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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
Prologue: New Characters
You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
ᛗ
Sink Down Like Precious Stones
( content warnings: drowning, body horror )
Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.
• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.
ᛗ
You Taste Like New Flesh
( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )
The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm.
Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.
"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.
Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.
Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.
Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.
Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.
Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.
Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.
• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.
• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.
ᛗ
There's Something In The Way You Lay
( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )
Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten.
At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are.
You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.
NOTES
NOTES
• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.TOKEN EFFECTS
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.
• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.
ᛗ
I am not worthy
( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )
Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot.
First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence.
Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall.
They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.
"I am not worthy."
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.TOKEN EFFECTS
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).
• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.
ᛗOOC NOTES
➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
no subject
Quick mental images of high-heeled shoes in various styles shuffle at the forefront of her mind; modest to dramatic, cutesy to dark and vampy, elegant to tawdry. Her own giddy insistence cuts her off before she can get to imagining them on Arthur:] You cannot say that without some elaboration.
[Were they talking about how her feet are doing? Not anymore, they're not.]
no subject
After I was discharged from the military, I moved to New York; trying to find myself or whatever it is you do when you're 22 and directionless. [ Truthfully, he had a goal at the time, but that was a whole other thing. Besides, he had been trying to get lost in the city on purpose. Easy to do when he looked the right age for a college kid. ] Picked up ballroom dancing on a whim. The class was taught by a drag queen who wore platform pumps, so I figured, why the fuck not?
[ He shrugs one shoulder and gives her an image of himself in the heels, as caught in the glimpse of a mirror while dancing. His trousers are a familiar sight, but the shirt, under certain lights, is a bit sheer. Most notably, he looks much younger, his hair ungelled and curling along the side of his face and over his ears. ]
Used to do gymnastics, when I was younger, so the balance part wasn't all that hard.
no subject
She would be grateful they slowed down if she had the presence of mind to think about it; as it is, wide-eyed and stunned, there's no room to think about her movements, which are on autopilot as about a thousand half-formed thoughts whip around her mind. Twenty-two— those heels— that shirt?— hot— gymnastics?
Owl-eyed, she blinks up at him a few times, clearly taken aback by at least one thing he's just told her, if not all of them. There's a moment where she's stuck speechless, pulled in too many directions at once, before her brain finally catches on something.] Wait, how old are you?
[That's not important, and far from the most interesting thing he's just said, but it's what she grabs onto because it's what has most blindsided her.]
no subject
Was it too much at once? Did he say something odd? She's blinking at him owlishly, lips parted in a near-total startle. ]
I'm 28. Why, how old did you think I was?
[ His curiosity turns to warm bemusement, gently restarting their steps. ]
no subject
[He does have that boyish face, but compared to the very recent look she just got at his younger self over the Tether, she can see now where years generally match up with physique.] Though I don't know how humans age where you're from.
no subject
Kalmiya picks up where she left off fairly smoothly, neither of them tripping over each other as she regains her thoughts. ] I get mistaken for younger, usually.
[ It doesn't happen as often anymore, but that's typically because of how he dresses. A choice he'd made very early on getting into dreamshare. There were only so many times he could handle being assumed to be someone's son on the team.
Her next comment throws him momentarily—of course, she's from a place where elves are real. ]
Eighteen's counted as an adult. Average age is 75, I think. [ Which makes him come to: ] How old are you, then?
no subject
[Depending on one's location and quality of life, of course. 28 would probably look older on someone from Sanctuary, exposed as they are to the drying desert sun and the constant, heavy undercurrent of shame in their culture.]
I'm twenty-three. [A pause. Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, accompanied by the woodsy sound of activity in her mind, before her mouth twists with sour realization.] Twenty-four in a couple of months. But I doubt I'll be keeping track at that point.
[Times and seasons aren't the same here, so what does it matter? Her own birthday was already of remarkably little concern to her even prior to the strange temporal situation they find themselves in.]
no subject
There's a rustle of leaves and wind, the noisy cricket chorus as she turns things over in her mind, her expressive eyes dropping into a squint. ]
You don't want to celebrate? [ He asks, nudging her into a playful spin and enjoying the flash and click of the crystals on her outfit with the motion. ]
no subject
A delicate cake with off-white buttercream and golden butterflies fluttering amongst sprigs of lavender, with the bright taste of guava jam and a feeling like relief. At the same time, the crushing weight of responsibility, the sick anxiety of having to maintain a life-or-death facade in a crowd that's only watching you, and the ceremonial lighting of a lantern.
