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

[lupusxylem]

...Segyein.

[He repeats the name, as alien on his tongue as the species itself, and finds his brows furrowing.

Like the Plants? he thinks, though he's aware enough that the universe is vast. Infinite, theoretically. And Plants...they're unique. Alien to them, yes, but vital to their survival in a way he assumes Segyein must not be, for Ivan's world.

After all, the only time a Plant has threatened the human race has been. Well.

A special circumstance.]

How many are there?

[snaggletooth]

[ So he's interested enough to keep digging?

Ivan is, too, to be fair. Glancing momentarily back at Wolfwood, his eyes flicker ever so slightly wider with wonder. Oh, to be oblivious... to be able to ask such questions, though the number of worlds without segyein may be more staggering than he thought, given how many souls have reacted just like this man. ]

We're outnumbered by something like a billion of them for every one human being, very likely more. They're not just one species, the segyein. They're a collective that's colonized multiple star systems.

[ Placing his utensils down, he gestures 'round. ]

I don't see a single one here. [ Just a sea comprised of the human form. Some fantastical features arise, but he knows to disregard them. No one looks nearly as confused as a segyein would, were they brought to dine amongst what one might consider a petting zoo—or a sty. ]

Though, our host tonight may be like them in some way, since it seems to have singled out us humans as well.

[lupusxylem]

[The true number of Plants is unknown, though it's implied their species is substantial. They may not number so greatly specifically on their planet, but that doesn't mean they too don't number the cosmos potentially infinitely compared to the human race, which has diminished to near nothing in Wolfwood's time. Long gone are the days where humans counted in the billions. Now...Wolfwood doesn't know anymore. He's not sure anyone does, not exactly.

Ivan's words prompt him to glance over tensely at the room, at the rest of the "partygoers" as they partake in this feast, unwittingly or not. Suddenly, things are being thrown into a new, much darker perspective. He may very well be finding himself in another captive situation here, not unlike his situation back home...albeit potentially worse. At least there he had the luxury of pretending he had free will. Here, he feels like his head is going to explode if he so much as looks at someone funny.]

I sure as fuck hope not. You don't speak too highly of them.

[snaggletooth]

We're absolutely the entertainment for what's watching.

[ About that, he has no doubts.

And the reasons Sleep has for taking pleasure in any of this are likely no easier to comprehend than the minds of the segyein; what amuses a "god"?

He has the kidney all carved up now, arranged in a pretty fan across his very white plate. He has no intention of taking another bite just yet, pacing himself in a way he believes will allow him to stay sober. In the interim, he's interested in how his neighbor is holding up in his hook-beaked mask. Certainly, he can't partake like that. Ivan's guess is that he hasn't. ]

You haven't eaten yet, have you? Tell me, are you feeling... alright still, like you can keep that up for much longer?

[lupusxylem]

[When Wolfwood answers Ivan...it's a little too quick to be true.]

I'm fine.

[He lies, because he isn't fine. What Ivan has met with Wolfwood is a fine line between choosing to eat something before he actually snaps and devours the closest thing to him. He doesn't...like that feeling, so he's been battling over what to do for the last while.

It's maddening.

The question is, will Ivan call him out on it, or let him keep suffering in silence of his own volition?]

[snaggletooth]

[ Oh dear.

Not so much evidence to support that, is there? A thin claim, from a man who's put little distance between himself and what he'd like to avoid. If Wolfwood's was a face he'd seen before, he wouldn't have much sympathy to offer. Sleep's rules are clear once you've played her game a little. Rule one is that there is no sitting out. There's a penalty for that.

Well, a word of advice. ]

You have a choice in what you do at this moment.

[ Ivan side-eyes him while spooning up some of the juice that's drained from the meat. Taking a delicate sip of lightish pink liquid whets the hunger, if infinitesimally, without seeming to trigger the full effects. Mm, see? Moderation is possible.

For Ivan.

Wolfwood, ah, well, he's probably let himself go too long for something this small to do him much good. ]

Though if you wait too long, this lovely feast will make it for you.

