walk. The path opens up to her like glass, sharp and hard as diamonds, and she knows she can proceed alone. But she does not. Instead, she lingers along the shore when others fall and wash up, or in those where she sees fresh injuries from cracked skin. With a tug of gauntleted hands, she pulls off her cloak and offers it to those who shiver from the depths they've plummeted into (once wrung out, of course). Her voice is calm, demeanor level, as though nothing here disturbs her in the slightest — an untruth she will not admit to. ]
Can you stand? I believe I can help you cross, if you permit me.
[ It's only a guess but if someone who can cross uses themselves as a counter-balance, there's reasonable assurance it can be accomplished. ]
taste like new flesh.
[ Armor becomes finery, a crimson so bright in color that it stains like fresh blood. And yet, she cannot help but feel a reprieve from the tightness of her gauntlets, especially as one of her arms has decided to grow something akin to scales along it, hand turning monstrous and clawed. It's her left hand, of course, and bereft of a proper shield it bears no trouble for the time being; she can hide it in the red drape around her shoulders and obfuscate it well enough. The blindfold she'd awakened with is now a golden mask that enshrines her eyes, complementing the crown she still wears.
And yet, for all they have been offered at the table, she keeps her distance. Hunger and thirst gnaw at her, claws in her belly, but she cannot trust what is on that table. It begins to ache like an open wound. The smell of food is a crooked finger of temptation.
Edelgard refrains, again and again. She watches the scene with the wariness of a predator, of an animal that has been hurt too many times to trust what is in front of her. And so her skin grows paler, looking sickly, the pallor of a corpse. The burn is terrible, building up and up and up. Her gaze remains steadfast on One, her discernment lacking. There is no shape to this but that of an illusion, of confusion, of dream... Still, it feels real.
To the closest passerby, she murmurs both with curiosity and with a soft kind of ache: ]
Have you tried to eat anything yet? [ Her gaze is searching. ] And you are well?
i am not worthy.
[ The palace is rotting. The vessels become one, an amalgamation worse than what she's seen of any Demonic Beast. Edelgard has no weapon but that does not mean she cannot feel her body responding to the threat; there is an impulse to attack, to go towards the creature. Her arm is impossible to hide now, scaled flesh creeping up to her shoulder, her teeth sharper in her mouth. She is changing, this place is making her change, twisting her body in ways that harken back to a time she has pushed down and buried and forgotten—
Her breathing comes quick. She tries to keep it controlled, even as pain lances up her body. Reaching back, she tears on the drape that once enshrouded her shoulders, pulling it off. If she is to become something else, then she will have no need of this...but it can be a suitable distraction of color. ]
We must look for an exit. Or somewhere out of reach of the creature.
[ 'We' she says, but she is not preparing to flee. How can she? If she is doomed to corruption, then she will buy time. Her gaze finds a long candelabra close by. It's no axe but she can use it all the same; the reach will allow her some protection. ]
If I provide you time, how fast can you run?
[ She cannot expect anyone to stay. She does not ask for it. ]
wildcard.
[ Looking for something not here? Shoot me a line. We can hash it out real quick and I can write a custom starter for anything here.
Open as well to something in the way you lay (for some added horror, as she won't partake - she doesn't trust like that) but only under specific circumstances or as a watcher; she wouldn't allow herself to be touched. ]
[ ooc: I will match you whether you want prose or brackets, so please tag however you wish! Undecided on options but leaning on Kimera or Drake. If not, possibly Bloodwright. PM is best to get in touch with me! This is also some voicetesting as I'm new to the canon and character but I looooove horror like this. ]
Precious stones
Apparently this struggle had become literal on top of metaphorical as she thrashed and splashed in the water. That is until the red armored hand of Edelgard came to pluck her out from the depths. She coughs and sputters as she tries to get a sense of what's happened. Then her pink eyes eventually settle down on her rescuer.
It takes her a moment between wringing out her hair and clothes, but when the cloak settles on her she can't help but feel a little more secure. She looks around at the glass path Edelgard had created and tries to rest a hand on the outer surface. When it gets too far the glass doesn't form around it and she touches water.]
...I think-I think I'm going to have to take you up on that offer.
no subject
She turns back to the other woman. ]
I cannot guarantee we will not fall back in. [ Again, rules, magic, etc. ] But we can take it slow and see if it holds.
[ If they plunge back into the water, at least they'll have an answer. Edelgard offers her hand, something she would not do in most circumstances, but as hers are gloved and gauntleted there is no chance of true contact. She only worries that if they walk side-by-side at first, it will not be enough to keep anything from falling out beneath this stranger's feet. ]
no subject
Even if it's one of the better ways I could die.
[Not that Ash was looking at the moment.
Either way she looks to the red clad hand and does take it for the moment. She moves to try and plant her feet on the ground. While Ash doesn't have much belief in just about anything, her lack of it isn't quite as strong as Edelgard's sheer deterimation. So the glass does crack and shift under Ash's feet. It doesn't immediately break through for her to fall through.]
Okay... That could be a lot worse.
not worthy
Rather than leave, he offers her a hand. ] I'll not leave you while you're struggling. I'd shame myself and my oath if I were to do that.
Are you coping aright? Can you move, with the pain? [ Not that he's doing much better, with the gilded wings threatening to bloom from his back and shoulderblades and racking him with pain - starkly at odds with his darker, more subdued armor - but he can hardly abandon someone in need... ]
no subject
And she is not the only one having difficulty; where pieces of her body are darkening, his seem the opposite in contrast to his armor, a veritable dichotomy of color.