The thread catches each emotion, each sensation as it's tugged on. Kalmiya is quiet for a beat, grounding herself in the click of the crystals and the weight of them on her body as they swing.
Well aware that she's made no effort to hide what the Tether has pulled at, she laughs, a strangely wistful sound. Lightly,] Why? Will you wear the heels for me if I do?
no subject
Crystalline adornments splay outwards and come together in a sound like rain on a tin roof, centrifugal force bringing Kalmiya back to the position they'd started in. ]
I'd wear heels anytime, all you gotta do is ask. [ Arthur quirks her a smile, a small furrow of concern sitting between his brows. ] So, maybe something a little more special than that.
[ Underneath the usual white noise of electronics, there's a soft hum that seems understand if she didn't want to mark the day. ]
no subject
She can't bear to shrug off the look Arthur gives her, though, the concern so much softer than she would have expected from the man she first spoke to over the Murmur. A squeeze in her chest spills affection from her tender heart, not only for the person in front of her but for the people who first made it a day worth celebrating. Knowing what this place is like, she can't imagine it would be of particular note to most others—much less a happy occasion—in light of the terrors that await them in the veins of the infected city. But if anyone here has grown to care for her enough to be concern themself with this, perhaps there is something worth celebrating.
When her hand returns to brace after the spin, it settles higher up his shoulder, at a more intimate spot near his neck and the collar that folds crisply around it. Her smile is small, her quiet words a sentimental concession.] I wouldn't know the exact day when it came. I've lost track of them here.
Maybe if spring ever comes, though. That's when it's supposed to be.
no subject
The world was going to spin on, regardless. Might as well. ]
Dunno what month it was, when we arrived. I've been tracking the days, though. [ Of course he has. ] Spring, huh?
[ He tilts his head, considering, thinking of his mother's prized tulips and their determined sprout from near-frozen ground, year after year. Those first bursts of color after the bleak grey of winter. ] That fits.
no subject
The quirk of her head is inquisitive, intrigued, as she gets the faint impression of blooms and spring's first warmth. Her first instinct is to ask how so? and tease out some compliments from the offered reasoning; it's tempting, honestly, to chase easier banter after offering this little hidden piece of her life. But sincere curiosity wins over flippant impulse, perhaps in light of everything else Arthur just shared with her.] What about you? When should I expect to start looking for a gift?
no subject
[ Boy, translating months and dates across different dimensions is a challenge he never thought he'd have to consider. ]
Oh, uh–[ He blinks; probably should've expected that. ]–end of the year, December 27th.
[ With a pang, he realizes it'll be the first year he won't be able to call his sister and laugh about their stupid joke of sharing a birthday and pretending to be shocked. ]
no subject
Her brow creases and concern pulls her mouth into a pout. Purposefully she squeezes his hand; instinctively, she drifts a little closer, gravitating to the reassuring warmth of their Tether.] If we're still here, I'll be certain to get you something nice. [With gentle humor:] Besides my company, of course.
[There's a chance that they'll find a way home before that, after all. But if they don't, she knows he won't be alone.]
no subject
Still, he does radiate a sense of gratefulness, as she squeezes his hand. He mirrors the motion in response, allows her to step in closer without hesitation. ] Always appreciated.
[ Her company, of course. ]
Didn't mean to startle you. [ It's not an apology. But it could be one, a little. Even if he knows she isn't expecting one. And may even tell him it's nothing to be sorry for. ] I've got a sister, Vivian. My twin, actually. It'll just be ... odd, not wishing her a happy birthday, too.
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Sadness swoops in to underscore the connection she's made, though still she smiles, albeit plaintively.] It's alright. I thought you had a sister, but I didn't realize you were twins.
[It does explain the remarkable resemblance of the young, eyeshadow-caked face she'd seen. A thread of understanding runs beneath the sympathy she extends, the strange discomfort of missing the ragtag family that she's found back home.] I'm sorry. There's not a gift out there that will make that any easier.
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I'll get through it. [ There's no other way, after all. But, he gives her hand a grateful squeeze, a quiet curl of concern bubbling up as he catches a parallel twinge of sadness across the tether. ]
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[Things come and go in cycles. Spring to winter. Day to night. Waking to dreaming. She can't possibly visualize the path ahead of them, given the strange nature of this place, but they'll find their way back to their starting points someday.
Despite the bittersweet charred note lingering on her tongue, some other amusing revelation occurs to Kalmiya in this moment, prompting the gentle tease in the smile that touches her face.] So, you're the annoying younger sibling?
