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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You Taste Like The New Flesh

[tequila_sunset]

i. arrival

Glittering rhinestones stud his gold bell bottoms and white jacket. The shiny silk shirt underneath unbuttoned nearly to the navel, revealing a broad hairy chest. He looks down and sees his green snakeskin pumps, watchtower heels mightier than ever as he curves his leg to the side to admire them. Oh fuck yeah.

He is the crowned prince of disco. One fly mother.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (Everything just feels so *right,* the way your pants hug your thighs without completely cutting off circulation to your waist. This whole fit was tailored with love and care for the shape of your body.)

+1 MORALE HEALED

HALF LIGHT - (But why?)

SAVOIR FAIRE - (You can’t just sit down, strike a pose at least!)

In this dream his gunshot wound has faded to a dull ache, completely forgettable in this sudden euphoria. For the first time he can remember he hears himself laugh, it’s a small sound, a short: ‘ha’ as he bends his elbow and points to the sky. It’s a cliche, it’s so classic, it is so disco.

+1 MORALE HEALED


ii. deviled kidneys

It seemed like a good idea at the time. The basin and razor had been laid out by the old washerwoman and the beard was bothering you, had been bothering you for days now. It made you look wild and frightening…it felt dirty and heavy on your face.

Shaving wasn’t easy either- at first something in you freaked out, convinced you’d cut yourself on accident. But you pulled yourself together and did the thing. And afterwards? It felt good. You ran your palms over your bare cheeks and felt younger, cleaner, and lighter. You were able to look at yourself in the mirror again. You saw a new man.

He didn’t like it. He was barely able to cut himself off from saying it outright to spare your feelings: the beard covered up the damage on your face. The things you forgot about: your crooked jaw, your near inability to make different facial expressions, the way you fuck up words like law. All of it on display now, for the whole world to see. You fucking idiot.


iii. starpit fruit

Your daughters that never were. Golden haired like their mother, they are healthy, and vaccinated; free of the polio that fucked up your face. They’re perfect, with only the small parts of you in their face, cute little chin dimples that look better on them.

They go to a nice school, and they don’t spend their childhood fleeing from the feral dogs in the valley. They never learn about le petit rats, you never tell them about crawling on your hands and bony knees in the dark tunnels under Le Royaume. You teach them how to play baseball and you never drink again.


iv. saints' breath chalice

SAVOIR FAIRE - (Dancing is all about letting go, funky baby.)

LOGIC - (What about coordination?)

SAVOIR FAIRE - (What about shut up? Coordination is savvy's game, I’m not about to let him fall on his ass here.)

Harry feels himself lifted out of his seat. It's out of his hands. He doesn’t know this dance, this music. An unfamiliar pattern of limb movements moves him to his partner. Why fight it? This outfit was made to move. He lets the music in.


v. overindulgence (lonely little love dog)

LOGIC - (Something’s wrong. We’re losing something here. Can’t you feel that? Oh god. You need to wake up! Fight or flight? Crownhead? Where are you?)

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (Quiet down, puzzles. You’re killing the vibe.)

“I want it gone…all of it.”

He slurs, the sting of brandy and juices linger on his lips. Each memory he shares takes him further from that lonely beach, further from the city at the end of the world. By now his body is taking a different shape. His teeth fit poorly in his mouth, his crooked jaw feels the strain of new teeth. His tongue lulls long and slippery from his maw. Nectar drips onto his plate.

It feels inevitable, like love.

i. arrival

[lupusxylem]

[Unfortunately(???) for Harry, his antics do not go unnoticed. Wolfwood is already seated at one of the tables, looking...well dressed up enough, but nowhere near as comfortable in his own skin as Harry is. It's not even the clothes though, it's more...the wings. The claws. The things he's trying to ignore.

Anyway.]

...the hell are you doin'?

[tequila_sunset]

Harry straightens up. Wolfwood might be uncomfortable but to Harry he looks cool as hell.

“I’m you know. I’m feeling myself. Clothes this nice deserve it. They should be appreciated.”

A pause, like he isn’t sure if he’s going to say it himself:

“Can you dig it?”

[lupusxylem]

...I mean.

[Wolfwood kindof shifts in his seat, leaning sideways a little. Makes him wish he was sitting on a couch, and not on a bench at such a long table.]

