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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[deathstealer]

Its name I do not know,
only the mark of its intent.
It wishes to be worshipped and loved,
but not in the way a person loves a distant god:
in the way a victim loves its source of pain.

[ She folds her hands on the table, and frees up one to pick up a goblet of wine, idly swirling it to study the liquid within. Perhaps later, she will even dare take a sip and see what effects it may yet have.

For now, this conversation is more important. ]

'Kos' is a name unknown to me,
so I cannot say one way or another.

[ At that, she sounds mildly miffed. Ranni does not like not knowing things. ]

Thy vision was all-consuming,
and heavier indeed than many here will experience.
By thy countenance,
that was a memory?

[whomthebelltolls]

Fickle indeed, then. [This sounds less and less pleasant by the moment. It's not even the first time she's been a god's favorite plaything, but this one she cannot put a finger on. She understood why Kos and her Orphan would want to keep her held in the memory of their Nightmares, but what she did to be... transferred to another god's demesne is inscrutable to her. What else did she do?

It could not have simply been the massacre, still fresh in her mind and on her tongue, could it have? None of the people she's met here have even heard of Yharnam, let alone would have been part of the expedition to the hamlet.

She files that away to continue the conversation.] Kos is a Great One, I presume at this juncture that whatever this fickle god is may be similar? They lurk in dreams and nightmares.

[Which brings her back to... well, the massacre, and the look on her face does, in fact, make it clear she does not want to talk about it.] ... And yes, it was a memory. Not one I would like to speak much of.

[deathstealer]

[ The terminology 'Great One' is not familiar to Ranni, but the context is easy enough a guess. A god, likely ancient, perhaps a set of deities that is more powerful and unknowable than earthly deities. The Lands Between have something similar; the Outer Gods, those from beyond the stars. ]

Dreams and nightmares are indeed its chosen fare;
to the surprise of none, gods are similar everywhere.

[ Maria's reticence about the memory just has Ranni's curiosity growing, but since there is no particular emergency, she decides not to press. Were it a question of life or death or a mission that needed to be won, then she might have dug. Otherwise, she can allow Maria her secrets.

So, she picks up a piece of fruit from a nearly platter, rolling the plum between her fingers, weighing it. Wondering what it might do to her should she bite into its flesh and consume it. ]

Should thee wish to avoid further recollection,
'twould be wise to avoid consumption.
Here, the thoughts of one's own mind
are not as private as one would like.

[whomthebelltolls]

Hm, but the hungers of the fleshy body do not dissipate... [Maria replies, eyeing the plum, herself. The kidneys were rich and meaty, though not necessarily the most filling, or sticking, especially for someone of her size.

Now, however, she doesn't have any appetite. (Or perhaps she does, but not for normal food, not right now. The desire for Blood itches in the back of her mind, a craving insistent as it is repulsive.)

She'll keep the other topic going for as long as possible.]

... You seem familiar, then. How long would it be before we see an end to this place? Or must we walk to the frontier, for time is not the deciding factor?

[deathstealer]

[ Ah, but Ranni is glad to have discarded her fleshy desires long ago. She does not miss being hungry and thirsty; she had always viewed such things as an annoying trifle, a time to shovel food into her mouth with a quickness so that she could get back to whatever far more important academic and magical learning she was doing. ]

The dream's duration, I knoweth not.
The last ended eventually, with no input of our own,
and time stretcheth into meaninglessness.

[ She hadn't tried walking into the distance in the last dream; she suspects it wouldn't have achieved anything. Much like, curiously, their situation in the real world: an island with seemingly no way off, all bridges broken, all boats missing.

This god does seem to like stranding them in strange situations. ]

Until then, I while away the time with study;
of mine surroundings, of mine companions.
Of the fare that causes such disruption.

[ She puts down the plum, having satisfied herself with the knowledge that mere touch does not convey whatever intended effect it has. It must be consumed, apparently. ]

There is much to learn,
of tempestuous gods with a craving for love.

[whomthebelltolls]

It seems so. Is there much literature about this... god, or is it simply through investigation and context that you've come to these conclusions?

[Surprise(?): Maria's been an academic in her life, as well. Things she isn't going to admit so easily: That the entire massacre Ranni witnessed was the result of one such scientific inquiry that went entirely off the rails.

