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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[hallowedly]

I'm a light sleeper.

( The tragic shortcoming of every predator faced with territory unknown, unclaimed and unreasonably volatile. Tokyo afforded him the rare wink; here, it'll be cold white nights and blinking sheets of starlight before Seishirou entertains the notion of repose here, wherever it may be.

A nod, heat tipping. ) It must come with age.

( The aches of a thirty-three-year-old man, going presumably on three hundred. His smile burns like a catastrophe. A glass-frozen ocean is no small stage for theatrics. He cherishes the expanse. )

What may I expect? ( Of Sleep. Of their... circumstances. Of her — though he holds out his bent arm to invite her to lean as they promenade. A gentleman must remember himself even in the midst of madness. ) Other than beautiful company.

[hongtian]

[ Flattery: easy and, to Ruhong, expected. She smiles and takes his arm, her vanity sated for the moment.

People will let down their walls for a beautiful companion. She knows this. She often uses this. And she does not expect that it is her walls that have been lowered as a result, so certain she is in the belief she has this situation well in hand. She has had no reason yet to believe otherwise. ]

You'll have plenty of that, I assure you. There's beauty enough among Sleep's chosen. Ugliness, too, whether you're looking for it or not: twisted creatures that demand your worship.

[ Not of them. Of her. The mask of politeness slips for just a moment into fury, the briefest flash of a scowl before Ruhong's expression smooths once more. ]

And, of course, the dreams; though I myself am still adjusting to the experience.

[hallowedly]

( Arm in arm like lovebirds or careless delinquents, skirting through the limitless void and shrouding dark. How touchingly romantic, but for the electric prickling in the air, the serpentine criss-cross of dissatisfied magic blooming and wilting under his skin.

There is strain here, the quiet exhalation of anticipation. Every step he expects the glass to break, the sea's tide to rise, the woman to fall scythed to ground. These things simply happen under such circumstances.

Not yet. Not... yet. The smile lingers, slow and hollow. )

You're not a believer? ( In such things, in all things, in anything. ) How do you worship, then?

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong chuckles, a quiet laugh that echoes across the wide expanse of the sea-salt glass beneath their feet. ]

Not in Sleep, no.

[ She doesn't answer his second question right away, instead considering her answers before she speaks. Ruhong could answer many different ways, for she believes in many things. In herself. In her people. In the inevitability of the Turning of the Ages, the end of the nightmarish darkness. But worship—

Well, she is a paladin, after all. ]

You see the light, all the way at the horizon? Small, to be sure, but guiding us nonetheless. Leading us to warmth, to solid purchase.

There is always light to be found in the darkness. [ As if proving her point, the small flame cupped in her free hand flares suddenly, briefly, before cooling to a dim orange flicker. ] No matter how far off the path you stray.

[hallowedly]

( Light like a beacon, for stranded ships and sunken hopes. Light like a blindness coming, cauterizing pupils. What was that, in the end? That which is medicine in small parts is poison in excess. But he does look, does squint the sharp blade of his gaze and sees light calling yonder.

Small, but guiding. No. Small, but luring. Every fire singes. )

Moths go to flame. ( He murmurs, and doesn't ask, Will we burn? She must know, by the sound of her, somehow jaded. Like a high-profile socialite who's tasted one season too many, and now the richness of its artifice leaves her stomach turning.

This is a glittering world of waves and glass and smoke and mirrors, a delicate construct. She walks it on Seishirou's arm now, but might wish to stomp it underfoot. Or perhaps she's sincere — and the flame in her hand is only hope, honest and true. )

If that's so, why are you still here? ( And not a merry, well-lit path to a happy ending? )

[hongtian]

Why, indeed.

[ She looks sideways at him, curious now, watching his face for any hint of his thoughts. Only after losing the ability has Ruhong realized how much she relied on her use of a Detect Thoughts spell to understand the world around her, and she wishes—not for the first time in this place—that she could fall back on it once more. ]

Do you mean here?

[ Still holding his arm in one hand and the small flame in the other, she doesn't gesture around them at the wide expense of solid sea. Her look around, however, slightly exaggerated for effect, does the trick well enough. ]

Or the domain of Sleep in general?

[hallowedly]

( Here, with him, fly in the spider's web, the lure is simple: he has contorted base flattery into charisma, the sketch of his shadows into the appearance of stalwart reliability. On an animalistic level, 'safety' is only a passable permutation of 'visible,' 'distant' and 'predictable'; he has satisfied every requirement under a semblance of romantic, diffuse pseudo-moonlight.

And they're still arm to arm, and she's still a pretty thing, and were they any other pair, so helplessly besotted with their daring and their dalliance, they might whisper sweet pledges they'd curse out after thirty years of bitter marriage. But they're strangers, bound by strange things, and the fit of her hand can hardly cup his elbow, and his could perfectly round her throat.

