JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

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

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

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

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

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS:

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

OFFERING EFFECTS:

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

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You Taste Like New Flesh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table awaits.

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS:

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

OFFERING EFFECTS:

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

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

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

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

NOTES

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

TOKEN EFFECTS

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

OFFERING EFFECTS

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

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I am not worthy

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

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

"I am not worthy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS

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

OFFERING EFFECTS

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

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OOC NOTES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Comments

[deltastrike]

[Theseus could see through appearances and trust her from the fact that she stood in opposition to this new foe. Just like how Asterius' noble character speaks for itself from how his valor shines in battle, Theseus will judge his ally from actions, including how she fights.

From her forceful attempts to sever the tentacles, he can see tenacity, but also discipline to gain such strength. But other than that gained observation, it's to no avail. Theseus dives in to cover Maria so she isn't countered for her mistake. ]

Don't strike in vain! We must work to divert it.

[In a mixed blessing, they are proving to be effective bait. The monster has stayed honed on them, tentacles and main mass both. ]

[whomthebelltolls]

[She grunts as he comes in, and partially clips her, sending her reeling to the side. She throws her hands out to save herself, and finds the fall not nearly so long or uncomfortable as she had anticipated. In fact, her shoulders and arms catch her very easily, now that they're longer, her hands shifting into paws. The Beastly transformation is getting worse the longer they fight, but she doesn't have the time for an existential crisis right now. Not when it's coming for them. She bounds away, and finds it more comfortable than she likes to admit to leap on all fours. Almost immediately, she stands back up to face the creature again.]

Divert it to where? Back to the sea? [It's hard to talk around her huge fangs now, hard to bark it out between lips that aren't made to form words well.]

[deltastrike]

Who said anything about the sea?

[Nothing about this brings to mind any manner of aquatic species to him. Not the
alarmingly fast regeneration, nor the induced madness in its presence which brings out corruptions of the body as well as the mind. Theseus is sure that he, too, is hairier than he started this fight. Though he might connect the dots if pointed out the tentacles, rather than argue it Theseus moves on.]

It's a win if it's anywhere but where there's still people! ["still" because more rooms of the palace are emptying out. Some people have managed to flee, but an uneasy amount is currently making up the carnage on the walls and floors.]

[whomthebelltolls]

The sea we came in on! [She growls out, low and inhuman from the back of her throat. She doesn't know if it'll work, or even if it's accessible, but maybe if they work backward they can find something. It is a dream, she's deduced thus far, so it's just as likely the sea has been forgotten beyond the confines of the orgy rooms and the banquet hall, but if it hasn't...

Well, it's something. She bounds around past him, claws biting into the wall as she tries to move back toward... where she at least thinks the entrance had been, in the chaos.

And nearly slips on blood in the process. Right. She has to remember how slick it is.]

[deltastrike]

Ah! Far from the most agreeable destination. But that'll do for our company here.

[Theseus hadn't been keen to revisit that place, having nearly drowned multiple times. But if it's their only shot at respite from this assault, then there's no question. It's not a choice that anyone would like to make, especially when there's still no answer to the question of their continued survival. But it's the kind that Theseus is prepared to bear.

Theseus looks behind and watches her nearly fall. He has no name to call out, they hardly had time to swap introductions, but he can't just say nothing.] I'm with you!

[whomthebelltolls]

Let us go! [She calls back, and she stabds upright, running, but it feels strange - her arms feel too long, knuckles like they want to drag on the ground, so she leans forward, and finds purchase on all fours, and is surprised when the digitigrade legs propel her forward with a burst of speed.

Then she's back up on her feet because she feels like if she runs that way too long, her legs will tangle with each other, and she stumbles a little again.

She doesn't feel like a Beast. Her mind feels clear, focused - more lucid than she had in the memory, even. There's a lust for... blood, and to take apart the creature behind her. But it's not so all-consuming she can't focus on running the opposite direction.

