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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B2

[snaggletooth]

[ The segyein's prisoners, humans of the far future, were not taught to dance in pairs. It's through literature that Ivan learned about "balls" and "galas" and "fetes" that were held in celebration, that his distant ancestors would pick a partner and move with them to music. It wasn't to entertain anyone except one another. He found that hard to wrap his head around at first, how it could be superior to spending their time any other way.

The moment he found out that the dancing could double as show of affection however, he became interested. ]

Good evening, Lortel.

[ Till is eating nearby, a little too much. Comparatively, Ivan seems much more sober when he shifts to face Lortel with his usual smile. There's evidence that food has been on his plate as well, since consumed. He has no special trick, just a stronger constitution from suppressing emotions for years at a time. Useful for him now, for dealing with these unbidden urges that might otherwise have him acting like an animal. ]

No, I haven't gotten around to it.

[ He inserts an idle glance at his carried away companion. She knows what it means; she confronted him about it, after all. ]

[vixenish]

... Ivan!

[ has she actually ever seen him fully human before? goodness, look at him. a sweet, very genuine smile tips up the corners of her lips. ]

Look at you. Aren't you handsome?

[ is she calling his "normal" form ugly

Lortel follows his gaze; when she sees where it lands, her expression crinkles with gentle understanding. poor Till. it doesn't surprise Lortel at all that he's glued to the food. nor does it surprise her that Ivan is not. ]

Then that means I get to steal you away first.

[snaggletooth]

[ She'd be right to call it so, that repulsive shell that covers him all the way up to his neck. It isn't fit to dance. It would take several chairs to seat it alongside the table. It would cause a whole host of issues, to be fair.

Ivan doesn't care what's implied. On the surface, Lortel's words are pleasant enough. Rising to his feet, he finds himself having to bend back down again to take one of her hands. Somehow, he didn't realize she was so small.

He decides it's funny enough to draw forth a laugh. ]

You'll have to lead the way, or it won't look very much like stealing.

[vixenish]

[ oh, wow, he's tall.

when he laughs, she does, too, rather disarmed. her shoulders relax, and her hand curls, with affection and certainty, through his. ]

For you? I'll learn to be a thief.

[ tug him away she does, managing not to glance back at Till. but she does say, when they're out of earshot: ]

He'll be fine.

[snaggletooth]

[ Ivan doesn't look back either, but he still has a sense of what preoccupies Till through their tether. He's found escape in the happy memories of others.

Yes, he'll be fine.

They walk beneath the natural archways, passing lovely, otherworldly strings of hanging flowers. Plucking one of them, Ivan absently slides the stem into Lortel's hair. The petals continue to glow even after being separated from the rest of the plant. ]

Are you actually treating this like any old party?

[ She's one person he'd expect not to lose sight of the fact that there's something sinister riding on all of this. ]

[vixenish]

[ She blinks, lips parting silently, when he slips a flower into her hair.

It is with only the most massive of efforts of will that she keeps her feelings from flooding the murmur. Even despite her best efforts, there are vivid but brief impressions of delight and terrible fondness and bemused gratitude. ]

Of course not. This is hardly a party. It's a trap of some kind, of course. One that, if I had to guess, is meant to make us bend in worship.

[ yes, she already knows.

she smiles up at him, and the shape of it eases her face. ]

But I see no reason not to take advantage of what it provides, while we can.

[snaggletooth]

[ Playing along has always been his own preference. It's just sensible when there's comfort to be had in doing so, as opposed to only needless suffering in not doing so. He'll make a mental note of it: Lortel is strategic. Good for her, that she's able to take some pleasure from all of this, given what flows through their bond.

Ivan, for his part, is still trying to figure out how to feel like he has no duty. His eyes are shifting, tracking faces. He's taking in fragments of conversations out of old habit. He could keep tabs on what all the guests were up to at all times when Unsha had him entertain at his parties.

As the amount of empty space grows plentiful around them, he faces her hand-in-hand, preparing to lead. ]

Then until the hammer falls, we fly.

