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

[hongtian]

I suppose it was.

[ He doesn't let the memory go, and Ruhong supposes she can't blame him. Rebato was quite the sight when she first saw him, too, and he only continued to make himself more of one. Ruhong sighs and relents, the alcohol and the atmosphere loosening both her tongue and her inhibitions—naturally enough, of course, when one is drinking in the first place, but even more so when that drink is enhanced with something just a little bit more magical. ]

A former companion: a bard by the name of Rebato. Ridiculous enough on a daily basis, as most bards are, but just as loyal despite it.

[ He saved my life, is what she doesn't say. He bargained part of his soul to bring hers back, and now she doesn't know whether she'll be able to uphold her promise to repay him. ]

He quite enjoyed making music, deals, and... pleasure.

[ Her voice is dry. ]

[faa]

[ Freddie isn't sure exactly what a bard is, but as with the use of the word warforged and the subsequent display of something robotic, a body made of segmented metal, he gets a general idea of something jesterlike and bacchanalian. The sort of company that would be fun to keep, which the exasperated fondness in Ruhong's voice corroborates.

Pleasure could mean drinking, partying, just having a good time like they are now—but Freddie gets the sense that, in addition to including the above, it probably also lends a different meaning to the word companion, something closer to consort. Or maybe more than a living accessory to a (he presumes, based on how she carries herself, her innate confidence) noblewoman, maybe something closer, more equitable. ]

Sounds like he would have been at home here. Tonight, at least. A friend of yours?

[ It's a probing question, but blunted at its edge, not enough to pierce through to the truth if she doesn't want it to: are you involved with someone?

Not that it would stop him from dancing with her—just asking again when the song comes to a close, which he is contemplating—but it feels good to know. He has no interest in overstepping a boundary he wasn't aware of, and, in fairness, there's a hell of a lot she doesn't know about who he was before this place.

Who he is. ]

[hongtian]

[ Were Ruhong privy to Freddie's thoughts in that moment, she would certainly agree that "jester and bacchanalian" were apt descriptions of Rebato. So too, most likely, would Rebato himself.

The rest of his guesses would be a different story. She fails to pick up on the second question hidden within the first, which is probably for the best; had she understood the probe into her relationship status, no amount of alcohol would have prevented Ruhong's walls from slamming back into place. ]

A friend.

[ She says it quietly. Rebato may not be her companion, but he very well may have been her first friend. ]

We worked together as mercenaries, for a year or so. Saved the city more than once: cults, demons, extraplanar threats. It's a bit of a shit city, Elthriel.

[ There is humor in that. ]

He uses the rhythms of his music to work dunamantic spells, mostly. But yes, were he here we'd not have to worry about the lack of music, whether we wished to have some or not. [ She smiles. ] He once arrived at a noble's party and immediately ousted the first chair violin from their position. He hadn't been invited.

[ It's easy to share about Rebato: safe, for he has little to hide, and only minimally painful. ]

[faa]

Cults and extraplanar threats. God, just like Newark.

[ Freddie knows Ruhong won’t catch the reference, but he has to make the joke anyway once it comes to him, for his own amusement—and he is grinning at it, bright, eyes twinkling with good humor. A moment later, Freddie’s awareness of his audience wins out and he adds— ]

A city near here. It was like the Manhattan we know now but before everything that happened with Hosts and Sleep. It was just already like that.

[ His tone is wry, clearly hyperbole (but not much, if you ask him as a pilot in the tri-state area). As for the subject of her friend, well, it remains just as opaque as it was before he had asked the question as to the nature of that association. Over time he’s begun to gain the sense that Ruhong is just oblique about some things, even if not deliberately; normally, with most people, he’d assume that any kind of romantic partnership would come up in this conversation. With her, he’s not sure, but she also didn’t say no when he asked her onto the dancefloor and definitely checked him out that time at the pharmacy, so, still up for debate. ]

This Rebato sounds like a fun guy to have around. [ And he means it. Freddie loves lively, funny company. ] I had a friend like that in the Air Force, except he was a DJ, not a bard. [ But how to explain a DJ to somebody from a time without computers—? ] He played music, but with machines, not instruments. He would combine different songs for people to dance to. He was really good at it, but it was just a hobby for him.