She reaches for his hand. ]
I can. [ She must. It is not the first time she's endured agony. ] And you? Can you fight?
[ No one else should have to fight and die here if that is to be their fate, but far be it from her to turn down a potential ally if he insists upon remaining. ]
no subject
The abomination lurches forward, the dream ripples with decay, and Fray's breath labors, lungs straining against the pressure of transformation. Another burst of white feathers blooms grotesquely from his shoulderblade, pushing out the beginnings of a leathery wing, and he hisses in pain. ]
I can fight, though I'll need both hands. It's no time to be caught without a weapon, but I've no ability to summon one to my side.
[ The last time he had to fight he'd had it lent to him, after all.
He glances around and grabs a brass candle holder, snapped at one end to create a sharp point by the dream's crumbling. It's no sword, but it will have to do. ]
no subject
Her back feels all wrong, like something wishes to protrude from her flesh. Fresh scales work their way over her shoulder and collar. The left arm is still usable, she supposes; a shield would fit there at any other time, though there's nothing here now. Slowly, she stands straighter, forcing herself to endure. She releases his hand with a kind of reluctance, as if that brief contact both emboldened and steadied her more than she realized. ]
I only need the one.
[ And they are of like-mind about weapons. Her right hand, unblemished, reaches for another of the candle holders. The many-pronged candelabra won't replace an axe but it will allow her to at least parry until it breaks. There must be something heavier but not within immediate reach. ]
I can throw the drape, get its attention, and then we can strike.
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Darkness in black and scarlet, smokelike and warm, twines around his form and pours around his makeshift sword. He moves forward, angling his body so that he's between her and the beast, while still leaving her plenty of room to maneuver.
(Moving closer stirs his blood, quickens his pulse in a distinctly unhealthy way. That wing pushes out still further, revealing something both feathered and leathery in its curled, nascent shape; as if a dragon also had down.)
Standing around chatting had been more difficult, in some ways. Here, there's only an enemy and what little he might do to stand against it; far simpler. ]
On your signal. [ His voice is calm. ]
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(How long has it been since someone... Ah, it was the Professor, wasn't it.)
And then her eyes find the glow of darkness around his weapon, the continued change in his back. She feels the call to her own pulse and tries to fight against it, truly tries, but the thought is there and back again before she can protest: why resist what is changing her when it is a better weapon than what she holds in her hand? Edelgard von Hresvelg has always been a weapon of someone else's making.
Today, she is her own.
She balls up the drape in her clawed hand even as scales and fur and darkened flesh begin to overtake her collar, her throat. It's thrown with more strength than she accounted for, crimson sailing overhead of the grotesque horror. It has the added effect: it turns towards it. ]
Wait.
[ One heartbeat, two. The monster swivels with so many long arms and legs but its 'face' must be pointed at the fabric. And when it is, she nods. ]
Now.
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Now, says the woman at his back, and Fray leaps, plunging the candle-holder into a grasping arm. He pushes through with a grunt of effort, ignoring the sharpening pain, the drifts of feathers as one sharp-pointed wing finally rips itself from his back.
The arm drops free with a sickening squelch, a rancid smell of decaying meat, but there's far more to replace it. He sweeps his makeshift weapon in front of him, still holding his position for the moment, but it doesn't appear to be slowing the creature down... ]
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And that's how she realizes that this battle will be a losing one, though not for lack of trying. With a shift of her grip, she plunges her makeshift weapon down like a trident, trying to sever both.
A fresh wave of pain grips her, her body singing in time to the crying she hears so distantly. Not worthy. Her body seems to want to contort beneath the dress, grow angular; her shoulder blades cry out with strain. Edelgard's gaze returns to the man who is holding his own, though the creature thrashes and tries to reach them. ]
If it keeps growing, we must drive it back. [ She looks around, desperate for— ] Fire. If we can set it alight...
[ It may not work. But she will not give up so easily. ]
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He glances over quickly as Edelgard makes her move, and his own realization isn't far behind. ] Damn--! Even if I had my sword in hand, I doubt I could do much but force it to grow more arms...
Do you have anything that can do the job? I'm not versed in conjuring fire, and these candles hardly seem hot enough to sting me, let alone set this beast aflame.
[ And that's if they don't go out.
He winces as the other wing begins to pierce through his skin, grimly fending off the arms with slashes of his candle-holder. ]
taste like new flesh
When an unfamiliar woman approaches her with the question, Oichi blinks and startles lightly, as if awakening from a stupor, but quickly offers the newcomer a soft smile. ]
Mhmm. It's delicious.
[ She says with a nod, not divulging the exact effects of the meal, though not out of malice. Oichi has been experiencing the world differently from most for quite some time, seeing and hearing things that were never there; to her, what's happening here is not too unlike her daily life, if she can even tell the difference. She cocks her head to the side, dark eyes focused on Edelgard with a hint of curiosity behind them. ]
... What is it that you're afraid of?
new flesh
Wriothesley has not tried to eat anything. He knows well when there seems to be strings attached and had once let the wool be pulled over his eyes. He didn't trust this place, the food, or whoever was involved.
The problem was whether one's resistance can weather through something as ethereal as a dream and the being who holds authority. He's trying though, even as the gaze of something seems to weigh so heavy on him that it feels suffocating.]
I haven't. [Edelgard's words pull him out from his thoughts and has him carefully try and tap down the tension that seems to weigh on him. Like her, the color seems to carefully drain into monochrome, though the way he still holds himself shows that he's stubbornly resisting.] Hmm, a hard question to answer. I find that I don't know if I can sincerely say yes since I find being plucked into this space to truly make for an unideal time.