The curiosity gnaws at her, as well, as much as her addiction to the Blood. No matter how badly it ended for her before.]

That is, since it seems rather fruitless to simply physically leave, and we may be left waiting for whatever end is brought to us.

[deathstealer]

Ah, there I will have to disappoint you;
I have searched much of this world's archival news,
and have discovered naught about this god,
or indeed what happened to the abandoned world beyond.
All was fine on one day,
and then, terribly sudden, everything stopped.

[ Ranni knows what date the world stopped, and she knows much about the city they have been placed in in reality -- at least, what it used to be like. But she has been able to find nothing on what befell that world, at least not anything in print.

As a scholar, this is highly frustrating.

Maria's summation of the matter -- that they simply have to wait it out -- has Ranni's eyes gleaming in satisfaction. She does so love a keen mind with no wasted motion. Maria could have been stubborn and tried to batter the walls of this dream, instead, she cuts to the heart of the matter.

Ranni offers a hand, palm up. ]

While we wait;
wouldst thee care to dance?
See, there, how our fellow dreamers do the same,
to while away the time in more pleasant pursuits?

[whomthebelltolls]

Mmmm... [Not a surprising answer, but still a disappointing one nonetheless. To not know anything about what they're up against is not unusual, but never an advantageous start. From an earlier conversation Maria had, it also seems like this god is only recently active, as well. There was no revelation as to how old the god was, but there was information that those that had been here before her had not been for long.

Maria glances at the proffered hand - in truth, she's anything but in the mood for revelry and dancing of any sort, but it's that or... the banquet.

... Bah. Dancing, then. Her fingers slide into the palm, and she passively takes note of the texture of the "skin" beneath hers. She looks pointedly anywhere but at their joined hands as she stands. Her knuckles are dusted in thick white fur, and she's trying very, very hard not to think too hard about it.] Very well. Will this rob us of our senses, as well?

[Not to be too cynical, but...]

[deathstealer]

[ Ranni makes a small noise, something that might almost be a laugh. ]

Thy wariness is charming indeed;
nay, I do not believe that to dance
is to suffer the same affliction of the fare.

[ She has been watching those that dance out of the corner of her eye, and while it seems like there may be something of a compulsion to do so in the air -- and even gifted knowledge or muscle memory, since everybody seems to be terribly talented at it -- none have fallen into fits of memory or thrall of emotion.

She rises from her chair, and guides Maria onto the dancefloor, neatly slotting into an empty space. Ranni takes command of the dance in the same way she takes command of everything else: assuming that she must. She settles two hands on Maria's hips, one holding her hand, the last on her shoulder, and sweeps them into a courtly dance.

The white fur, she suspects, is new. There was a certain aversion of gaze that was very obvious. ]

Tell me more about thyself, Maria;
from what lands do you hail?
Art thou a knight, or a soldier, or something else?

[whomthebelltolls]

[She barely notices as they set up - she's so used to dancing, it's basically second nature, but when they go to take the first step, she missteps - taking a lead step and nearly finding Ranni's foot.

If not for an artful dodge, and a sudden clarity in her eyes that tells about her snapping out of it she may well have trampled some doll toes.

Instead, she moves smoothly into a different step, but finds it weird, a little awkward. Like trying to write with her left hand - doable, but inelegant and even a bit messy.

It makes talking a little strange, but she starts out well enough.]

I am from a town called Yharnam. And I am a... [Well, technically, she is a knight, but is it worth discussing the peculiarities of the Vilebloods? Maybe not so quickly, when there's an easier answer to be had.] Hunter. Yharnam is beset by a plague of Beasts, and Hunters are the ones who are tasked with killing them. Among other martial tasks.

But, I admit, I am no longer active in the pursuit.

[This somewhat stilted answer brought to you by: Reticence in the face of discussing herself.

And not to change the subject, but...]

Would you prefer I lead? I'm more used to it as such.

[deathstealer]

[ Ranni's eyes, both porcelain and spectral, narrow in cat-like amusement. She too had noticed the misstep in their dancing: the bumble of two people trying to lead. And though she is loathe to give up command in any sense, she supposes she can allow Maria this. ]

If thee must; I will make myself a follower.