Maybe, if I had three more glasses of this brandy in me first. I ain't used to dressin' all fancy like this.

[tequila_sunset]

“I’m not either. Maybe only a few times…? A really long time ago.”

He shimmies over to a seat. Now he can start working on unbuckling the man-muzzle mask that's covering his mouth.

“My memory isn’t great. I broke my brain a few days ago.”

[lupusxylem]

[Don't ask don't ask-]

You...broke your brain? You mean you got, like, concussed or somethin'?

iii

[sworntoher]

( Before he can consume anything for himself, the wave of the man's vision hits him, like a slap of frosted wind to the face that temporarily disorients and overtakes him. It feels like a fantasy of paradise, or something lost, in a way that, when gone, leaves him feeling hollow, a burning sense of longing that he can hardly tolerate. Why this? This is not even his memory.

Hubert studies the bearded man, and attempts to compose himself before speaking. Through the entire process, externally, only the slightest subtle change to his expression might have hinted at a brief discomfort, rather than the intensity he had actually experienced. For now, he would keep the details to himself. )

I saw something... I believe it belonged to you? The feast seems to be causing visions, though, in truth, I am unsure what to make of it. ( Perhaps the fruit was not the choice to pick. He did not want others sharing in his memories, if possible. But the effects of the other meals had yet to be seen, aside that the kidneys seemed to reveal horrible memories. At least this one had been pleasant. But then, why did it make him feel so terrible? )


[ ooc: please let me need to know if i need to adjust anything! c: ]

[tequila_sunset]

“Huh, does that happen much where you’re from?”

He sits back and fiddles with his sleeves a little. He hasn’t lived a very good life, he’s worried this stranger saw something particularly unpleasant. Should he be bracing to get his ass beat? He feels like he is- yeah, he’s freaking out a little.

EMPATHY - (He isn’t upset with you.)

SUGGESTION - (Relax.)

“Because like, I just realized. You might not have the pale, and that’s kind of crazy to me. So…what'd you see?”

A nervous twitching grimace pulls his face up.

v.

[hexrot]

[ jayce has had enough, himself; the clutches of wine and savory dishes have loosened their grips at last, he feels like he could pry himself free from the crowded table, if only for a moment. jayce just can't seem to ignore the man at the far end the table slouched and leaking from the maw. he considers, once. twice. at the third, his eyes squeeze tight and he brings a fist close to his own face.

he is a veteran, all things considered. if he could help, he should. and if his hypothesis is correct, there are more vessels dragged in the same way they were— by dream. his empathy makes sure he doesn't leave the man alone. cautiously, jayce places a placid hand on harry's shoulder, giving in a grounding squeeze, a short, gentle shake to rouse him— ]

Can you stand?

[tequila_sunset]

He blinks up at Jayce with his watery eyes. His slow brain takes him in…slowly. He stares at the odd glowing points on his forehead.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - (Tall and sturdy, you could stand to take some notes, son! Instead of slouching like a slob. He’s strong too, with arms displaying some serious guns.)

EMPATHY - (He’s concerned.)

“Are we…going somewhere?”

He doesn’t know why but the thought makes him blush.

[hexrot]

[ that's it. get situated. jayce grows all the more patient as he also takes in harry's general state, which isn't . . . good, to say the least. with a hand steadying the man's back, jayce offers the support of his hand,, palm up. it can be used to lift one's self up, guns packed and ready for the extra weight. ]

We're going to get you some air.

[tequila_sunset]

HALF LIGHT - (Are you really going to just go with this guy?)

EMPATHY - (Why not? He’s nice.)

“Okay…”

Harry lets Jayce keep him steady. He looks down at his hands.

PERCEPTION - (Calloused, strong.)

VISUAL CALCULUS - (Consistent with tool use.)

“Are you…a metal smith? A foundry worker? That’s why you're so big, right?”

[hexrot]

[ blinking with an amount of startle, jayce straightens his back. from startle, he looks impressed. ]

That's . . . Astute of you. [ for being drunk. or if not drunk, not entirely sound of mind, he thinks. ] Did my hands give it away?

[ it couldn't have been just his size. could it? ]

iv.

[peripheries]

[Huh. Is he dancing? Well, that's new. He doesn't know dancing but he knows music and he follows the beat without even thinking, like he's just walking down the street.]

Hah. Good show, old man. I didn't think a bloated thing like you could move like that.