[lupusxylem]

[Ivan is smart. Sharp. Wolfwood is learning that just from the few moments they've spoken, and the way he carefully picks his way around the plate. Even if that first bite was intense, the rest is a lot more calculated and carefully planned out.

He grimaces, because he knows Ivan is right. He just hates that he is.]

If I don't make the choice myself, it'll happen no matter what I do. That's what you're sayin'?

[He scoffs...but there's less bite behind it, this time.]

Guess you ain't gonna believe me if I say "I can handle it", either.

[snaggletooth]

No, no, I can see that you've been holding out a lot longer than others have already.

[ In truth, Ivan is only basing that on Wolfwood's behavior compared to others at the table.

When he tries to think of how long they've been here, things get fuzzy. He remembers speaking with a number of feast-goers at least briefly. He's sampled some of everything that's been set out for them like a good guest. He's even learned a bit about the art of the waltz. Taking all of that into account, the amount of time that should have passed is...

No, his mind slips off of the math like a too slick surface. ]

It's more that I believe willpower is finite. I wouldn't be surprised if we're kept here until everyone's has been broken.

[lupusxylem]

[It's true. He can keep holding out if he wants, but it's only going to work for so much longer before he caves and has to eat something, and at that point god knows what he'll end up eating, and in what company he'll be in when it's eaten. The thought of that stresses him the fuck out, and he can feel sweat bead on his forehead and the back of his neck as he thinks about it.

The memory he received from Ivan just then was unpleasant, and it makes him reluctant to partake in the same, for fear of what it might show. He wouldn't want someone he knows to see some of the things he's been through, much less a perfect stranger.

But that's the funny thing about this place. It's powerful and suggestive, trying to draw him in with the promise that the taste of the food on his tongue will be worth anything else that could possibly happen. Maybe that's why he finds himself eyeing Ivan's plate without even realizing he's doing it, the fork in his hand twitching against his fingers.]

What happens then? When we're all broken.

[snaggletooth]

[ The mask can't hide Wolfwood's subtle shaking. Meeting his eyes, Ivan pushes his plate slightly out of range of what would be the tines of the other man's fork as he considers the question.

Sleep has been in his head before, serenading him with her strange poetries. She seems like a violent thing. She also promises love with what may be no more awareness of what it means than the segyein. Shares their interest in spectacle, even. Though, as long as she spoils him like Unsha had, Ivan will not bother to be bothered.

Just to be living still under the same sky as Till; that's already the most indulgent thing he could ever have been offered. ]

You lose a little pride. Our host is satisfied, and the festivities conclude. [ He speaks with confidence despite having no confidence at all. ] That would be ideal, anyway. It isn't as though I know for sure.

[lupusxylem]

[Wolfwood is listening to Ivan- he swears he is- but the longer he sits there trying to ignore the food on the table, the harder it's getting to do just that. Ivan is trying to keep his plate out of his reach, for a blessing, but that doesn't mean there isn't plenty of other dishes all around him. Tempting...taunting.

He can feel his mouth watering. Is he okay with losing a little pride? Not usually...he doesn't know. Maybe. Anything to quell this awful, gnawing hunger. He just...]

Yeah. ...yeah...

[He's not sure he even knows what he's saying right now, and he has half a mind to just jump up from the table and leave so he isn't tempted to devour everything in sight, but he has at least the self control not to do that.

But Wolfwood is, unfortunately, only human. And his self-control can only be pushed to a certain limit. Until, eventually...

He doesn't go for Ivan's plate, but that just means there won't be time for Ivan to react. Another plate nearby, just far enough he has to sit up and out of his feet to stab at it with his fork, but close enough he can spear an entire deviled kidney on his fork, bringing it swiftly to his mouth to tear into like a starved animal. There's no careful cutting or usage of utensils here: he would have just grabbed it with his hands if he could.

It means Ivan is assaulted with a memory pretty much immediately that Wolfwood can't control. A young boy with tousled black hair and dark skin, no older than nine or ten, is crouched holding a little blue chick in his hands when a group of masked men loom in the distance, met by the caretaker of the orphanage. They wordlessly hold up a piece of paper with some sort of symbol etched on the front, and they point out towards the rest of the building.