[ And so Ranni does as prompted, switching to allowing herself to be lead. She has not done so for centuries, not since she was learning to dance with her tutors and her brothers. It is strangely nostalgic.

As for Maria-- Ranni has not heard of Yharnam. Although there is a familiar stagnant depression to Maria, the same sensation blanketed over the Lands Between for many years, it seems they are not from the same world. She had recognized the demeanour of a protector, though. ]

Here, the Beasts are of the mind,
and when they are of a more solid state,
they are fungus-ridden and hollow.
Indeed, I have not seen combat since the first dream,
but I suspect it will not be far off.
Thee may find thyself un-retired soon enough.

[whomthebelltolls]

[Must? No. But she barely ever learned how to follow, and it feels odd, especially with a doll's body that is shorter than her own.

She doesn't speak on it, though.

As soon as they change, it feels more natural for her, but she doesn't push too hard. If Ranni is anything like her, then now she's in an awkward spot, which precludes any kind of fancy footwork.

After the memory of just why she gave up being a Hunter, the idea of taking it back up is... distasteful to her. She doesn't even try to poker face her way out of the frown it brings.] I would rather not, if it's all the same to the creatures here.

[Even with blood fresh on her tongue and the Hunt calling to her bones and sinew, she'd very much so rather not.

With some of the other conversations she's already had, this is starting to sound too much like-

Hunt the Great Ones. Hunt the Great ones.]

[deathstealer]

[ At that response, Ranni eyes Maria in interest, silent for a long moment as they dance, and she studies the woman before her.

A Hunter, she had called herself, but had said she was no longer pursuing it. Had the Beasts been conquered in her world, then, that she found herself in a position to retire? Or had she merely wearied of the fight and decided it was no longer her business?

To have given up her former occupation to the point where she would not even engage in new, potentially necessary fights-- ah, it is interesting. Ranni wants to study her like a book. ]

Then, we will do our best to shelter thee,
and keep thee far from the fight.

[ It's an unusually magnanimous thing for Ranni to say, but she is feeling indulgent right now. In truth, she knows she will find herself feeling very different should true combat arise. ]

Thy true battle will be against feelings intrusive;
the god here likes to shock and make awestruck
the little mortals here under their care.

[whomthebelltolls]

If needs must... I don't need to be coddled. [She says she doesn't want to anymore, but she always does end up jumping back into the fray. Every time, like clockwork. No matter how sick it makes her feel. Violence is built into her very blood, and she can't actually deny it, no matter what she says aloud.

Creature of contradictions, this one.]

Eugh... but I don't need any more of... that, either. [She motions her head slightly back toward the table.] I don't suppose we'd just be allowed to hole up in some sort of cave or shelter, far removed from her and anyone, hm?

[deathstealer]

And deprive the fickle god of its playthings?
Perish the very thought.

[ It could have come out wry or sarcastic, but Ranni does not often wear her emotions in so obvious a way. Instead, it's just a thoughtful hum, neither especially bothered by being a so-called plaything, nor finding much amusement in it.

In truth, all they can do is be careful. Avoid the food presented like an offering. Avoid the fungus-riddled creatures of the city. Avoid looking at the moon for too long. ]

There are rules thee will learn,
and great mysteries to ponder.

[ Ranni gently brings their dance to an end, and ducks low in a bow, all four hands spreading her skirts in a curtsey. ]

Thy skills of dance are at least pleasing;
I thank thee for indulging me.
I am most curious about the worlds
of the many souls that find themselves in this trap.
Perhaps at a later date,
we could discuss thy world more?

[whomthebelltolls]

[Ever hear Maria laugh? She does, a single sound more of a snort of derision than anything, but in a way to agree with what Ranni says.

Still, the dance comes to a close, and they separate. Maria steps back, and as Ranni curtseys, she crosses her left arm over her chest, touching her right shoulder and sweeping her right arm to the side as she bends at the hip. It is a very particular sort of bow, clearly one from whatever circles Maria learned her manners from. It's also the gesture you get from Annalise.]

At least pleasing? Well, perhaps I'll try harder to impress next time. [She probably won't, but she will at least say she will.] And I would not turn down speaking more of Yharnam and its peculiarities, if you will share your own.

[That seems a good compromise. She does want to know why a four-armed doll can move about so freely. And why even four arms in the first place.]