JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.

It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.

The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.

"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.

"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.

Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.

NOTES:

• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.

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You Taste Like New Flesh

( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )

The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm. Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.

"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."

The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.

Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.

Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.

Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.

Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.

Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.

Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.

Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.

The table awaits.

NOTES:

• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )

Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten. At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are. You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.

NOTES

• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.

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I am not worthy

( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )

Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot. First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence. Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall. They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.

"I am not worthy."

One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.

It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.

When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.

What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.

This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.

One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.

NOTES:

• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.

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OOC NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!

➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.

➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.

➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!

➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!

➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.

➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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Comments

[opheliac]

[she shakes her head immediately at that; there's so much she has done wrong, so many people who want her head on a stake, that she lost count. and his daughter peeks up at him; her face is in absolute shambles—mixed with tears, mucus, and running mascara.]

No, no, you don't get it...! I screwed everything up, a-and I was supposed to protect you and save you, but I... I couldn't. Everything happened because of me. So many people died because of me...

[with a sniff, jinx loosens their embrace but not completely, with her hand clutching hard onto his sleeves.]

And this place... This place is Hell, Vander. It's all a trick. And They—[she takes a quick glance over her shoulder towards the guardians and One, who remain observant of their guests.] — They're behind it all. They're distracting everyone with food and a good time before they can do something fucked up with us.

[at the end of her explanation, jinx realizes just how nutty she might sound—especially when the vessels are laughing, talking, and prancing around. so when she turns to her vander again, her doe-like eyes are glazing over with plead.]

You believe me... don't you?

[cantilevers]

[Vander was moved by her pain, the chaos of what he thought he sensed as a combination of guilt, self-hatred and self-blame along with tiny fractures of emotion that came through their tether too quickly for him to understand and parse out properly. It hurt to feel and see her such a mess, always had.

He moved his hands up to cup her cheeks and use his thumbs to smooth away her tears. He made a soft shushing noise in an attempt to comfort her as she began to ramble, shaking his head gently.]

No, no, it's not your fault, Powder. Things happen that we don't mean to and yes we should feel remorse for that, but whatever you're thinking is not your fault.

[He didn't know what she was thinking, didn't understand what she was referring to. He considered himself an open minded person; he had met and interacted with many different kinds of people over the years, many of which were challenging or suffering from madness.

So he nodded his head, following her gaze to the observers whom he had not formally interacted with that he knew. His gaze moved back to Powder's face, nodding to show that he was listening.]

The compulsion to eat and drink, you mean. What are they planning? How do we leave this place?

[He looked around them because people had taken her lead and were dancing about them while others remained at the table drinking and eating and carrying on like this was one of those fancy Piltover dinner parties he'd once watched take place as a boy. He looked back at her at the question, his expression softening.]

Of course I believe you. You've always told me the truth, and I appreciate that.

[opheliac]

[it's so infuriating how there's just so much she wants to talk about with him now that he is back to himself and is able to understand her, and yet... she also feels there's just so little time to go through it all. but jinx tries to think logically (as rational as this dream will allow it) and focuses on the important things first.

the here and now is the priority—everything about runeterra, her upbringing with silco, piltover, and the noxians... that's later. she'll even stomach the name "powder" for a little while longer until this gets somewhat sorted. and in all honesty, the dead name, while it still makes her skin crawl, is... a little bearable since he had called her that from time to time when he was a beast and his speech was limited. it's all a pass for now. at his question, guilt is written all over her face—shame too as she sucks in her lips for a moment before talking.]

I... I dunno. [she admits, taking in the way he cups her cheeks as draws out a low sigh to calm her thumping heart.] — I. I haven't been...paying much attention. Or... really cared about what they've been chasing after.

[it's in that moment that Vander will get fleeting memories (a first person view) as she thinks back to, well, her time here so far. there's one of her standing and somewhat hunched over a sink, and gazing at herself through a broken mirror. her reflection looks nothing like how she does now—hair cut short around her neck (like her younger self), looking malnourished and tired. and another quick flashback of her sitting in a cell with food trays getting jammed through the slot, untouched.

then more with various people (arthur[pointedlook], sharon[merged], onni[scowlish], miles[walriders], and megumi[potentialman] pitching in to help her during various events. from giving her warmer clothing, treating her wounds, feeding her, or rescuing her from the creatures. and in those memories, there's a sensation of her giving up, not want to live nor care for herself when she's been here alone, when she had lost so much.]

