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.

Watch on YouTube

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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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aventurine | honkai: star rail | current player

[sorte]

{ closed starters + requests.

.feel free to wildcard a starter for any of the prompts or request I write you something! I'm open to everything, including either alpha or omega designation for nsfw.

Also, if you have a top level already and want to play with Aventurine, PM me or just post it here (esp if you already have quite a few replies to it, as I'm gonna try and focus on tagging out to people with the least amount of TL replies by default,) and I'll happily jump on it. I'll be tagging out as much as I can just might be a little slow.

(Aventurine is a Token, Lightweaver.)

@regulate ― (nsfw.)

[sorte]

prompt there's something in the way you lay.

---

[ What a messy sight downstairs must be, Aventurine thinks, as his heels click softly, echoing on the stairway even as they fade off to let the more muffled sound of debauchery come through.

He takes his time descending, letting faceless dream vessels pass by him in desperate eagerness to not waste a moment longer in beginning their worship. As he takes the last step, he thinks he catches sight of someone familiar. Before he thinks better off it Aventurine moves after them; afterall, he'd met with Caelus upstairs, so it's completely possible that others might be here.

He doesn't even realize what going through one of the doors to follow the other really entails— but even if he did, he probably wouldn't think much of it, either. Something shifts inside him, he thinks briefly, but it's not enough for him to pause and consider it further as he's too preoccupied by the person he's following. It's probably very much not an illusion since Caelus didn't seem to be so.

His gaze flickers up to the stand vines ornamenting the walls and ceiling before finally calling out to the person ahead of him that still has their back turned to him. ]

Such an unusual sight to see. Did you lose your way to end up in such a pit of sin?

[ Aventurine's voice is like a melody the way it travels through the air despite being clearly taunting. ]

[regulate]

[ Curiosity had gotten the better of him, the same as it does to all, drawing him into a place he has no business being. Flashes of different scenes flicker through his mind, accompanied by whispers, cries, and desperate panting, drawing out goosebumps from his flesh as he tries to convince himself to advance no further. Tries to tell himself to turn around and flee. The Bronze Melodia has no business being here, former or not.

Yet curiosity maintains its iron grip on a consciousness deprived of such freedom and indulgence as his eyes roam across the various "tools," trying to discern their use from their shape. He's so distracted by his inner ponderings that he fails to realize he's being followed until the familiar voice tickles his ears.

All his limbs tense at once, teeth clenched tightly together, and though there is a mask across his eyes, it may as well not exist since his own headwings give him away. Rather than allow himself to look more visibly rattled, he forces himself to breath out. To unclench. ]

...What is separating you from all the phantoms surrounding us? How do I know you are real? [ And not an illusion painstakingly crafted by a mind still haunted by the last time their paths crossed. ]

[sorte]

[ Aventurine's smile is downright mean at that question. ]

I wonder... would the idea that I'm nothing more than a product of your imagination be a relief or simply an added torture for you in the long run? Could you be feeling guilty or something else entirely?

[ His voice is smooth like silk as fingertips stroke its surface, but the poison drips audibly. he knows that a dreamscape is no place to be confronting the other after last time, but he is at least mostly confident that for the time being, Sunday has no idea how to make his talents work here, yet. (That won't last long, he's sure, but who would he be to pass up the small window of opportunity where for once Sunday is more helpless than Aventurine himself is?)

The avgin shifts his posture lazily, ignoring the rest of the room best he can as he folds his arms and leans his weight against the edge of a high-back lounge couch. Glancing at some of the other vessels engaged with each other, he finally goes to reach and pull his mask off, his eyes sharp and focused. ]

Two ways to tell the difference here, friend. The first is to take a good look at their gazes versus mine. The other would be... well, I'm sure you'll be able to tell very quickly that there's something very wrong with them if you engage in their activities with them versus someone who's still alive.

In the end, I'm a lost soul pulled into this mess that's still very much alive— just like you.

