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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!
yoshiki | the summer hikaru died | new!
❝ prologue. recurring dream ❞
lately, when yoshiki dreams, it is with the feeling that comes with twilight in summer. relief for the end of the day. dread of time passing, of some encroaching thing. yet when the silence slides off his skin and the oily starlit tide rolls in, hikaru jumps into the glimmering wave, splashing yoshiki. the wrongness of it all lingers on the fringes. it is unimportant. usually, the tide remains out of yoshiki's reach, just like hikaru, but tonight it swallows him whole. he realises only when the vision of hikaru, smiling and pink-cheeked with excitement and summer heat, blurs out of his vision.
the whisper sluicing him as the black tide is much like the terrifying strangeness of something unknowable and formless racing up his arm. what's terrifying here is the lack of terror, the burgeoning reverence in his chest. the sense of belonging. of peace. of being known in every way, and accepted. it jolts him awake.
i. sink down
❝ belief in ??? offering effect: yearning. ❞
ii. you taste like…
stranger than walking on water under an unlit sky is the opulent palace yoshiki is seated in. in the countryside, he thought dressing up to be a waste; now, with this mask and a black monstuki he doesn't remember changing into, fear sluices down his neck like the earlier tide. terror settles in his throat, replacing the sharp taste of brine as he scans the long table, the thrumming blossoms and hovering flames, the memorialised Guardians. the silent observer. his thoughts race, what is he meant to do here? should he leave? but there is food, there is drink, there are people partaking.
and, honestly, he's hungry.
❝ roasted lamb in mint sauce. ❞
❝ marigold brandy. ❞
(( ooc: as an offering, his awakened desire will be obsessive attachment. feel free to opt in or out of it, whether as a witness or the subject. open to all food effects so feel free to tag-in with them! consequently, characters are also welcome to witness him experiencing the effects of gluttony through nosebleeds, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, and nectar dripping from his mouth while speaking or eating. ))
iii. i am not worthy
❝ offering: merrow / leshy / swarmling. ❞
(( ooc: yoshiki will be devoured by The Abomination. immediately before this, he will be attempting to feed Vessels to it. feel free to tag into this just to toss him around or anything that can be done in great peril! ))
iv. wildcard
feel free to modify prompts to fit your desires or reach out via pm for something personalised!
yoshiki is just A GuyTM. he couldn't be more normal save for his nonexistent sanity stat. feel free to treat him like a chew toy. even (especially) in the third prompt. yeah. as i'm toying with offering ideas, you can request any you'd like to play against in any prompt, even one i haven't listed!
also feel free to opt out of spoilers, though i will be writing around them to the best of my abilities. his canon point is chapter 30 of the manga / after episode 7 of the anime. thank you for writing with me in advance ♡
II. roasted lamb in mint sauce
He's scooping up a bite of honey scouse when he catches movement from the corner of his eye. Instinctively, his free hand snaps out grabbing at the intruding hand reaching across his plate.]
Man, don't be rude. You could've just asked. As if I haven't noticed you staring at it.
[Yeah, he's been noticing his guy looking his way for a bit now, but it's clearly just for the roasted lamb on his plate. He's been devouring it quicker then most people could get a bite, causing Yuji to turn his plate so that the lamb is as far from the guy as possible.
But he hadn't been expecting this level of desperation. There is still plenty for him to eat while his table partner seems more limited. Feeling sympathetic, Yuji turns his plate back around, placing the lamb and mint sauce within reach.]
Go ahead, don't be shy now.
oh i Love this
Uh—I, uh...
( what did he think? what can he say now? he doesn't try to wrench out of the hold, though his fingers twitch, hand shaking more as he resists the craving set in him. )
Sorry, I— ( I'm not usually like this doesn't come out. what would it mean after the fact? what does come out is an unstoppable, ) I wasn't thinking. I don't know why I'm so hungry.