[vixenish]

[ when did it happen, honestly? when they first met, she thought they might be adversaries, sniping at each other with empty pleasantries.

maybe that's still the case. Ivan is one of the hardest people to read that she's ever met; she can never quite tell what's going through his mind when they talk. he's far easier to read when around Till, but that still only allows her to glean so much. he should be a mystery to her still, something to regard with suspicion and hold at a cautious arm's length.

and yet.

and yet, one day, he brought Sunny home, safe and sound.

one day, he brought home Till, and the look in his eyes had changed.

despite her concerns, despite her better judgment, she adores him in a helpless way. she reaches up to briefly cup his cheek before letting her hands slide into his, happy to let him lead. ]

... how long do you think we have, hm?

[ before the inevitable—whatever it may be. ]

[snaggletooth]

[ When they met, she let something slip that solidified how he felt about her in every moment that came after. Finding it out, it didn't matter what kind of person she otherwise was. They both came from rags, and there is a bond in that. They are beings who lost their warmth in the cold, who struggle still to look for it.

He knows their relationship is unequal, that she reaps the benefits of all that he does. He's not being manipulated. If anything, he's lulled her into letting him serve a purpose to her. Eyes closed, he leans into her hand with a smile, and then they begin. A piano plays in the ether of his mind, strong steps bringing them back and forth. The start is slow, enough to converse. ]

I don't know if anyone can answer that.

[ Trying to come up with one is a strange struggle, like his inability to quantify time itself has been shut off. He arrived at some point. He's spoken to some guests, mostly to Till. They ate, and ate — maybe more than should be humanly possible.

Still, it should be a simple estimate. ]

I can't even remember how long we've been here.

[vixenish]

[ little lost souls desperate for someone to love them.

if he's lulled her, then so be it. she holds Till in her hand; she's the one who supplies his antibiotics, his bandages. now, his food, his shelter. Ivan would need to go to great lengths to divest himself of her. should he betray her, there are those besides herself who would not forgive him, or permit him any rest.

such is their uneven relationship. one for which she has, uncharacteristically for her, begun to feel guilt and shame, because he has never done anything except what she asked.

can she, too, hear that distant piano? the music that seems to move constantly beneath his and Till's skin? she moves with him easily and elegantly, finding some strange amusement in the fact that she has to crane her head back to look at up him. ]

... you, either?

[ her thin smile is without warmth as she looks over this grand, eerie, impossible hall. ]

What a strange dream we're having. So like yet unlike the first.

[ their connected hands she adjusts, so she can thread her fingers through his. ]

I wonder how we'll wake up.

[snaggletooth]

You know it won't be pleasant.

[ The dream is a stage. Their struggle to keep themselves together or else throw themselves into the spectacle is the performance. What other comparison can he draw? He can't see the audience, but he can feel it. The increasingly nagging feeling while not eating is like watching eyes.

Like every audience he's known, it will demand a dark toll before it's truly entertained.

He chases the swell of the music with ever more sweeping steps, stirring the train of her long green dress to life. The room spins with their dance, faces of confusion, of laughter, of messy, dripping overindulgence all blurring. Yet, every time the great pedestal at the forefront passes by, the masked man presiding over them all is not moved. ]

Is this all of us, or—? I feel there are even more faces this time. That one up there almost seems like he's important. [ ... ] Mm, or just there to make us think that prostration will earn us something other than losing our minds.

[vixenish]

I know, [ she echoes him, softly.

something, inevitably, is coming. just as it had in the first dream. will they have to run for their lives again? what will happen if they're caught?

what will chase them?

her gaze drifts to the impassive and somber One before Ivan even brings him up. ]

There are. There are new people. At least two dozen. Likely more. It's been difficult to keep track.

[ she leans against him, her gaze on One unmoving. ]

... is he watching us? It feels that way.

[snaggletooth]

Yes.

[ For his part, Ivan lifts his head and flashes One a most-gentlemanly smile. Look here, great supplicant of god, at these Vessels enjoying the festivities. ]

If he still has thoughts, he may even be having some of those about us as well.