[regulate]

[ A shuddered breath. Labored panting. A warbling moan. His wings twitch at all the sounds as Aventurine's words slither around his mind. What does it say of him that he conjures up Aventurine's face in the midst of such suspect circumstances? Probably something he would like to keep latched and buried in the back of mind, yet it threatens too ooze out of him the longer the voices swell around him in various states of ecstasy.

Before he can stop himself, he's pulling off one of the gloves in his hand and reaching out, covering the distance between them until his fingers touch the flesh of Aventurine's cheek.

Warm.

Very much alive and real.

His own heart is starting to come unleashed, pounding between his lungs as he pulls back just as quickly as he advanced. ]

...Forgive me, I had to know with complete certainty.

[ Or maybe that's just a pathetic, faltering excuse. ]

We should speak elsewhere. I doubt you wish to be subjected to this any of this more than I do at the moment nor do I plan to interrupt any of them at the moment.

[sorte]

[ Of all the things Aventurine expects Sunday to manage, simply touching him like that isn't one of them. Surprise flickers across his face, and it's only when Sunday speaks that Aventurine realizes it's like he's momentarily forgotten how to breathe. He partly hears him, but it takes a lot more effort to really hear what's being said as his own heart pounds in his ears and his blood flows hot in his face as much as the rest of him now, as if he's only suddenly become able to be so self-aware. So focused on the momentary consequences of seeing someone else dragged into this pit of shame, Aventurine has ignored whatever effects it could be dousing him in. So while Sunday's words take a moment to register fully, the Avgin nods as he swallows down whatever desire he has to fail at demonstrating self-control. ]

Right... elsewhere. [ Elsewhere makes sense, and elsewhere would be back where they came from. That's what makes sense. Without thinking about it, Aventurine grabs Sunday by the hand and turns to drag him towards the exit to the room and out into the hall. The hall isn't upstairs, but surely it's a start?

...Except getting to the hall is a lot more difficult than imagined— although he's sure he walks at a steady pace, he feels terribly sluggish the more he focuses on leaving. Every doubt or hesitation to depart this area that creeps into his mind gives small bursts of relief only for it to continue in full force when he returns focus to the main task. By the time Aventurine does pull them both out into the hallway, his head is pounding with a nasty dizzy spell as well as the haunting sound of worship still around them. In the hall or in the rooms themselves makes little difference. A short laugh escapes him as he holds his head and leans against the wall shoulder first while his other hand still grips Sunday's like a lifeline. It feels like the pressure under that forsaken moon only worse, that need to let loose and to feel as much as be felt. It's animalistic and carnal, there's no other way to describe it. Going upstairs to have a conversation is suddenly such a far away and uninteresting choice that he must move subconsciously because he only vaguely realizes that they end up in another room. This one is far more private (for now,) the noise of others no longer overwhelmingly swirling in his mind— but that only makes room for other suggestive thoughts to intrude, and for his own nature to start sinking its teeth in.

What's the harm, afterall? It's just a dream. There's nothing and no one to judge, and the pull is irresistible. Maybe it's some small idea of revenge like corrupting this person in this manner will do absolutely everything and nothing at all both to make it entirely worthwhile as much as leave no excuses as to why it shouldn't be done.

Which is perhaps why the best Sunday gets for talking elsewhere is this as he's pulled and then pushed into a luxurious chair as Aventurine drapes over him. ]

Here is fine. [ He whispers as he crawls into the other's lap. ]

[regulate]

[ Escaping to another room brings him no refuge. The noises don't quiet as much as he wishes, and there is an unknown scent curling beneath his nose –something tart and sweet at once like nectar. He tastes it on the tip of his tongue when he breathes, almost looses his trace on it when he's pushed into a chair, until it submerges him the moment Aventurine sits on his lap.

There's something very wrong about the whole scenario, panic welling up inside, thoughts racing, palms sweating, his heart just a few decibels from breaking the sound barrier. He wants to leave quickly before he succumbs to whatever is simmering low in his gut and rapidly blooming outwards, something as potent as raw need. ]

Here is not fine. There are other places to sit.