Wolfwood had been Chosen. It's clear these people- these men, or whoever they are- have come for him for what must be a nefarious reason, yet the other children and even his caretakers wish him well, even congratulate him as he goes. He was Chosen. They Chose him.

Surely, that can only mean good things, as their happy faces blur. He never saw them again.]

cw: hits close to historical slavery

[snaggletooth]

[ Some of the bidders at the black market wore masks like that. Because none of it was legal, of course.

...is this illegal, too?

The way the men talk amongst themselves, combined with innate knowledge from Wolfwood that their one purpose in coming is to collect him, ignites Ivan's own core memory. If they were Segyein, he could imagine exactly what they might be saying. They're clearly human beings, same as the child they discuss. Maybe... that doesn't matter?

Maybe some of the things he's been hearing about human nature are true. ]

Were you sold off?

[ Asked point blank, not a beat missed while he leans over to hand Wolfwood a cloth napkin to clean himself up with. ]

I've learned some things lately about my human lineage. Apparently, powerful humans would seek to control the weakest ones. Sometimes they'd even claim ownership of them, just like Segyein.

[ Stop him if any of this is incorrect. ]

It didn't matter that they were the same species.

cw: probably the rest of this thread honestly it doesn't get much better from here-

[lupusxylem]

[Probably one of the worse memories Wolfwood's brain could have coughed up. Not for the content, necessarily...it's moreso because it invites questions he really doesn't want to answer, if the way his expression tightens is anything to go by. Part of him isn't surprised Ivan asks, though another part is a little shocked by the boldness to come right out and say it. He's got balls, he'll give him that.

He ends up taking the napkin after a pause, still chewing even though he's practically swallowed the kidneys whole. It isn't enough to satisfy, but it satiates that overwhelming hunger...for a time. He knows he'll have to go back to it, or something else at this table, soon enough.]

...not quite.

[Ivan is smart, and Wolfwood knows he'll just find some other way to pick and probe if he doesn't just come out with it...and he'd rather explain himself before the memory is forced out in some other, more horrifying way.]

Those people owned my orphanage. [Own. They're still very much in operation, just not nabbing more kids so long as Wolfwood is alive. With...a few notable exceptions, as Wolfwood ended up learning the hard way.] They could come have their pick of us whenever they wanted.

...so, yeah. You ain't wrong, what you said. About humans.

[snaggletooth]

[ Ivan's expression fluctuates almost imperceptibly, like the temperature in a room falling just one degree colder. Even if he already knew how vicious humans can be when cornered, he would have preferred to live without this information a little longer: that they're just as bad as segyein with freedom at their fingertips. ]

...that's disappointing.

[ He doesn't exactly plan on probing Wolfwood for more. He thinks he already knows all there is to know about such a situation. Quietly he goes about plucking things from the cornucopic centerpiece, then arranging it to suit the piece of essentially-abstract art his plate has become. He doesn't turn to Wolfwood again until he has a silvery starpit fruit in his hand, pausing in the middle of figuring out where to put it. ]

Next time, try to point yourself toward the fruit. The reactions I've seen seem less visceral.

[lupusxylem]

[Disappointing...yeah. Wolfwood would agree. The world, humans...it's all cruel. There's good within it, for sure...but you find less and less of it around, these days.

He doesn't say anything more, at least not yet. His eyes catch on the fruit Ivan is holding, and he feels himself literal salivate at the sight. He can't truly trust it- he has no idea what emotion or memory it will elicit, after all- but he doesn't really have a choice. Fortunately, he doesn't end up literally stealing the fruit from Ivan's hand, but instead grabs another that's not far from the first he picked up.

And he just...takes a bite out of it whole, pretty much in the same ravenous way he'd eaten the meat before.

A memory shimmers to life between them, one only Ivan can see. It's...no, not a memory. It's a vision. It doesn't exist. It's never...existed, really...but it's an idea Wolfwood mourns, deep in his heart. Of growing up normally, in the orphanage. Of maybe one day working alongside his caretakers if he'd never been adopted, to help raise the other children there. Very pointedly, there's a silver haired young man with tousled hair with him, clearly a lot more soft-spoken and reserved, but happy. Right along Wolfwood's side, just as he'd always imagined he would be.