He's thought of such things; thinks it again, turning with pointed intent, to look her over like a war prize. )

You're a beautiful woman. ( He's said so before; now, he believes it. If nothing else, for her manner. ) Don't be inconvenient. Let's start with simpler things: tell me about Sleep.

[hongtian]

Inconvenient?

[ She laughs fully at this, at the compliment (of course she is beautiful, though she appreciates the affirmation nonetheless) and at the change of topic. There is delight to this. She does not, perhaps, pick up on any less-than-friendly intentions behind his approaching her. But there is a game here, suddenly, one that she knows she is playing with rules wholly unknown to her; but somehow that makes it all the more exciting.

He was interesting before. Now he intrigues her. ]

You said you wished to discuss simpler things, but I fear you've landed on one not simple at all.

[ Her voice and smile are sardonic. ]

All right. Here is what I know for certain.

She calls herself a god, and I believe it. She touches all of us, connects us, calls us to worship. We can resist, of course—to an extent. Her dreams are infectious: she reshapes her Vessels in a chosen image, twisting them until there is nothing left but a piece of her creation. Ground yourself in others, and you might be lucky enough to resist a little longer, before she changes you from the inside out.

[hallowedly]

( ...changes them, from the inside out. How fetching. How utterly selfish, how perverse and divine. His smile is plastic, carved, wholly acrimonious. The pleasant make-believe of fledgling courtesy, synthetic to bitter last.

She has drawn none of his ire, yet all of his displeasure. A feat, in and of itself, and his hand rises to cup hers on his arm like armour, to press it in. He wants her fearing, not. Wants her running, not. )

She husks, does she? And she makes lair in the shell?

( Like a parasite and her fresh skins. Like every god that's visited mortals. And for a practictioner, beholden to magic and no greater power than the one he embraces with both hands — there is terror in this. )

A pity. I happen to like myself as I am. Is that simply being resistant?

[hongtian]

[ The stiffness that courses through Ruhong when he places a hand on hers is so subtle it is nearly imperceptible. Standing arm in arm like this as they walk is already testing her tolerance for closeness, but it's a necessity she understands: the mask of courtesy, the performance of charisma. There are times, of course, when acting as unexpected benefits her more; but she does not feel like making her distaste for most physical contact known immediately to every stranger. He has not fully crossed her limits just yet. For now, it is more important to pursue camaraderie as they cross this glassy expanse, for she never knows when she might need an ally.

His flattery, at least, is enough without making her uncomfortable, hands aside. Not to mention that something moments ago that piqued her interest. She ignores it still—for now. ]

If as you are precludes worship of her, then you're already as rebellious as I plan to be.

[ Her face darkens for a moment, her gaze turned in the direction of the light still shining far away. There's a shimmer of thought between them, one that whispers its way unbidden through the Murmur, as Ruhong imagines tearing down that blood-red moon over the city through the crimson sky, ripping it in two and freeing the light that surely must be trapped inside.

But only for a fleeting moment. ]

So. Who are you, then?

[hallowedly]

( At first, violation; then violence. Then the echo of something somewhere, and thoughts not his own, and the white brightness of light, waiting. He does not hesitate, their cadence unbroken, glass screeching underfoot. This bridge can still collapse, can still grow mutinous beneath them. He makes no point of delay or hesitation.

The women at far too literal hand, too, makes no point of stalling her needling, prickling and irking him like a well-behaved, patient allergen. He suspects, all at once, that exposure to her could still kill. A pity. )

Sakurazuka Seishirou.

( As a names go, offered with a pale nod, a brief concession. Not a birthday, not a birthplace, not even writ. Names are easily traded commodities, less incriminating among practitioners than all the signals that betray star arrangements and horoscopes. )

I'm a veterinarian in Tokyo. Mostly small animals. It's lively business. ( They might as well be schoolmates, deciphering how to unravel the knotted threads of their now long-parted lives. They are strangers. ) And you?

[hongtian]

[ She repeats his name easily, the repetition intended to cement it in her memory. His response tells her little, though she supposes it answers her question as well as she could have hoped. It isn't as though she is about to share her life's story with him, either. ]

Yun Ruhong. I'm a mercenary, last in Kalaman. [ Not quite a lie, but not quite the truth, either. She smiles sideways at him. ] It's lively business.

[ For all they've been walking now, Ruhong would have thought the flickering fire far away might by now appear closer. For all she can tell, though, it's as though they have simply been walking in place. She holds up her hand, the one still cupping her own small flame in her palm, and for a moment it flares brighter: casting a warm pulse, a glow, in a radius around them, illuminating dark shadows beneath their feet.

And when she bids the flame to grow, something warm and bitter fills her mouth.

Blood, unmistakable—and salt. Brine. Two flavors distasteful enough already, and only years of self control keep Ruhong's face composed. She stops briefly, raises a white-robed sleeve to her lips, and forces herself to swallow before beginning to walk again. ]

If you enjoy liveliness, you're in luck. You'll rarely be in want of it here.