[ He shoves Aventurine off, lips pulled back, a flash of growing fangs and the sound of a soft warning growl, no different than a wolf's, as he stands up and stalks the area. He has to get out. He has to get out. Something is happening to him, and all the holy prayers he had memorized to both Xipe and Ena aren't helping him.

His eyes will always find their way back to Aventurine –to the places where clothes are pulled aside haphazardly. To the sight of skin and that sweet nectar smell that's cloying its way through his lungs. ]

...My apologies again...I need air.

[sorte]

[ It's impressive, to say the least. Aventurine lands on the floor in an unceremonious heap of limbs, and it's enough to briefly pull him out of his lust-clouded haze, enough to least notice the aggression from Sunday and know that, too, is abnormal no matter how ruthless the other actually may be. So despite the challenge, despite the stubbornness (and need) welling in the pit of his belly, the chaotic unpredictability is somehow enough to get Aventurine to accept it as it is. He takes it in stride without yielding, slowly and stiffly adjusting his clothing in a way that betrays his agitation like a tail whipping on a feline might. His voice is even as he wills himself to pull back up to his feet as he exhales through his nostrils.

Regardless of how he's feeling personally, Aventurine hums in agreement as he suddenly pulls self-consciously at the collar on the side that his brand scrawls along his neck. ]

So you do. Can you lead the way, then?

[regulate]

[ His gaze flits across the room, looking for a way out, but all he sees is the sweat dripping down the walls and the groans filtering through the stone, crowding them in. There is no light, no escape, and Aventurine's scent walls him in until he starts to feel like he's growing intoxicated on it.

His legs are wracked with slight tremors as he stalks forwards, pulling at the jacket sweltering around him, stripping it off, his waistcoat following, fingers equally trembling as he undoes the first few top buttons of his shirt. It's still not enough to survive the overbearing humidity, and his eyes lock back onto Aventurine's, his own glowing a faint amber as he slinks closer.

The sweet tanginess of his skin wells up under his nose as he suddenly pushes it tight to Aventurine's neck, rubbing it against the brand etched there with an inexplicable cocktail of hunger and possession because that should have been of him. Aventurine should be wearing his mark. ]

I would rather stay here a bit longer if that is amenable to you, especially since you seem to have all the answers. Do you know who brought us here? Can you confirm this is another Dreamscape?

[ His words roll off into a murmur as he keeps nuzzling his nose against Aventurine's neck and gravitates even closer, ensnared by the warmth he's giving off as his head spins. ]

[sorte]

Of course. [ He breathes in through his mouth and exhales through his nose as if he can stop the scent from the other enveloping him as well as anything else. He remains still, silent as he waits for Sunday's answer. Glancing to the walls, his eyes watch as the dewlike dribbles decorate like a work of art. The sounds that have been mostly drowned out by the pounding of his own blood are heard once again, and they send tickled shudders through him despite himself. He barely registers Sunday stepping towards him again, but it's impossible to ignore the sight of him approaching piece by piece, even in the slightest sense. A dizziness hits him, a frenzied hunger so strong that it blurs his vision and causes his eyes to focus on details he doesn't mean to: visible slivers of slicked skin, the movement of fingers undoing buttons visually teasing a little more (just a little bit more,) and Aventurine starts to think the tightness curling in him might turn into agony if—

His eyes widen as he feels the undeniable sensation of flesh against his own, the heat of contact and the burn of acknowledgement that where he's being touched is where that cursed mark is (and he wants, he wants it to be seered off his flesh then and there, and oh he'll take another one that's etched on him by this person certainly— if he's allowed to do the same. A man of the cloth, a man of faith that is so deeply devoted to those he worships, he'll be his property if he's given the worship he demands and craves. Sleep can have Her worship only if Aventurine can have his own first. )

His breath exhales in a salacious sound that is meant to be a response, an affirmative that Sunday is correct in his assumptions. It yields an affirmative, yes, but all the while the underlying howl demanding far more weaves between him. He tilts his head to give him better access, not in surrender so much as in invitation: one monster willingly getting into the trap and luring a second in even as it succumbs to its own prey. Aventurine pants, body arching wantonly as he reaches for the buttons at the top of Sunday's shirt, determined to reveal more flesh, to touch more skin that has barely been seen by another before. ]

I do; and yes ... it's a Dreamscape. [ he tells the truth as much as he panders, but also not willing to give too much away that might give an excuse to separate them. In the back of his mind he knows he's being ridiculous, they've barely done anything. Nothing is happening beyond the pressing of bodies together. Nothing should happen.