( but to be offered the food, for the plate to be turned to him; it's embarrassing that it's such a relief. were he in his right mind, he'd be ashamed enough to make himself sparse. instead, he stammers out his gratitude, accepts as if he'd never been stopped at all. this time, while rolling the meat in the mint, he addresses the other. his shame still tightens his throat but it's the least he can do. )
You're real nice. Do you, uh, ( a pause for a bite—now he despises that he can't control himself. it would disturb his as much as the oily black spreading from his irises into the whites of his sclera as he swallows, were he aware of it, ) I can grab something... More of that stew for you, to make it even?
no subject
He releases Yoshiki's wrist gently, hoping that will help calm him down. He didn't think he had been teasing him too hard, still he tries to gentle his tone a bit when he next responds.]
Don't worry about it. No harm done.
[Remembering the spoon in his other hand, with a hearty scoop of stew ready to eat, he eagerly shoves it in his mouth.]
Ahhh...this is probably one of the best meals I've ever had. Definitely better then anything I've eaten recently.
[Scavenged non-perishables from half-looted shops don't really have the same flavor.]
That's okay. I'm still working on this plate of food. Maybe on my next round.
no subject
but the other boy seems content. not offended. he settles, idly rubbing the fork in hand instead of his wrist. )
The best, d'you like this kind of thing?
( maybe it's because he's not familiar with this sort of banquet, but the meat and fruit—the seemingly endless amount of food, dream or otherwise—feels odd. even if he's not picky, there's too much sweetness, and whatever's not sweet tastes too much like… hm. then again, maybe this guy likes that sweetness?
though the last bit makes him curious. where yoshiki would trip over himself if offered another serving (he did), it seems like… )
Eating's not making you feel... weird?
no subject
[The meal laid before them is extremely Western. But in a very high class medieval way. The amount of ingredients he can identify on sight is very little. But at the same time...this is a dream. What would it hurt to try some new dishes? And once he started he couldn't consider stopping. He's just so hungry.]
Weird? What do you mean?
[He stills, his spoon hovering in front of his mouth. It takes actual restraint not to just shove it into his mouth. But something about the boy's words makes him stop. Something that has been itching at the back of his mind, begging for notice.]
no subject
That reminds me of someone. M'glad it's tasty, imagine if we couldn't stop eating and it tasted like crap.
( and that's part of what he means. he fixes that hovering spoon with a pointed look then stabs his fork into a new cut of meat, lifts it just the same. )
Y'feel it, right? Like you're only getting hungrier? And... wanting something, like...
( it's hard to put the craving into words, especially because he doesn't know it's for the food and something as abstract as a memory, but maybe he can demonstrate it. he offers his fork. )
Trade with me? Just a couple bites, I think it'll make sense this way.
no subject
This doesn't feel...normal. Not the hunger. Or the strange flashes of images he's seen in his head. Or the brief yet strong pulls of emotion that didn't feel like his own.]
Yeah...I'm feeling it. How did I not notice until now?
[He doesn't expect to receive an answer. Mostly he just feels a little silly about how clueless he's been. Yuji eyes the offered fork with a little trepidation before shrugging and leaning over to take the bite off the fork. While Yoshiki's still holding it. He chews the meat carefully, bracing himself for...something. He doesn't even know what. The mint sauce burns a bit as he swallows.]
I don't feel anything yet. Aside from hungry. Maybe it takes some time to kick in.
no subject
...I'm feelin' it.
( —a craving, almost like the pull to keep eating but shifted to the boy himself. yoshiki's mind goes frantic, jaw tight with restraint, confusion, as he scans yuji from head to hands to head again. what does this craving want? it's not attention nor proximity, not even his food… wait.
yoshiki eats another bite of lamb then, with a rushed apology, he takes the uneaten bite of yuji's stew too, grimacing as he swallows. it reminds him of forcing down too-sweet chocolate on valentine's and, perhaps, that is the next intrusive vision. )
How about now? ( he drops his fork and tucks his hands under his legs. ) Anything other than hungry?
marigold brandy ☀️
You're bleeding. [ Nymnar's voice was calm and level, only slightly less monotone than his pale appearance, which was further washed out by the black suit he wore. ] I doubt there are any storerooms: this is a dream, after all. Dreams have no need for logic.