Re: iv.

[tequila_sunset]

CONCEPTUALIZATION - (How do all teenagers know to give compliments in the meanest way?)

“I’m not actually that old. Drugs and alcohol did this to my body”

He levels a look he hopes is authoritative and grim, crossing his arms.

“Never take drugs. Or drink.”

iii

[dangerbird]

As Joshua blinks out of the memory a tear rolls down his cheek and he catches it with his palm wiping it away. Had Joshua not been eating then the outer layer of the black lacey mourning-veil he wears might have hidden the droplet, but as it is, if anyone is looking, they could see it. A dream never to be fulfilled, that must be what the starpit bring about—originally when Joshua had eaten it earlier he thought it shame, for he is indeed ashamed of his own, but he sees no shame in this stranger's dream. The hurt in Joshua's heart which he feels for this wish is made more real to him as he knows he shan't ever have children of his own neither. There is simply not enough time for Joshua.

As empathy and sympathy intertwine within him, Joshua makes the decision in this feast which robs them of their privacy to share willingly. He picks up a starpit fruit himself, turns to the man next to him—because that almost memory has to belong to him, there is no one else with here with that cute chin dimple—and taps his white jacket with his clean hand.

Joshua too is dressed to suit, although of a different fashion. There is a keyhole in the center of his red shirt, around the window to his chest are finely stitched golden interwoven feathers, but instead of the plain expanse of hairless chest one might normally find there appears to be some sort of softly glowing purple crystal-like mass.

Once he has the man's attention he'll say, "It doesn't seem fair for me to see yours and not give you mine." and so Joshua bites into the plum-sized fruit, its sweet juice running down his chin, silver shimmer now dusting his lips.

The memory of a wish forgotten which releases from Joshua is one that can be felt echoing throughout time. Yearning. In the way a ill boy looks out his bedroom window to watch his brother learning swordcraft. Agonized. When a child becomes a teenager overnight—awakening from a coma to find time irrevocably gone. Melancholic. As a young man looking upon his father's grave knowing he'll soon be joining him.

Joshua used to wish he could live... That he had more than what has been allotted him. That he wasn't born so weak... He wanted to live.

so hype for this cr

[tequila_sunset]

Harry wipes at his wet eyes, totally overwhelmed by a sudden rush of emotions.

EMPATHY - (Take a moment to catch your breath. This isn’t easy for pale travelers either.)

His hand is lifted, awkwardly hovering to reach for Joshua, to clasp his shoulder or hand, he isn’t sure which. It falters, lowers. Touching is hard for him. Being touched? Great, he loves it. Ace’s highs and fistbumps all around, boys. But the last time he tried to hug someone- a few days ago- there was a misfire in his brain. A bad thing happened.

INLAND EMPIRE - (A ghost resurfaced from the recesses of the past…she’ll never let you go.)

CONCEPTUALIZATION - (Instead, you search for something meaningful to say to this beautiful man who has deigned to share something so intimate with you. Unfortunately all you find is the truth.)

“I’d give you mine if I could. My days…my years.”

He tries to smile at him. Joshua looks like an angel. The damaged muscles in his face twitch and contract, weakly.

“All I did with my life was waste it.”

He rubs at his face again and looks away.

“I’m- I’m sorry.”

INLAND EMPIRE - (Do you think people die here? What if you just…dream forever…? Together. Wouldn’t that be nice? No more hunger, no more cold. Endless dreaming.)

v.

[goty]

Ellie isn't a community-minded person, even if she pretends to be. Once, she reached out to people who were suffering, tried to help them. Memories in that banquet, her idiotic youth, have been pushed to the surface like blood in a boil. She remembers when she'd see the suffering of others and think something other than not my problem.

It's a nice memory, of a simpler time, when the world had a future and she was the world. History would subsume her. Soon, all that pain would stop.

She sees a drunk at the table, hunched over, face hidden. Ellie reaches out to try and rouse him, hand on his shoulder. "Hey, hey. You don't gotta go home, but you can't stay here."

Re: v.

[tequila_sunset]

EMPATHY - (Look at her, you’ve made her sad.)

He’s already apologizing, it’s a reflex. For a moment his brain thinks he's back home, in some Boogie Street bar. But that isn’t right. Sleep took him, away from that little shack on the coast, away from Revachol.