[hongtian]

[ Not understanding a topic or reference is an area in which Ruhong has long learned to be comfortable; she's had more than enough practice. It's already more than she expects that Freddie at least explains the joke, though truth be told, his explanation doesn't do much to help her as she takes him rather literally. ]

It occurs to me, Freddie, that I've not asked you many questions of your life before this place.

[ She doesn't mention that Rebato was, himself, technically a machine—and that this "DJ" sounds exactly like a bard to her, so she isn't sure what the difference is. ]

Who were you—are you?

[ Some things she can gather: a flier, of course, of some kind. Perhaps a soldier, with the hints she's picked up. But even a tether can only take Ruhong so far with what someone chooses or not to share with her. ]

We can make a game of it, even, if you'd rather.

[faa]

[ Who were you? Who are you?

The immediate, kneejerk answer is the same regardless of tense, and it's the same way most of his peers back home would have answered, too: a pilot. Even if he's not flying. It's been what he is, who he is, for the past decade of his life, vocation and being intertwined like the tendrils of a rootbound plant until they can no longer be disentangled; it's hard to think of what a prolonged existence other than this one would be like, even if this place has forced him to, lately.

But Freddie gets the sense that Ruhong wants to know more than that, and as attractive as she is, as pleasant as her company is, it's something that stirs up the faintest sense of unease just behind the warm buzz of his inebriation, something that gives him a split second of pause before he assents. She wants to get to know him, more than just what he's offered, willingly or unwillingly. She's starting to pull the thread, and if he's not careful... no sweater.

None of that makes it to his face. He answers with practiced ease, as charming as always. ]

I'm not sure we know the same games, but I enjoy most of them. What do you want to know?

[hongtian]

You tell me something you haven't done, and if I have, I'll pour myself another drink.

[ Beneath her mask, Ruhong's eyes glimmer. The drink she has already had is the main reason that she has suggested this, because she would never offer anything that might reveal too much about herself in most other situations. But with company, music, and magical alcohol ("mind-altering alcohol" is already redundant), she makes the suggestion without a second thought.

The times she has played this game, of course, are happy memories. The Nevermore Crew: her party in Elthriel, named after the silly game, the first time any of them had ever really shared anything about themselves. The first time Ruhong had opened up to anyone. Then again in Krynn, around the fire, before she had lost any of her friends there to the armies of undead. The memories are warm, and in this rare moment she does not think of the disasters that followed. ]

We'll make it even, and I'll play, too. After you.

[faa]

[ Freddie laughs with momentary disbelief, face brightening with immediate recognition. The human condition really is the same across worlds and across times, apparently. Or... human-adjacent condition. It's ambiguous. ]

I do know that game. It's called Never Have I Ever, where I'm from. Might be a short game, though. Not a whole lot I haven't done.

[ He says it playfully enough to be open to interpretation, but it's not not an innuendo. Conveniently, the last notes of the song peter out just about then, easing them back into the low din of voices and clinking glasses unaccompanied by music and freeing them to get the necessary refreshments. He'd already decided about halfway through the Squid Game rendition of the Frank Sinatra classic that he was going to offer a second round, see about prolonging the moment—or shamelessly monopolizing her attention, tomato-tomato—but this sounds even more enjoyable, more in his wheelhouse.

Still, Freddie actually has to think at what he'll say for a moment before he's able to come up with something. Fortunately, the walk back towards the dancefloor's outer periphery gives him a few moments to do that. ]

Alright. Never have I ever been on a boat.

[ Starting off innocuous! And also because it's the best thing he can think of. ]

[hongtian]

[ It's Ruhong's turn to laugh, but only partially in disbelief: as surprising as it is to her that Freddie has never been on a boat, there's more mischief to her amusement than there is incredulity.

She pretends to consider his answer as they reach the table and she selects a decanter of red wine from the table and fills a clean, empty glass just above halfway. Ruhong is careful to avoid the brandy from earlier; while her fingers itch in its direction, her body remembering the burst of euphoric happiness that had come with each mouthful, her mind manages to cling onto the fear of what memory it might pass on to those around her.