[ It wasn't the whole story. It was a dream, that much was true, but with very real consequences. He still wasn't sure if these dreams or the waking world were better ]
(ooc - aaaaaaaaaah i'm so excited to see a yoshiki and (by extension in ur comments) a hikaru here!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! my friend suggested we watch this when i visited her and i was HOOKED!!! i'm all caught up on the anime so talk about whatever you want from there :3 also feel free to do whatever you want around or to nymmy, we're here to have fun and get more traumatized. lmk if i need to change anything - pm here or discord/plurk @ coopyey)
beautiful and Perfect
he's tempted to drink again, just to chase it away. )
That's true. Never had a dream like this...
( sinking into happiness is easier than trying to make sense of it, but… if there was nothing to worry about, why would someone as put together as the person before him offer this kindness? yoshiki keeps the handkerchief held in place, less to catch his blood and more to cover what he can of his face. dream or not, troubling someone for a nosebleed is embarrassing. )
Does bleeding matter in a—in this dream? Not that I'm not grateful. ( nor that he doesn't care about the bleeding. he clasps the handkerchief closer, so what comes next is a muffled, ) Thank you again...
(( ooc: claps so so excitedly i really hope you have fun with him (and his dreamTM boy)!!!!!!! i'm THRILLED to hear that, it's truly so good... rubs my paws together evilly. let's put nymmy and yoshiki through sleep's banquet... together. i Love fun and trauma—and feel free to do the same with yoshiki! points to subject line, you're golden! but also keeps your contact close. i will appear to brew Horrors depending on how things go for them! ))
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[ There was a certain pleasure that came from dampening the mood of the teenager. While it was true that Nymnar didn't specify where the other was bleeding, it was interesting that he had defaulted to looking down at his arms. There was a flicker of curiosity: surely there was some sort of story there, but it ultimately didn't matter. ]
Does the bleeding matter? [ A small shrug. ] Likely not, but you clearly seem to think it does. [ He was poking fun, but it was delivered with all the enthusiasm of someone's least favorite math lecturer. He waved off the final thanks with a dismissive motion. ]
The dreams this place gives are rather... Unique. [ The last dream he had been in had ended rather terribly, but there was no way to know if this would wind up the same. He hoped this one did not end similarly. His finger tapped his own glass of the brandy, though it was clear he had not taken a drink of it himself. ] I doubt it will do much to enhance the flavor of your drink.
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( yoshiki opens his mouth to—protest? agree? he's not sure, and so settles for pursing his lips with a brief sound. petulant, if one listened closely enough. it's hard to shake fear, especially in a dream, but there is more leeway for speaking his mind. )
If I bled out and died, I might wake up... ( as though waking is an unhappy possibility. perhaps when his happiest memories are liquid in an easily refilled glass, it is.
so why he the only one drinking? )
Unique? ( dreams are already plenty weird… he considers the handkerchief, the lack of shock over his bleeding. he's missing something.
however, with his attention returned to the brandy, yoshiki can no longer resist drinking again—even when more blood runs from his nose and, ah. that's it. that's why he's bleeding? but the reward is so sweet: running from breaking waves in pale sunlight, ice cream on a beach, a riptide of affection. the bleeding might not matter but the memory does. it brings happiness like a gunshot.
he lifts the handkerchief back to his face, soaks up the new blood.
his voice is light when he says, ) S'long as it's not sweet, I don't mind. How many dreams has this place given you?
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If you managed to die from a nosebleed I fear I may be impressed. [ Another flat, sardonic response before he can smell the salt in the air and sand between toes, the taste of ice cream on his tongue. It's happiness, yes, and a life that Nymnar would never have except for through these memories shared. That didn't seem to bother him, though - not this time. Not until later. He felt restless, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.