So she takes the lead, sometimes running on two feet, sometimes on all fours, all of it through seemingly endless halls. Had they been this long before?]

... Are we going the right way?

[Suddenly, she's unsure.]

[deltastrike]

Treat this knowledge in anyway you deem fit, but some would envy your situation. I would be having a better time of it with if I had your limbs.

[Until now Theseus had been content with mutual polite lack of acknowledgement toward their current bodily changes, but it's both a gripe as well as an attempt at a reassuring compliment. Theseus can just manage to keep up the lethal marathon with the stamina of a soldier who previously marched alongside their own army, but his transformation did not give him longer legs.

The palace is now their prison, its scale now feeling oppressive instead of opulent. The need to stay running makes it impossible to identify any milestones out of the endless procession of rooms they pass by.] If we stay close enough to the same direction, we should be guaranteed to reach the outside! [Eventually.]

[whomthebelltolls]

[It's unfortunate that the large creature also does not seem to have any kind of stamina, either. Maria feels too much like she's going to trip and fall if she's given the chance, and even the bursts of speed she's afforded by running on all fours have their limits. If she wasn't so fit from being a Hunter, she, too, likely would have already fallen.

The doors turn into the same vision over and over and over again. If not for the occasional inside-out body, or blood spatter, Maria would wonder if they were simply running in a circle.

Still-] Tis... a dream... there's no guarantee of an end...

[But she's running low on stamina, herself. The walk over the water, the transformation, the stress of the memory - all of it is taking its toll upon her and her body.

And still, she tries to run. It's not the first time she's had to reach beyond her own capabilities to push forward, but it might well be the last. And-]

What if we die? ... Do... we awaken?

[deltastrike]

[Theseus would be the one with a better idea. This is not his first time in a such a dream, one which Sleep has marked claimed to and all its dwellers to be toyed by Her. But if there's any habit he's picked up recently, it's to never assume. It hurts his pride to admit it, but these experiences have made him more resigned to such wounds if not inured to them. ]

I do not know whence you made your bed, allied stranger, but it will not be there when you do.

[Theseus cannot remember the last time he recalled the memory of Elysium or his compatriots. They were cast out from even his dreams. ]

[whomthebelltolls]

[Well that's not ominous. If they weren't running for their lives, she'd stop to question him about that. Or... she might just speak freely about the fact she doesn't have a bed to lie in, she's dead and she should either be cold in her own grave, or trapped again beneath Kos' thumb.

That can come later. For now, they have a massive, labyrinthine palace to navigate, and in the rush, she doesn't know how much longer she can keep this up.]

Then we... should not die, I think...

[Easier said than done. She can't even smell the ocean from here anymore.] Gods... where is this entrance?

[She cranes her head to look back at him, at the monster that even still catches up to them.] Unless... you want to stand and fight?

[Might be less exhausting than this endless chase.]

[deltastrike]

[Theseus had not intended to set out on a deathmarch when they set out on their hastily formulated plan. But the longer this goes on, the more it sets in that they are on course for just that. It does not matter which way they turn or what hall they go down, it's all the same. An illusion of a difference, with just as much of a change in endings.

He nods when Maria turns to him, his decision resolute and undeniable.] I do not know if this is surrender. But if we are to die, it shan't be while running.

[whomthebelltolls]

I agree. Then let us try to make this mean something!

[One of the rare times she actually won't run - but that's because this thing here is not one of her myriad internal issues. It is, in fact, an external problem that can be dealt with, and that's a lot easier to stand and fight.

She plants a forepaw down, and uses it to pivot into a turn, trying to carry her momentum the other direction toward the creature. If nothing else, she can sate this incessant desire to try to devour the creature. Either it is eaten, or she is... law of nature. Might as well go for it.

She doesn't know where the snarl she gives comes from, but it feels like it's deep in her chest, and leaps out from beneath her long, long fangs into the kind of bark that usually makes people weak in the knees.]