She lifts the glass up to Freddie in a toast and holds his gaze as she downs the whole glass. While not breaking eye contact, she lifts her other forearm so that her sleeves cover the lower half of her face demurely while she drinks. When Ruhong lowers her arm, the glass is empty. ]

A safe enough start. [ The wine is warm in her chest and in her belly. Ruhong doesn't often drink, and she knows she'll be feeling it shortly. ] Never have I ever flown an airship.

[ Having drunk on the first round, of course, she must ensure Freddie does the same. She can pry more another turn. ]

[faa]

[ Oh, she's not just sipping, she's slamming the whole thing—except the slamming of his college days (and then Air Force days... and then civilian bar outings...) doesn't really capture what she's doing here, because it's wine instead of shots or collegiate jungle juice, and she masks herself with the loose fabric of her sleeve when she drinks—some form of etiquette, he's sure, where she's from. He gets the sense that it probably doesn't apply to men.

But then what she does after is decidedly less ladylike, and very deliberate, and he laughs at it. ]

That's not fair! You can't ask things you already know. Cheater.

[ But Freddie still grabs a glass off of the nearest table of them, mentally bracing himself for the burn of ethanol on raw flesh in the split second it takes to bring it to his mouth. He drains it, just like she did, and it feels like drinking bleach, just like drinking always does now. Fortunately, though, his eyes don't water in front of her, which would be fucking emasculating; the apparent ABV of this stuff is at least dilute enough to take the edge off compared to drinking the equivalent of hand sanitizer from a shotglass at some New York City gay bar.

It takes Freddie a moment of thought to come up with something good, some question about her he can structure as a statement about himself. ]

Alright. Never have I ever dated more than one person at the same time.

[ The question within the statement: are you one of those people who claim to be "polyamorous"? —Wait, do they have a concept of dating where she's from? Context clues might not be enough here. ]

Or formally courted, I guess, would be more what your people would call it.

[ Judging by the way she's dressed, the way she's conducted herself tonight. Freddie gets the sense that they would not be in the same social class were they from the same society. Lucky him, meeting in Hell instead. ]

[hongtian]

[ This time, Ruhong's deliberation over the question is not for show. She takes her time: back and forth between the decanter of wine she had just poured and something that smells far more foul, pretending as though she is debating between the choices. There is no choice, of course: she is going to go for one more glass of wine and will certainly avoid anything that smells particularly strong, for her constitution for alcohol—while fairly good, for a person raised among a family of ascetic monks—is not really anything to write home about, and she is already feeling ever so slightly dizzy. ]

Formally courted.

[ She says this aloud, mostly stalling for time, but there's a genuine layer of thoughtfulness to this. Now she's getting semantic, but she has to ask: ]

Have I been courted? Or been the one courting?

[ (Her chambers, blooming with color, filled with the life of more than dozens of bouquets. His eyes hopeful. A voice—not his—whispering, low, seductive and full of promises of power and aid in her ear.)

If it's the former, well, she can answer it easily enough. If the latter—semantics again, but she doesn't want to think too much about it. Thinking about the rituals of courting is easier than thinking about the heart, and she needs to be just a little drunker for that. She pours her glass and thinks about drinking it just for the sake of it, but waits this time for Freddie's explanation. ]

[faa]

[ ‘Been the one courting’. It’s a question, not a statement, but there’s still an interesting revelation about the place she comes from implicit within it: this is a place where women can be the more active party in the lead-in to a marriage, which is definitely surprising, something that clashes with the unconscious notions that had filled in the blanks between the pieces of information she’s given him about everything she called home, the where and the when and who. ]

Been the one courting, [ he clarifies, then adds, lightheartedly, ] I would think it’s a given that someone like you had more than one man trying to get your attention.

[ Isn’t that what he’s been doing since they bumped into each other again? ]

[hongtian]

Or woman.

[ She says it mildly, almost nonchalantly, and raises her glass again to Freddie in another toast—but this time does not drink.

Of course that was what he'd meant. And her decision not to drink is true enough: she had allowed the silver-tongued lord of Kalaman to pursue her, had even considered reciprocating for what he'd promised her; she had been willing to try to seduce the black-scaled lieutenant of the Red Dragon Army, would it have won her any advantage. In neither case, however, had she let anything happen. There had always been one person in the back of her mind, as quick to jealousy as she herself is, whom she had not wished to lose.