[hallowedly]

( Ah, but he knows this play, knows his steps, knows when to take them. Flinches, with the inherent delay, gaze white and bright and snagged on the woman at his eyes' corner like prey assessing when next a predator will strike, serpentine.

As if she's at once paralyzed and compelled him to motion, and he drifts with seeming calculation only enough of a step away to allow their arms still bound. Doubt scatters like beads off a ruptured string, the moment weighted, burdening his breath.

He licks his lips, considers words a man might offer in the face of catastrophe. Fear is a rare seed, entirely exotic. He has witnessed it take root in his victims enough to fill his treasory of core inspiration memories, but seldom practised it.

Like every thespian, he decides his character: 'Sakurazuka Seishirou' is a reasonable man, perhaps too drenched in modern privileges and comfort to entertain mercenaries in his narrow world. His fear is simply of the absurd. And so he questions her, as if she's pretty girl ridiculing a high school junior who's presumed with his advances. )

I would have thought yours would be deathly business. ( Laughter, a touch too shrill for ease. ) You're not, are you? What you only just said.

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong smiles at his laughter, still working to keep it from becoming a grimace at the salty taste lingering on her tongue from the spell: a new effect, she thinks dryly, that must be courtesy of their host. ]

Why wouldn't I be?

[ She's not quite certain what he means, the part about being a mercenary or last in Kalaman or all of it, perhaps. Her question is vague on purpose. Ruhong does not believe he means the latter; his is not the kind of name she encountered anywhere in her time in Solamnia. Her own name was enough of an anomaly there, and he's not dressed like a Solamnic citizen, either. Still, she could be wrong about that.

It's more likely to her, however, that he's referring to the mercenary part. She's been here long enough to know that her idea of a normal occupation doesn't necessarily align with everyone else's; but he does know the meaning of the word, so surely it's a concept that exists for him. ]

It's deathly enough, but it has yet to be so for me. As you see.

[hallowedly]

( As he sees: a woman of shape fragile, like lace trim. Slimness so often contains solidity — filigree is still metal, however prettily bound. She does not scream the rugged veneer that so often suits their line of work, but neither does Seishirou, and the trade only profits from their curious, out-of-the-box professional.

And she is too forthright by far. Surely reared, if not necessarily born, on a stage where death is a commonplace barter, and the industry thrives in a quagmire of legitimacy. Fair, then. He cannot fault her acceptance of advertisement. A free market.

But Sakurazuka Seishirou, humble veterinarian, must take this time for an unsettled pause. )

It's just... a little chilling, I suppose. To hear of someone killing people for a living. ( Then, carefully back-tracking: ) But I suppose... it's not that different from an army? Only... I'm sorry. My life is too mundane. I've never had the pleasure before.

[hongtian]

If it helps with the idea, I mostly accept jobs to kill monsters, not men. Though sometimes they are one and the same.

[ Her voice is wry. Ruhong has certainly killed people, and she does not necessarily take moral opposition to doing so in general; but she very much has both limits and the luxury to choose.

That, and religious righteousness. That helps both to draw her lines in the sand and justify her actions when she crosses them. ]

But that's a curious statement. What would make you call it a pleasure? A mundane life may not be for me, but there is no shame in it. There is no need for you to worry about appeasing my sensibilities.

[hallowedly]

It's only a thing to say. ( No; truer: ) A thing people say.

( An ignoble, burnished platitude, indifference elevanted to rhetorical rank. He makes no gilded chain of hypocrisy. It exists, lackadaisically, between them. A better read woman might make sport of it, and a lesser read man might begrudge her lack of education. They are neither of those people.

And he finds himself, mouth kindling the flame of amusement, absurdly fond of what parts they might play instead. He finds himself stepping away, relinquishing her arm, settling his own behind his back to right himself completely. )

What monsters do you hunt that are worse than men?

[hongtian]

[ Relief, imperceptible but not inconsequential, follows when he lets her go. Ruhong is not fond of physical closeness, but she knows the parts she must play—most of the time—and prefers to be someone whom people find agreeable—most of the time. Accepting a simple gesture of politeness (for of course that's all it was) usually goes a longer way than a refusal to engage. Not to mention that his flattery at the time of offering had helped with what might have otherwise been more of a discomfort; his companionship has been enjoyable and entertaining enough.

Either way they walk separately now, and she, too, straightens. ]

Worse than men.

[ She says this aloud, tests the concept on her tongue. She has never thought of it in such straightforward terms: simply by considering what needs killing at the moment before her. ]

Demons, devils, aberrations. Undead, for the truly unlucky. All of these most mercenaries or adventurers will encounter. But as for what is worse than any man?

[ She looks forward at the horizon, at the light now at last closer to them than it has been before, the shadows still pressing in otherwise all around them, the glassy waves beneath their feet. Something draws tight in Ruhong's face, tension between her brows and a low rasp in her response. ]

Nightmares.