(Oh, but he's hungry. So very very hungry for this person. He wants Sunday like he's never wanted before, like he's sure he could never want again.) The thought of giving in to get that which he wants faster is only tempered by his need tom control and consume. ]

[regulate]

[ Heartbeats sound like a stampede under his skin, echoing outwards as his blood rushes through him like a flood ready to drown him from within. His fingers turn more claw-like, nails tearing through the one glove he has left on as he dig them into the small of Aventurine's back, as though he might simply disappear if Sunday doesn't anchor him hard enough to the ground.

They scramble beneath fabric, slip across flesh, dig harder still, rendering Sunday a slave to a similar hunger than feels downright carnal. The scent spreading all the way down to the pit of his gut beckons him still, though he's sure there's no space left between their bodies. He's nudged himself against the meat of Aventurine's thigh, straddling it as he presses his own between his in return, tangled together like a pair of twisted cables or DNA strands. ]

Who brought us here? What is their intent?

[ The interrogation matters less than the way the heat of Aventurine's muscles burn through him, mouth filling fast with an abundance of saliva as fangs pinch into his own tongue. That he even asks anything at all is a measure of the strength of his unconscious mind, still trying to unravel mystery after mystery even when his desire threatens to obfuscate all.

Those same fangs lightly draw over the side of Aventurine's throat, etching a promise he wants to fulfill even as he screams at himself not to. There is something all too sacrilegious in claiming a one-time foe this way when he should be keeping his distance. The last time they crossed one another like this, Aventurine tried to undermine Penacony's rule and his authority by sneaking in another cornerstone right under Sunday's nose, yet here he is, a starved beast, rutting himself against Aventurine's leg to relieve some of the growing pressure. ]

[sorte]

[ And Aventurine thinks similarly: that even for all his preparing, all his scheming and his making backup plan after backup plan for every possible prediction and twist in the scenarios he intended to weave— he'd still been caught under interrogation that left him escaping giving full undeniable answers to everything merely by the skin of his teeth—no doubt the blessing of his goddess managing to outdo Ena's and Xipe's influences by the only thing it can be called—luck. Engaging in something like this with someone who put a number of hours on his life like those before put a price on the worth of his existence... he shouldn't want to, but beyond the unstoppable need there is the conviction in his mind Sunday will take the results far harder than he will. Sunday will suffer more from their actions than Aventurine will, and that's enough to pull at the alpha desires for control as much as Aventurine's own heavy-handed behavior to push for the risky and for the forbidden.

(His heart pounds in his chest, his ears, his throat as those teeth carve along his skin and the mantra in his mind is take, take, and take some more. A sound escapes his throat that's between discomfort and delight at the feeling of rutting, of his own hardness pressed so nicely against that thigh, of being able to rub himself for that frictioned prickle of pleasure between his legs. ) ]

Sleep. [ that's easy to answer, even in his spiral. As for the second part... his answer conflicts with the intent of this place and what's expected of them. It's not wrong so much as incomplete. ] She wants Worship, like any god does. [ his fingers reach out to let his index slide across the bone of one of Sunday's wings in a slow and sensual manner. ]

for my sanity.

[sorte]

the sea.

Richard
Oichi
Saheon (fin.)

banquet.

Choi
Mafuyu
Cooper
Wolfwood (fin.)
Lortel
Till
Megumi
Toji
Harry
Yuuto
Ozpin
Sirius
Greed
Caelus (fin.)
Hanzo + Ash

NSFW.