We leave by waking up, but...who knows if we'll be together when we do. They're in control, not us. But... last time, things started off like this. All nice, but then these monsters showed up and started hurting and killing people. And I managed to get away when a Piltie attacked me, and then I... I just woke up after that.

[cantilevers]

[He sensed the emotion from her through the tether that he was currently unaware had established itself, but he was self-reflective enough to know that he tended to read the emotions of others in body language and tone over a direct link. That did tip him off that there was something happening which he did not understand and now did not appear to be the right time or setting to inquire about it.

No, his focus was his daughter who was now grown. He had so many questions of his own, all of them piling up the longer his eyes searched her face. The first thing that struck him though was: By Janna's tits, she looks like Felicia. Powder was so much her mother's daughter whereas Vi took more after her sire. It washed warmth through his mind and body, easily felt through the tether.]

It's okay. We're together, so we can figure it out. You've got that big brain of yours that always solves the puzzle before anyone else.

[He blinked rapidly as memories infected him, not his own, but he paid as close of attention as he could with the shock of seeing someone else's memories wearing off. His hands dropped from her cheeks to her slim shoulders, stroking them with his palms; with his children especially, he had been physically affectionate with them. Now was no different.

It helped that the seeming physical touch was enough to ground him as he was paced through her memories. They were confusing and didn't make sense when compared to their current situation on the dance floor. What stood out to him was that she had people around her - a new little gang per say - and he appreciated that she had connection.]

What do you mean we may not be together when we wake up? Is it because I'm... [He trailed off, unable to say that he had died. She would know, of course. She was grown, so there would have been many years that passed since the incident at the cannery. It haunted him, and he struggled not to let those memories rise up.] Topside attacked you? Were you hurt? Or... were you hurt when you woke up? [How connected was the dreaming and the waking worlds?]

[opheliac]

[all things considered, she probably could figure out the mystery and the reasoning behind what's happening if she really tried, if she gave a damn. jinx didn't bother looking into things when she came here alone. because what's the point?

but now with vander in front of her (for now), she needs to ensure he is safe by all means. he may be normal in this dream, but in the waking world...what if he's in his beast form? ready to roam rabid with bloodlust, confusion, and pain? regardless, she winces lightly at his unfinished question; it looks like he recalls his final moments after all. (except jinx is mixing up which final moments) ]

I'm not sure. [she forces the words out of her, moistening her lips a second.] Everyone I've met so far is alive and not...

[just like him, her voice trails away too, but the bluenette shakes her head and exhales a breath.] — But Sleep might have saved you before the real thing; we won't... know until this dream is over. A Topsider attacked me when I got here, yeah. He didn't hurt me at first. He did later, but I put holes in him too.

[cantilevers]

[He found himself staring at her even as people took up her idea and danced around them, and his grey eyes moved over every inch of her face so that he could commit it to memory. The Powder he knew as a tender eleven-year-old had grown and matured, her hair so impossibly long he wanted to grab her braids just to marvel at them (he didn't).

The fact that she had been here longer and had endured this place and its tricks was a boon to assist him and feeling like he could navigate better with her. It was still odd to consider his child to be more worldly than he, but his ego had never been particularly big when it came to those sorts of things.]

Yeah. It had been quite the drop and sudden stop. [He had shielded Vi with his body; she had to live.] I'm sorry that you kids were caught up in that old vendetta. I always wanted to shield you from it.

[He nodded his head, not entirely certain how that worked but then again, this whole water world and now fancy dinner was well beyond what he had experienced aside from maybe the occasional crazy dream after a few too many.] Do you want me to have a talk with this topsider? I can be persuasive, you know.

[That's what being as tall and broad as he was did for him. He was keyed up from restless energy from taking up the fight again, no matter how brief. Punching a topsider might momentarily feel good, even if he knew he would rue it later.]

[opheliac]

[her instincts are to tell him that it's fine and it's okay, when, of course, their vendetta made a whole mess of things. that if only silco had read that letter (which is such a bullshit letter, and the writers are idiots for making it canon, but we, unfortunately, have to mention it), maybe things would have been different. maybe they would have patched things up. maybe the men could have worked together and been both her parents instead of fighting about who is the better person. they both have their own strengths and their own weaknesses, but jinx believed not one is superior to the other. they're equals in her heart, regardless of the sour words they may have for each other.

at the suggestion of confronting jayce, her body prickles with fresh sweat, and the room reels for her. without any sort of hesitation, jinx clutches onto her father's arms, her fingernails digging into his skin as if he is about to disappear or stray away from her that very second.]