He didn't know what this feeling was inside of his chest, this lightness blooming. There was a tickle in the back of his throat, his skin crawling in a way that was... Pleasant? He can feel the corners of his mouth want to turn up into a smile, but he restrains himself. ]
Dreams? [ He considers it, looking up at Yoshiki in thought. ] It has... Given promises. [ It's also given nightmares, but he almost feels compelled not to share that, not to drag the mood down. ] There are... Certain kinds of opportunities here that I think may count. I would not know how to enumerate freedom.
[ Nymnar absentmindedly takes a sip of the brandy. The joy that bubbles up in his chest is childish: a lonely boy making a new friend, having something new to play with. He'd just raised a rat skeleton his shadow had found as a thrall, and now the three (boy, rat, and shadow) were playing together in a graveyard. For the first time since he was a kid, Nymnar found himself smiling. ]
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( because the response is flat, it makes yoshiki laugh, softly but not to himself. )
Wouldn't be surprised if I could... but I hope I'll disappoint you on that.
( it's mostly a joke, though once it's out he can't tell which part he doesn't mean. in the afterglow of his memory, it's unimportant. yoshiki instead notes his companion's shifting, wondering at the similar shift from dreams to promises, opportunities, )
Freedom? That... ( sounds like everything yoshiki yearns for when he thinks of a place beyond kubitachi. the city, a place he can breathe, somewhere he belongs. considering it like that, he thinks he might understand…
then it comes: a sensation that brings his free hand to his chest, handkerchief clenched in surprise. not because of the three in the graveyard but for experiencing the memory at all. so this is the full extent of the drink, bringing forth memories and sharing them? yoshiki's surprise dampens with embarrassment for his gluttony, yet his mouth quirks while he's drawing his connections. the memory, the drink, nymnar's smile. still, he cannot place why the happiness—the ache to speak, to move, all of it—is stronger now. )
Sounds like I shouldn't pry— ( though that's precisely what he wants to continue doing, more so now. childish joy lingers in his chest, a loneliness unlike his own mingling with it. a skeleton, a shadow, and a boy… ) —but... is it... what you thought it'd be? Are you happy?
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No. [ It was short. Flat. Bitterness tinged the edges of it as his pale gaze fell down to the golden sunshine in the glass. He swirled it and did his best to hide the reproach that wanted to take over his expression. The bitter truth was that the memory that Yoshiki got was likely the only good, happy memory that Nymnar had. Perhaps there were others when he was even younger, but he sure didn't remember them. ]
It is not what I thought it would be. And this place likes to deceive. [ After careful consideration, he set his glass down. ] I wished to go back home, and wound up here instead. [ He paused, the angles of his brow softening a little. ] It is not all bad, though. There are some people here who are... Pleasant.
[ He thinks momentarily about the way that his prison had been made what could almost be considered a home. The way he'd been treated well, and he might consider his warden the closest thing to a friend he'd known prior, and then he thought of to here. Of the people he'd interacted with, the connections made. ] Places can be surprising, even if they are not what you had expected or hoped for.
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yet the slight bitterness to the sound over the warm brandy leaves yoshiki wondering. and there is a lot to wonder about: the wish, the softening expression that yoshiki perceives as for the people mentioned, the strange gluttony settling with this and the earlier memory. )
Surprising, huh?
( yoshiki understands, somewhat. the way places can give people and those people can soften even the most unbearable experiences. it makes him think of his family, of hikaru and the thing that's replaced him. the proper manner he'd been maintaining slips, focus shifting to the unexpected that had walked into his own life. the way the rest of his life is becoming harder to picture without it, even though it was and is not what he'd hoped for. )
Sounds like ya found something... ( something good, something adjacent to the wish—
yoshiki isn't sure which he meant to say, if either even apply, but nymnar set the drink down while yoshiki continues clutching his glass. all these strange things yet he still hasn't moved forward. )
So does that mean... Y'found people who make this place okay despite it all?