Wriothesley
Arthur
Freddie
Nicola
Dan Heng
Sunday (fin.)
Kalmiya

Abomination.

Phainon
Theseus
Fray
Adolphe
One (npc) (fin.)

@longwillows ― (nsfw.)

[sorte]

[ Aventurine is descending the steps again.

It's some strange back and forth between what's upstairs and what's downstairs and which one is the lesser of two evils all... night party life, whatever. For him, his dilemma goes something like this:

Upstairs, if he doesn't continuously eat and drink periodically, he'll suffer. Aventurine isn't willing to suffer something like that when it will do nothing to change Sleep's rules of engagement or her demands. Unfortunately, everything is unexpected and intense except for the brandy which provides joyous moments. But, the happiness is a drug that he wants to keep craving— and he ends up buzzed enough that the memories are like a bad acid trip of color and happiness in a really fucked up package that has him feeling disconnected. It's all just a little too much, so he stops eating and drinking. The suffering eventually rolls in and intensifies more and more everytime he's managed to stop after a while.

So, Aventurine slips downstairs to escape the consequences, and is immediately caught by the conditions Sleep has set in this area. At least it's a good time, he gets something really good out of it; but the tethering that happens is incredibly intense to the point that, afterwards, Aventurine is left far more addled and overwhelmed than he's ever been after sex. It's definitely this option that's the real too much, and he's gotten the urge out of his system now, so it's time to go back upstairs because what he left behind was clearly less of a trip.

Upstairs was actually the less problematic and intense, he's sure of it now.

...Until he experiences the same thing again and is reminded oh, right, that's definitely worse. The tethering and the aftermath of the sex downstairs was absolutely not as bad at this. Plus the positives downstairs are way better than any of the positives upstairs.

...Rinse and repeat.

This time around he's not that buzzed, having in his cyclic routine figured out by now that at least one thing remains consistent to him regardless of what he experiences: once the memory sharing starts getting weird from drinking the brandy too much, it's best to just stop immediately than try and stick it out as long as possible.

He's loosened up just right, at least; no obnoxious apprehensive thoughts about what if this time is once more worse than upstairs, and he just keeps repeating this cycle endlessly until he passes out from exhaustion or too much alcohol.

Yeeeaaaaah, he simply doesn't have time for that kind of thinking right now.

( Besides, there's someone he's yet to run into in this dream that he'd like to see; and, knowing her, she should be having the time of her life with this part of their collective situation, if nothing else. Surely he's going to cross paths with her eventually rather than having to try and actively seek her out if he comes down enough ( which is kind of impossible to do down here once in a room, anyway. ) ]

[longwillows]

[It's not hard to find her down here, anyway. She's as assertive a presence in the dream as she is over the Murmur, as she is in the cold streets of Manhattan. Made even more so by her designation, which gives her unnatural perfume of guava and jasmine an undeniable allure, a gravity that draws in even those who might normally be more reserved. She can be heard before she can be seen, laughing joyfully in the company of other Vessels, both of the dreamlike and more self-aware persuasions.

One of the dappled fuchsia fox ears atop her head swivels in Aventurine's direction, drawn by the particular fall of his boots or rustle of the tails on his coat. His scent follows quickly thereafter, the rich and luxe notes of someone who's used to the finer things in life, accented by the deeply floral note of the banquet's brandy. She perks up slightly beyond her own height, standing on tiptoe to glance between a few of her attending Vessels.

He's easy to spot even at their shared height, the way he outfits and carries himself. An eager grin of bright eyes and sharp teeth lights up her face, and she politely excuses herself from her current company to make her way over to her very fabulous and wonderfully distrustful pal.

She hails him with a high wave of her arm, the shimmering tendrils of her dress catching the low light in a way both eerie and alluring.

Her greeting is equal parts affection and tease.] Now it's a dream come true. Have you gotten bored of the food?

WILDCARD

[closetdweller]

[Somewhere near the back of the soiree is a stick of a figure with black wings and a long coat with too many buckles, sitting with his legs folded up on one of the seats with his arms crossed and a general air of dissatisfaction about him.