No! [her voice cracked and shrilled, her anxiety spiking.] — No. Don't go near them; don't you ever go near them...! They'll hurt you all over again, or—or do something with your head. Please, promise me you'll never talk to them or go see them.

[cantilevers]

[He was blissfully unaware that she knew much about the vendetta, as he hadn't seen her at the cannery and was left assuming she had stayed away. However, he knew that the first place that Silco would go after his demise would be the Last Drop, so he had no doubt that his daughter had been swept up in the power structure reshuffling. He did have so many questions, but right now did not seem to be the appropriate time to quest for answers.

Her reaction was visible to him as he stood there, feeling the bite of her nails into his forearms and thankful for the brace on his right arm. He removed his right arm from her grip to move to wrap it around her shoulders to soothe her panic.]

Shush, it's okay. I have navigated Piltover demands and knee-jerk reactions before. Though... what do you mean by hurting me again?

cw: panic attack

[opheliac]

[even with him keeping her close to ease her anxiety, she continues to shake her head, her lower lip trembling as more words thrust past her tongue in one big jumbling mess.]

No, no, no! This is different...! Vander, please. You can't go near them. Vi...— [gods, just thinking about her sister and her reaction if everything were to fall apart because of her incompetence to keep him safe.] Vi wouldn't understand; she wouldn't forgive me again. He's the reason why you died at the commune, not the Herald. It was all him.

[her head is starting to swim, and she takes a few more gulps of air as her hand blindly clutches to him to steady herself.]

I-I think my chest is gonna implode. Can we sit? Go... somewhere.

[cantilevers]

[Vander knew the signs, but often he had not been the one to comfort her and bring her out of this high emotional state. Too often it was Vi who knew how to pull her back, but there was no Vi here which meant that it was up to him. The problem was that Powder was older now and who knew what she had been through.

Clearly someone from Piltover had her spooked. He had no idea about this commune was or why he would be there, since as far as he knew, he had died outside of the cannery. Was that not true? How could it not be? It was confusing, yet he forced himself to focus on her.]

I don't know who you're talking about or anything about a commune or Herald. [He set his hands on her shoulders so he could try to pull her into the circle of his arms so he could hug her close.] It's okay, Powder, I have you. Nothing is going to happen to us right now, right here on this dance floor.

[He moved to rest his chin on the top of her head as he did with any of the kids when they were upset.]

Let's find a wall, shall we? Are you able to walk?

[opheliac]

[he... doesn't know about the commune or the herald? that... that can't be right. she is almost certain viktor had said he was steadily making a breakthrough with vander, and he was beginning to be more aware of his surroundings and who he was as a person. maybe he's just confused? this is a lot to take in.

still, she nods to him even with her legs feeling boneless and burrows as far as she can in his embrace as she tries to steady her breathing. she'll let her father lead the way, gripping onto him while taking one cautious step after the next.]

I... don't get it. Whaddya mean you don't know what I'm talking about?

[she asks finally once she is able to find her voice again.]

[cantilevers]

[Vander practically carried his daughter off the dance floor over to a secluded corner of the room where they could have the illusion of privacy. This did not seem like a conversation to have in the open where the twirling bodies and laughter could disturb them.

And he did what any normal parent would do and shielded her with his body while allowing her time to compose herself. His head turned so he could use one eye to observe beyond their little spot in case someone take an interest in them.]

I remember falling out of the cannery. I was saving your sister. [He lifted a hand to cup her cheek affectionately, stroking a thumb under her pink eye. When had it changed colour?] Why do you remember me at a commune? Was it in the Sump? [That's where they usually ended up.]

[opheliac]

[her ribs squeeze at her lungs, and whatever meal or beverage she had before now sours inside her stomach. it swirls and threatens to race up to her throat in a disgusting combination of something indefinable. but despite the urge, she swallows it down and keeps calm again when his hand rests on her cheek once more.

it's so unreal that vander doesn't remember what happened, and jinx can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse yet. should she lie? make something up to spare him? he can see the struggle to decide what would be the right thing to do written on her face. his daughter averts her gaze from him, guilt descending over her like a dark cloud as a gentle hand pauses over his.]

...