[The truth comes out!]
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[ Of course, he'd been annoying to Vivian for completely different reasons. For a while anyway. As he'd gotten older and his temper under control, he'd leveled out into the role of the aggravating younger brother.
With a gentle turn, he sets those thoughts to rest, attention catching on the ornate double doors which led downstairs. They're clear over Kalmiya's shoulder and he tips his chin towards them in question. ]
What fresh horror d'you suppose she's cooked up down there?
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Her shoulders follow the turn of her head as she casts a sidelong glance over her own shoulder at the doors he indicates—one of the first things she'd noticed in this banquet hall, as someone who likes to know every possible route for purposes of both escape and mischief. For a moment she eyes them thoughtfully.
When she turns back to look at Arthur, it's with an impish grin.] I don't know, but probably better not to find out alone, right?
[The forward, conspiratorial lean of her body is just enough to set her weight warmly against Arthur's as she stage-whispers to him.] Want to go have a look?
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Always better to have backup.
[ Naturally. Says the guy who was usually said backup in most situations. Kalmiya leans in, her whole body like a warm question mark, whispering in such an undisguised way he can't help the answering grin he gives her. ] Why the fuck not.
[ With her pressed in, their strides are easy to pause and he breaks the position they'd been in. He keeps a hand in hers, though, gently tugging as he begins in the direction of the doors. ]
If it's full of mirrors, I'm leaving, by the way.
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His quip is met with laughter—mostly joyful, but there's an edge to it that verges on manic, a petty thirst for destruction just begging to be let loose.] I'm not. I'd love to break a room full of mirrors. You really wouldn't want to join me?
[She has felt the anger in Arthur's heart, so she finds it hard to believe he wouldn't share in the satisfaction at least a little.]
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The edge of her manic thirst catches on the buried shards of his own, and without breaking stride or the join of their hands, really, he turns around to face her, walking backwards momentarily and grinning. ]
Suppose I could always dream up a couple sledgehammers, in that case.
[ Suddenly, there's an appeal.
Resuming a normal direction and stride, there's no hesitation as he turns the handle on one of the heavy doors, pulling it open. Before them is a spiral staircase leading down, the entire height of it a dimmer lighting, moody and befitting the plush runner that streams down the middle of the steps. One hand on the banister, he peers down, seeing nothing immediately out of place. ] Nothing ventured, I guess.
[ Only now he'll release Kalmiya's hand, to make it easier for them both to head downstairs. As he sets foot on the equally rich and ornate carpet at the bottom, it feels like a whole body flush settles over him. It's acute but brief, seeming to sink into his skin and leave his nerves humming. The sensation reminds him of the electric vibration that sits on his bones sometimes, the flux of which he hasn't gotten a handle on reliably yet. ]
Did you feel that?
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It's with palpable reluctance that her hand falls back to her side when Arthur releases it, but she occupies herself peering up at the high ceilings and noting the odd thickness of the air. Absently,] Nice lighting.
[Very moody. Being from drier climes, it's impossible not to notice the intensifying dampness of the air as they descend, and eventually that the stairs themselves are a bit wet; why is it so wet down here? The sheer floral fabric of her suit already feels stuck to her in places by the time they reach the bottom. She's so distracted by the stickiness and wetness that she doesn't notice her form changing: the hardening of her sharp nails, the elongation of her canines, the reformation of her ears into vulpine shapes as she tries to shake off the tickle of her floating hair.
What hits her first is not a flush or a buzz, but a sound, all too clear to the sensitive perception of an Offering. A gasp, deeply distinct in the precarious way it teeters between pain and pleasure—a breath she'd recognize anywhere by now. Her head turns instinctively to the noise, so she's not looking at Arthur when he speaks, but one purple fox ear rotates towards him in response.
There's a beat before she answers, wherein she both shifts her focus and takes stock of her own body. It strikes her as more pliable, more malleable in the way it often does when her new powers are closer to their peak, but that's not wholly new.] I feel...sticky, mostly.
[The most obvious change isn't actually her sharpened form, but rather the perfume that now always clings to her. Fruit and flowers near to bursting with ripeness, on the verge of cloying in the way that plants are just a few days out from decay, with a layer of mossy earthiness that's unfamiliar, like mushrooms freshly sprouted after rain. She's too accustomed to her own scent to notice the change, but it sits heavy as a cloud in her proximity, somehow beckoning those near even nearer.]
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