He shakes his head slowly.

“Nowhere else to go. She…wants me here. We're all meant to be here.”

[goty]

"The goddess?" Ellie can't keep the skepticism from her voice. It all sounds so stupid. She grips his shoulder, gives it a light shake. "Doesn't look like it, pal. C'mon."

[tequila_sunset]

“You don’t have to believe…you’re young…”

INLAND EMPIRE - (But you do.)

He makes a grunt like a dog roused from a nap as he pulls himself to his feet.

“Where d'you want to go, anyway?”

iii.

[sorte]

[ aventurine stiffens where he is, suddenly finding his changed attire's sleeving far more interesting than it could possibly ever be.

it's not that he has particular sympathy or a bleeding heart for those who suffer. to see someone's longing for their unborn daughters, for the simple wish to have a family to love and take care of and the girls being blonde haired like their mother, though? that this man's wish was a simple existence void of suffering for them and for him to be at peace with his life and never fuck up again?

that hits too close to home, and so it suddenly becomes impossible not to feel pain and sympathy towards the other's unrealized wish. what did this man do to deserve his wish to go unfilled? what keeps a sincere and pure wish like that from coming true when those with the most shallow and useless wishes get everything they desire?

aventurine doesn't know. he swallows, going to reach and pick up a starpit fruit from the bowl, looking at it in his palm rather than immediately eating it. when he speaks, his free hand lifts his mask off, eyes cast downward with a solemn expression on his features frames by his blond hair and unusual magenta and cyan colored eyes. many find his eyes eerie, but even the most sensitive of individuals about such oddities would find little to complain about when his expression is so soft (which is entirely unusual for him.) ]

Do you like the taste of these? I've never seen one before.

this got burried away in my inbox im so sorry!

[tequila_sunset]

Harry can’t not stare. It’s not like he’s ever doing the polite thing in conversation but he feels very aware of his eyes on this guy. It’s like he’s talking to the man on the balcony again. And he's never seen eyes that color before, it’s spooky maybe but kind of beautiful too.

HALF LIGHT - (This whole thing is scary. It’s like you’re made of glass suddenly, see-through and breakable. You should run. You should get up and leave right now.)

And not moving.

And then he is.

“Uh I…no. Basically all of this is new to me. I have- I lost a lot of my memories a few days ago.”

A pause.

“So like, actually I guess could’ve seen food like this before and just forgot? But I kind of doubt that. The place I'm from is kind of a shithole.”

No worries at all <3

[sorte]

"You lost your memories?"

Aventurine repeats in surprise, looking to him directly now. It seems like that could be something of both a blessing and a curse for this man judging by what he just saw, but now he doesn't know if the man even remembers that wish of his. Is that unfairly cruel or is it in this case something he better off forgetting if he no longer recalls it?


Gazing down at the fruit, he nods, noting the silver shimmer that peppers his gloves as he rolls it with his fingers. "I think... there was a fruit similar to this one in the garden last time, but otherwise I've never seen it before either, and I've been a lot of places..."

He doesn't remember it doing anything, but he didn't eat any of the fruit in the garden.

Looking back to Harry now, he offers an amenable smile. "Well, anyway. A lot of these dishes are pretty snobbish and overrated, if you ask me. I usually don't see them in places where people are actually enjoying themselves eating. Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?"

[tequila_sunset]

EMPATHY - (It could be a mercy, he thinks.)

“Yeah.”

He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. He’s said it a few times now, what he’s far less used to is people taking it so seriously.

“I did some stuff to myself and when I woke up I couldn’t remember my name or anything else.”

He looks around. A garden sounds nice…and a little spooky. Everything here is spooky. He can deal with that, he just has to focus on the cool shit.

“I didn’t see a garden.”

INLAND EMPIRE - (Immediately you picture giant Venus flytraps, big enough to devour small animals and children.)

It’s not quite a memory that Adventurine triggers, it’s something that must’ve happened that he still can’t quite totally form in his head yet. Stressful dinners with her parents…unhappy meals and a wine he’d never be able to afford. He sees it play out like a movie he must’ve seen. He remembers their projector, walking to Video Revachol…

“Revachol, name’s Harry.”

He’d usually expect his heavily accented Suresene to give him away. That, and he looks like shit. One day he woke up and he was this walking Revachol West stereotype.