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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
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.
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.
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.
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.
ᛗ
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:
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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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).
• 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.
ᛗOOC 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!
➤ 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!
no subject
( But the edge is clean, dulling. Bad news: for all these waters seem hospitably tame, to think they'd turn their riot on Kigai. He's lost his touch, or his nerves, or worse for the wear of Seishirou's patience, his power. For one of them to be a blunted knife in a foreign sheath is a woeful personal tragedy but a passable collective disadvantage. Two practitioners denied their bite turns a predatory group rapidly herbivorous.
It is so neat, so clean, so silent; they walk as if they've trapped themselves in a trance. As if the world's already unraveled the heart of its shape into slim pathways and choked-off arteries. One step after the next.
Magic licks his spine corrosive. Not now. Not yet. )
Sakurazuka. Seishirou? ( Barring the rare ice cream venture, he supposes he's been woefully remiss from after-work functions. ) Vicarious trauma is supposed to bring people together. I suppose by now we're quite intimate. ( But he laughs, reedy. ) Not Sei-chan, please. That's reserved. ( For the girl in her grave. ) And you? You have a preference?
no subject
[ He lifts his hand to his face, gently rubbing underneath one eye. A teasingly bright tone cozies itself around his words. However, as disquieting as disquiet is, Yuuto is unfortunately someone who is beloved by water (even if the water wants to be "just friends"). He goes with the flow because it's the least stressful thing to do.
So, he doesn't miss a stride in his step; each step having the same pep as the last. He does what he can not to show his emotions on his face, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel them. Because while he's attempting to do what is the "least stressful" thing to do, he still feels deep, unrelenting currents swirling and coursing beneath his friendly bright smile. ]
If you're willing to say we're intimate, we're intimate--ly friendly. [ A smile. ] I would never be that bold. But Seishirou, it is. [ His hand on his chest as he bows slightly, appreciating the honor. ]
Yuuto. But anything is fine with me. [ Hm -- and he can't think of any name that's reserved. ]
no subject
( Easy, breezy, beautiful: not a mascara brand exceedingly popular with Tokyo's teenage society, but Sakurazuka Seishirou's tone, hereby sharpened to a weapon whole. Does he mean it? Well, these pearly whites have never glistened brighter in a practised smile.
Listen here, dregs of Monou Fuuma's rearguard, prolific sybarite and soft-spoken modern-age heart-throb: there's still a world of water around and about and waiting, and Seishirou hears tell that it's ignoring its rightful master. What use is a water-lord without his empire?
What Seishirou hears is, drowning no longer discriminates. )
This isn't an illusion. ( A professional opinion. ) But you're correct that it lacks an epicenter as a dream. ( A pause, then: ) Even dream seers typically only draw another conscience into their realms. ( Anything else would threaten to challenge the delicate stitchwork of the world they summon for the purposes of the interaction. )
Unless we're interacting with something of significantly greater power than what we've experienced prior.
and then i went - i'm gonna find x/1999 anime 'cause feeling max nostalgic
[ He weakly holds his hands up as he laments. Not loud enough to be considered an actual whine or cry. The manner in which his companion smiles at him; he isn't quite sure how to take it. A casual threat? A casual joke? A barrier to make sure he doesn't cross?
The questions and "maybes" of what it could be would go on forever. If it was anyone else, he may have asked outright. Say something along the lines: "That smile makes me nervous. Should I worry about being eaten?" But while they may be bonded intimately in their current situation, Yuuto does not yet feel they're close enough to ask clarifications on uncertainties.
Best to keep as he does; one step in front of the other. ]
I thought the same. [ His head gives a little tilt as he smiles. ] But it must be a very powerful person to bring someone of your caliber here. [ He tips his chin down in a small bow. ] Should we exercise caution?
I feel a bit bad. They're telling us to go somewhere but I don't have any gift to give. I suppose I could offer a business card, but if they already know who I am, would that be considered rude? [ And he tosses a little laugh after his half-joke. ]
manga or bust!!!!!