In a better world.]

[snaggletooth]

[ Though Wolfwood may not grab the very fruit he's holding, Ivan is left blinking, a little surprised. He let it get pretty bad, huh? If he's not stopping after the first dish, the first old wound reopened...

What he's shown this time isn't something that hurts, though.

It paints a picture of peace he can very much relate to yearning for. Anxiously, it makes him glance across the banquet at his heart's own silver-haired ruler, maybe to verify that he's really there and not just a vision conjured by hopelessness and a fruit. ]

May I ask you to tell me a little about yourself? Not to be nosy—I just think I might have more in common with you than I do with all these others. They weren't owned.

[ An attempt is made to sound sincere. ]

[lupusxylem]

[For what it's worth, the silver-haired young man in Wolfwood's memory is as different as he is similar, to Till. His expression is much softer, eyes less angry...it's a version of him- of Livio- that could have been, had they both not had their lives ruined by the Eye.

At least now he's eating a little more slowly...a little less. Frantic, as it were, as he glances sidelong at Ivan, trying not to be embarrassed by his clear lack of control over himself right now.]

There ain't a whole lot to tell that you ain't already seen. I never knew my parents, and I grew up in that orphanage.

[For...a short few years of his early life, anyway. And then...

Wolfwood breathes a reluctant sigh. He would never tell someone this just outright, but given how freely his memories are being given up to Ivan right now, he's getting to a point where he thinks it doesn't matter. He's just going to see it all anyway, he doesn't have a say in that.]

The...people who took me- [Let's just say they're people, and not a fanatic cult for now.] -trained me to be an assassin. I never would've done it if they didn't really give me another choice. If I didn't do it, the other kids would be in danger...so.

[snaggletooth]

[ Assassinate.

A verb, meaning to commit murder. For money, or sometimes for a cause. Always premeditated. Ivan nods, because the idea isn't that strange of one, even within the small, small world he knew. That Wolfwood sighs is important. It means he didn't like his duty. It means any kind of judgment would be wasted on him. ]

There were humans whose purpose it was to handle the killing of other humans.

[ Called guards, but what exactly did they safeguard? The rules—? Maybe the Segyein used that word so their little humans wouldn't be scared to die on stage. Maybe the viewers at home had a different name for them. ]

I never had the opportunity to speak to one, but something like that is what I always assumed: that they'd be punished somehow if they didn't do as they were told.

[ Starved for a while, or shot instead. ]

[lupusxylem]

It's...complicated. But yeah.

[For Wolfwood, a lot of his targets were actually people who defected from the cult. Anyone who tried to escape knew too much...and they couldn't be allowed to live. That, in that way, was exactly as Ivan is describing it.]

Wieldin' a gun is one of the things I'm really good at. Guess it's a good thing that I can use that to protect myself here, when shit inevitably goes tits up.

[snaggletooth]

[ An applicable skill for sure where they'll all soon be headed, unlike singing. Threading his fingers together, Ivan sets his chin neatly on top of them. ]

You'll have to find one first — It's a fight for resources on the other side.

[lupusxylem]

Somehow, that don't surprise me.

[He's well used to that sort of thing, back home. The world is...not doing well, on No Man's. Only the richest and most wealthy of them who can afford to have the best Plants and keep them maintained are doing decently, and he wouldn't even call that "thriving" necessarily. They're just...existing without the same amount of struggle.]

How bad are we talkin'? Like apocalyptic levels, or what?

[snaggletooth]

The planet's civilization fell, and nature is in the process of consuming what's left of it. You'll need to get good at catching the animals. Their meat won't make you sick, despite appearances.

[ They didn't look strange to him, with as many species from as many star systems as he's stood next to for photographs, but others seemed to react to them with disgust. Because of that the warning is warranted, he decides.

Next, his eyes shift to the grand set of wings draped over the back of Wolfwood's seat. ]

It looks like you won't be completely helpless.