He was picking at a plate of fancy canapes- but muttering all the while:]

All this, and not even a piece of fried chicken- or pizza?

Lame.

So mega lame.

[sorte]

[ Aventurine slides gracefully into a seat next to him with a smile despite the other clearly cranky about the whole situation. He honestly can't even blame him. Aventurine is very used to high-society that has overly fancy and even downright distasteful food in the name of being "sophisticated," but most of this is really strange and not exactly, in his opinion, the highlight of culinary snobbery, either. ]

It's surprising to me, especially, they would go this route, since most of the people I've talked to don't even know what any of this is. If She wants individuals to eat willingly, I wonder why she didn't pick more universally appetizing foods for consumption? Even if they would create a slightly strange narrative if this is Her trying to give us a look into a past event for some reason, it feels like it would have been a move that better suited Her desires.

[ he swirls his glass with the water he found. it doesn't get him off the hook for having to eat or drink anything with an effect, but you can only eat so much and drink so much of this stuff without water before you feel pretty gross, even if it wasn't food projecting everything you never asked to be able to share with others. ]

You doing all right, so far, despite?

[closetdweller]

[Nothing got them off the hook for consuming the strange food and drink, but Urushihara had already indulged in the canapes and didn't appreciate the gluttonous need to devour that edged too close if he became too excited over it. Instead, he kicked his feet in dissatisfaction and frowned at the fancily dressed man.]

I'd have preferred fried pork cutlets over lamb stew,

[He admitted with a pout. ]

I just wanted something good and familiar. Which isn't a lot.

[sorte]

You know, the last time I had fried pork cutlets was in my office. I don't want to be back to work by any means, but now that you've mentioned them, I'm rather missing them.

[ he sighs, going to take a sip of water after swirling it around in the glass bases few times for good measure. ]

Have you tried talking with the Lady in charge? Perhaps she's a little too old-fashioned from her cult worshippers and isn't so aware of things that we more modern individuals tend to enjoy.

Something tasty and familiar would be very comforting after everything so far.

[closetdweller]

You can talk to the cult leader?

[He asked, quickly followed by:]

We're in a cult???

[sorte]

[ motions with his glass up towards where One is seated on the high pedestal above them instead of towards all the weirdos in the same exact six-eyed masks all around them at the tables just sitting around "staring." It's not fair to implicate the props needed for a convincing setting, and all. ]

Am I being a bit too prejudice and stereotypical saying it's a cult so soon, you think?

[closetdweller]

Nah.

[He frowned- thinking about a different situation with different people that functionally resulted in the same thing: people blindly following a woman in power, without any thought to the rest of the picture.]

... It's not exactly my first time, but the last time I didn't really know I was even part of one.

[He looked up, questioning.]

What's the rules of being in a cult? Do you talk about it? What's she lying about?

[sorte]

I've never been in one, so I'm not sure. I was under the impression you had to sign up for it, at least in the beginning, but we didn't do that here.

[ unless megacorporate capitalist agenda is able to be broken down into a cult definition, then okay maybe he's kinda been one.

... also his people definitely were under the impression that pain and suffering were to be accepted with Greece because it was the will of their goddess amongst other things.

so maybe, who knows? ]

We could ask Ash for hard rules? I think she has even spoken to Sleep.

[closetdweller]

Really?

I just spoke to that lady, Espera. She seemed... Helpful?

[Which was more than could be said about a lot of other factors in the strange banquet hall or in the wreckage that was once Manhatten]

Ash has guts... But probably gonna be something something

Teeth of God'

...

I thought the first rule of the cult was that you don't talk about the cult?

[sorte]

Oh? What did she say?

[ Yeah he doesn't know for sure, but he's pretty sure Teeth of God is all to do with this particular cult and not the other stuff Ash has experience with. ]

Maybe they didn't follow the rulebook?

I know Ash isn't part of the last cult she was in, so I don't think it counts once you've left, either.