( Although a piece of untarnished, choice, obscenely premium and genetically manicured fruit will certainly be expected next Kigai Yuuto turns up unnanounced on the porch of nightmarish hell. As for now, it's with a sheepishly pronounced downturn of his mouth that Seishirou must regrettably confirm: )
Your business cards are likely drenched, either way.
( That's no way to inject the optimal first impression, mid-calamity. A man of Kigai's... social expertise can do so much better as he navigates the painfully opaque waters of their plight. Trust in him, in fact, blooms pretty and ivy-strong and hearty in Seishirou's regard; he can't help himself, gently chiding: )
It's because you're so considerate that I don't hesitate to trouble you further. Of course, as Kamui's... ambassadors? ( Ha. Closer to petulantly conscripted footsoldiers. ) We have a duty to dwindle our opposition.
( 'Angels,' 'seals': Go board pieces, by any other name, and Seishirou's side only more proactively funerary. If they were to take a tally of which battalion has scythed more lives through open fault or crass negligance, as Tokyo's barriers London-bridge-downed — ...he rather suspects Earth's champions have more blood on their hands than they know how to bleach crisp-clean. )
That's only business. But some matters are personal. Some people are personal. ( And their extermination or safe-keeping, he needn't stress, is likewise private. ) Don't you agree?
lmao big nods
[ Yuuto only tilts his head at the idea the business cards are drenched. He reaches into his suit to dig out the metal case that he keeps them in. The outside it certainly quite wet but he pops the container open to glance at the cards. Corners are a little damp and it seeping in toward the print -- he frowns and his shoulders slump. ]
I'll have to have a word with the manufacturer, but I suppose I can't be too upset. This is an unprecedented situation. [ His chin dips down as he snaps the cover closed and tucks the cards back into his suit. ]
Still... Kamui's ambassadors... [ He lightly scratches the side of his face. ] Can we call me his secretary, instead? [ Indeed, a foot soldier though he may be, he is reminded of the distance put between them. They don't need to act together; they don't need to converse; they only need to show up at the Final Battle. Their boss was willing to do all the heavy lifting so they wouldn't need to do anything. And isn't that nice? Or not? It feels like not given his lonely status mentioned earlier.
He blinks and glances to his companion. Companion -- that's too close of a word. Associate? Superior? He feels he's getting further away from what word he should use. It's best just to be simple. So -- he glances to Seishirou. ]
I completely understand. I'm not one to blab about personal matters anyway. That's hardly the way to make and keep friends.
no subject
The journey to hell is loud with their bones rattling, and alive with white flame yonder, and grieving with the sea's spumed sweep, dancing, licking, enshrouding their ankles. Corpses clatter past them, the spider's web of glass underfoot spinning, thinning, like molten sugar crackling between sore teeth.
They'll fall in, if they don't make their haste. They'll fall in if they doubt, if they question, if they grieve. He wants to ask if Kigai Yuuto ever has; shakes his head instead. Two steps, a jump, and shoreline thinner than a bald man's hair stretch settles in proximity. )
Sure, friend. Sumeragi Subaru can't be touched. ( Over his shoulder, quaint. Kigai has lied better, to kinder. The words are simple, the habit is plain, the coin ample. Seishirou borrows without interest. ) I appreciate your discretion.
no subject
[ Yet again he claps his hand on the back of his neck. He tips his chin back as he lets out a soft chuckle. ]
Besides... [ No, no. That isn't his story to tell; he can't say that he doesn't blab about someone's personal matters then immediately blab about something personal. How would Seishirou ever come to trust him?
Or a better question: how could they ever get to a point where they could pretend they trust one another? ]
... I like him quite a bit. So you don't need to worry about me.
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( No, that's a duty of which friends, foes and passers-by acquit themselves with admirable persistence and constant devotion. He is liked, is Sumeragi Subaru, a scion of the occult and a gentleman of the ministries, the favored child of any man seeking relief from ghosts that the Sumeragi never take a moment to question — might perhaps have earned their right to haunt.