Ruhong isn't sure what possesses her when she speaks next. Maybe it's the memory of him, of courting, of filling her room with flowers and sweeping her onto a different, even grander, dance floor. Maybe it's the wine, both reminding her of his collection (so often shared with her in the late nights she spent wheedling information and companionship out of him) and swimming as it is now in her head. Maybe it's guilt, and regret, building now for months and only spilling out under the magical influence of their host and the bond now grounding her to Freddie and the other companions she's made here. Maybe it's just the natural progression of this conversation. Whatever the reason, she does say it: ]

Never have I ever pledged my love to any man or woman.

[ And no, it's not regret, not regret for not saying it even once even if he had, it's only regret for saying anything at all in case Freddie asks more questions on a subject that's still so raw; but there it is, and Ruhong controls her expression and swallows back her irritation with herself. Instead, she raises her eyebrows at Freddie as though it's a question for him—never mind whatever may or may not be accessible through their tether at the moment. ]

[faa]

[ Freddie's unconcerned and fairly unsurprised by the correction, as someone with similarly flexible preferences himself—but for a moment there, Ruhong has him with that toast; he’s sure that the coming answer, evidenced in drinking instead of words, is that yes, she has kept multiple partners, and he’s not particularly surprised—she’s gorgeous, she’s interesting, she’s from a time period analogous to one in his own world in which polygamy and harems were presumably much more common. But Ruhong doesn’t drink, just lowers her glass, and while there’s no real reason for the feeling, considering that he’s certainly not trying to pursue anything here, other than a night or two—there’s a small wash of the kind of relief one gets hearing good news after a moment of suspense. He chooses not to consider it further.

Her next question helps him with that. The small collage of half-formed sentiments across the tether at his own question was ambiguous, a weird sort of melancholy: maybe she left someone? But she hasn't been conducting herself like someone pulled out of a loving relationship—

What she evokes in turn is something much more immediate and hard to instantly shut down, a knee-jerk reflex, a pang of displeasure that seeps out of him like creeping rot before he quickly suppresses it.

Betrayal.

Right, he has to drink. So he does, and he slams the glass of wine like it's a shot of cheap flavored vodka. It occurs to him halfway through draining it that he should clarify. ]

Past tense. It no longer applies.

[ But she may well assume he was some kind of... fuckboy about it. That he's not good in a relationship, that it was his fault in a deliberate way. So, on impulse aided by the compounding effects of everything he's imbibed tonight, Freddie adds on, his turn to ask momentarily forgotten: ]

She cheated. I wasn't, like. A terrible boyfriend or something.

[ He was good to her. He loved her. There were just things he could have done to keep her from cheating, could have called her more, texted her more, kept himself fresh in her mind. ]

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong is so wrapped up in her annoyance with herself for blurting intimate details related to memories she'd rather not discuss that it takes her a moment to register that the wave of displeasure she continues to feel isn't entirely just hers. It's Freddie's, and that's confirmed by the way he knocks back the wine in his hand and responds far more curtly than she is used to hearing him speak.

She's not exactly astonished, but she is momentarily caught off guard. Ruhong isn't certain what she expected with her question; frankly, she didn't even think about it before she said the words. But before she even has time to wrestle with this part of his admission, he explains further, and now Ruhong—who is rarely left scrambling for words (charisma score of 23, thank you)—has no idea what she is supposed to say.

Still. She at least has enough wherewithal to bite her tongue on the urge to say, The dangers of attachment are why I've never said it.

Instead, Ruhong does something else. Once more she reaches to the table to refill their glasses, but instead she very intentionally chooses the marigold brandy. She offers it to Freddie, her gaze steady through her ruby-scaled mask, and does her best to look him in the eye. ]

One drink to both of us for free. [ And by the Light does she pray the memory she is about to feel does not expose her heart too much. That moment of joy they had been sharing is slipping through her fingers, and she is inexplicably desperate to have it back instead of thinking about terrible memories of her regret. ] I am sorry.

For what it's worth, your being terrible would hardly have been my first assumption.

[ Now, herself on the other hand—but she quashes that thought before it gets too far. ]