[vixenish]

[ Lortel turns her head away, into him.

it's not that she's scared. it's that she dislikes it. this constant, oppressive, unavoidable attention.

no gaze she could possibly direct at that thing would be ... acceptable. of worship or awe or supplication.

there is no need to tempt fate by leveling malevolence at a One likely far stronger than she. ]

Let him, [ she murmurs, lifting her head to gaze up at her partner. ] Let him watch us and wonder about what he cannot have.

[snaggletooth]

He's alone, in no one's arms tonight.

[ Starved for touch so high above where any hand may reach him, where he may participate in nothing human. Ivan would never turn away from Till for the unknowable embrace of a being that won't even show itself.

Till is his only god, his paradise.

And Lortel is a flower there, fragrant in the field. As gracefully as he can, Ivan cranes into the space next to her temple and places a soft, chaste kiss there. He's heard that it can convey gratitude as well as affection, and he is grateful for the things that surround him now. ]

My Lortel.

1/3

[vixenish]

[ . . . ]

[vixenish]

[ why— after everything she's done?

everything she's done to him? ]

[vixenish]

[ his. his Lortel. yes, he's probably right about that.

moved to tears and rather embarrassed about it, she tilts her head down and slightly away, wondering if it's at all possible to hide whatever expression she must be making. ]

You're sweeter to me than I deserve, [ she murmurs. ]

[snaggletooth]

[ If Ivan notices her start to crack, the Murmur doesn't pick it up, offering the same gentle vacuousness from his direction that it almost always does.

Darkness that doesn't threaten. ]

You think you've done me wrong?

[vixenish]

[ sudden irritation flashes across the murmur. it's his unchanging emptiness that makes her realize it; the way she wants to give way is not at all mutual.

and thus an advantage specifically for, and only for, him. ]

You don't? [ neutrally, glancing away. ]

[snaggletooth]

[ Annoyance.

An emotion he's always been good at provoking; he's not sure why. Eventually, one day he started trying to get such reactions on purpose so it would make sense. Then, he decided he liked the way Sua and Till and sometimes, rarely, Mizi looked when he got them a little riled up.

But that's not what he was wanting to do now—oh, not at all.

A reminder that he's still the same odd child he always has been. ]

It was you who gave me something to do other than wither away. And in the end, I'm still here to see him smile.

[ He gives her the grace of not staring. ]

[vixenish]

[ it's, truly, her inability to trust easily. her tendency—need, perhaps—to assume bad intentions from everyone.

it may ensure she's alone, but it also keeps her safe.

her irritation isn't with him in the first place. it's with herself, for showing weakness.

somehow, his graceful, giving response just rankles her further. sighing out hard and short, she makes an effort to compose herself. ]

I know, [ she murmurs. ] And I'm grateful. What you've done is the reason we have food to eat. [ by way of association: why Till has food to eat.

nevertheless.

... nevertheless.

her hands flex; the shape of her eyes is tense. she's ...

... hesitating. ]

Ivan. [ she manages a smile, and looses her hand from his in order to tap on her temple. ]

Why did you kiss me?

[snaggletooth]

[ Apology washes over his face, since she seems confused.

His "charming" demeanor has always been nothing more than a series of confident guesses. He's not always right. For a fact, he's more wrong than ever now that his audience is no longer exclusive to equally clueless peers and creatures that have no idea about humans. ]

Ahaha... maybe I used it wrong?

[ It was what she said about the man, the taunting way she welcomed him to look on in jealousy, meaning that she felt she had something of value as she danced with him. It struck him as a moment to appreciate what he himself has. He should be a rotted husk by now, but against all odds — he is not. ]

I feel close to you — Ah, but not in a way that I want to mate with you, Lortel. [ He somehow manages to say that in the least flustered way a person could. ] Close like... you are a part of this life that I wouldn't change.

[ Maybe he still has a lot to learn about human touch, but he knows for sure one thing that it's good for: ]

And I'd like for you to feel nice.

1/3

[vixenish]

[ wow. what a thing to say so casually. ]

[vixenish]

[ completely unable to help herself, Lortel bursts out laughing.

and unlike, well, 99% of the time—

it is a completely genuine sound. one that comes right from her heart. ]