Kigai Yuuto moves too much, the restlessness of a moth circling flame, cognisant of danger but still too stupefied, too enamoured in motion to fight back against the blaze. The natural twitches of Seishirou's shoulders, the turn of his head — he might have sketched them long and loose before, but confines them to tight, severe gestures now, purely to make a point of his weaponized, gelid composure. )
I suppose, under our circumstances, we might as well flirt with maintaining this farce of an alliance.
( Given they're men only united by a penchant for world destruction, a change in professional interests might have commanded fresh allegiances. But why fix something that was never tested long enough to break. )
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He agrees that liking someone is never the problem. He likes the teenage comedian; he likes that firemaster. But he would kill them both without feeling much one way or the other. Although, he thinks he might say something along the lines of "ah, that's a shame," afterward.
Tugging on his earlobe, he wonders if that makes him a cold person or not. It may just make him lukewarm, at best. Yet again he smiles wide and friendly; he covers his mouth to muffle his chuckle at his own joke and Seishirou's honesty. ]
Come on now. If you say it out in the open, we can't pretend otherwise later. [ His eyebrows lift as his eyes shine brightly. ] Or I suppose we can pretend we've actually grown closer to form a real alliance.
Wouldn't that be nice?
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( Every flower must bear the bruises of rain, but Kigai Yuuto seems utterly wasted in the day's deluge. Let it swallow them both, sea salt and blinding dark, let the tenebrous quality of the rooms infuse them.
Near the bridge's end, so close to shore, a few steps yonder. He takes them with measured dispassion, cadence a study in surrender to the fate that waits silently, sullenly, in a beacon of light. So near now, he tips his head toward Kigai, half questioning, half willful, like a cat learning which way the wind blows to gain favor and clinch the next prized tuna rations. )
Forgive me. I'll make it up to you with coffee and sweets. ( From some nightmarish wasteland or the next. And then, as if he's only now remembered - ) When we next meet. It's better, I assume, to divide and conquer. Can you, fend for yourself, if the waters are no longer conversational?
( As for Sakurazuka Seishirou, where there's a blunt object, there's a way. )
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[ It is what he first says to make a joke. Something to test the waters. He thinks it is a shame they were not able to talk more when Seishirou was alive. (His eyes flicker away from his face to stare at the blood on the black jacket.)
Although, "a shame" may be putting too much weight on the matter. It is more that he didn't get a chance to fully understand his companion's mood and thoughts. Something like that is best learned in order to flow through conversation and encounters. Perhaps, he should blame Kamui for this? Since it was the teenager's idea to have them not be "buddy-buddy" with one another?
He chuckles -- at his snide joke and what Seishirou says. ]
This old man will do his best to not cause you trouble. As I said, I'm too delicate for others to worry too much about me. [ He hopes? ] And if I run into our enemies, I think I've made a good enough impression that we'll just casually walk together.
[ And he laughs yet again. ] So, it seems we'll part here for now, Seishirou. I appreciate you worrying about me.
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He feels snake-charmed, turned pliant and dutifully placated like a cold-blooded dragon, left in the sun. Perhaps this is he point of a water master, not to violate with the aggression of a tsunami, but compel like a gentle breeze. He owns, does Kigai Yuuto, rare charisma — and he knows all too well how to sharpen his weapon and when to dip it back in its sheath.
Today, Seishirou, hands entombing in his coat's pockets without blood sacrifice, has been duly mollified, like every dog served a decoy bone. Very well, master Kigai. The tricks and troubles of your art can be remembered.
When he next walks, glass detonating in spiderwe bs of fissures underfoot, he does not invite company. Every man for himself. )
Do take care.
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A little friendly but not too friendly. They are friends in name, but he feels if he draws his hand too close that he'll lose a finger. His shoulders drop as he watches the man go - it feels wise to watch him fade into the darkness, like specter. He closes his eyes and breathes out a laugh. Just a breath, not loud enough to make a sound.
His eyes open and he thinks it's a shame. If they had gotten to know each other better, he would've known how to charm him enough to let him flow naturally with the surroundings, with the world, to do his part but perhaps never enough.
Ah, dear -- he might actually have to put in the full eight hours of work.
He shifts his step back before returning on his walk -- and what a lonely walk it is. ]