JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

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

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

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

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

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS:

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

OFFERING EFFECTS:

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

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You Taste Like New Flesh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table awaits.

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS:

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

OFFERING EFFECTS:

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

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

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

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

NOTES

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

TOKEN EFFECTS

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

OFFERING EFFECTS

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

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I am not worthy

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

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

"I am not worthy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS

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

OFFERING EFFECTS

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

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OOC NOTES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Comments

[lupusxylem]

...so what you're sayin' is, don't get too attached to anything you see here.

[Because it could be real...but it also could just very well be a figment of your imagination. God only knows. Maybe when he wakes up, Ignis himself will have been part of the dream, and he'll just be back in the sand like he was what feels like hours ago?

If only.]

And...I reckon there's no way to leave. Like I can't just say "well, it's been fun but I'm gonna head out", and go.

Right?

[shatteredlenses]

[Ignis can't help but chuckle at the hopeful question, though the smile that accompanies his laugh is still kind of sad.]

If we could just leave, you would be dining alone with these fine gentlemen and ladies.

[He nods his head in the direction of the Hosts at the table.]

But, since we are here at least you can have some interesting conversation while Sleep picks at your memories. I would say, those of us you talk to who were here for the first dream are less likely to disappear or be figments of your imagination. Sleep may be a lot of things, but I can't imagine her wasting energy to create copies of those who she already has in her grasp. Now, if you suddenly come upon your best friend while feeling vulnerable? It might be a wise idea to remember that Sleep can mess with our minds.

[And speaking of that, something just occurred to Ignis.]

Do you still have the mask you woke up with?

[lupusxylem]

[Eugh, of course it's never that easy. Would be nice if it was. You'd think being a dream it would be, but maybe that's just wishful thinking on Wolfwood's part. Ignis will hear him sigh as he leans forward against the table.]

Sounds just peachy.

[The mention of the mask does give him pause though, because he's still wearing his own. He's definitely tried taking it off, but doing so made him feel so awful he ended up putting it back on.]

Wearin' it, yeah. Why?

[shatteredlenses]

[When the newcomer's answer comes, the corner of Ignis' mouth quirks up. He takes a moment to find the man next to him on the Murmur, and once he has, Wolfwood will find himself suddenly feeling amusement wash over him. That amusement is followed by what is very distinctively the sound of a knock on a door. The knock and the words that come after it all happen within his head, though, not aloud.]

Welcome to the Murmur. It is a mental network that connects all of us including Sleep and those who work with her. It allows the sharing of words, images, memories, and feelings over any distance; however, these things can happen without conscious knowledge or will. Indeed, I sometimes wonder if it has a mind of its own.

[Ignis steps back from the connection then and gives the man a moment to recover before continuing, this time talking normally.]

Masks can take different forms based on their user. Mine is this blindfold I'm wearing. I know it doesn't feel right to not wear the mask, especially in one of these dreams, but if you cherish your privacy, you may wish to not wear it as often as you can possibly get away with. It's wearing the mask that connects you to the Murmur.

[lupusxylem]

...holy fuck.

[That's really all Wolfwood can say, at least at first, when he hears Ignis speaking inside his head. It's a telepathic sort of connection that feels weirdly alien, probing, speaking without audible words...he can't place it. Can Ignis read his thoughts right now, he finds himself wondering? His thoughts dart from one possibility to the other, even as he explains.

These things can happen without conscious knowledge or will.

Hm!!! Not sure how he feels about that one, but it's not like he hasn't already been unintentionally sharing his thoughts and memories with people, right?

Fuck.

He finds himself reaching up to absently touch the mask as Ignis explains further how it helps to keep this tether in place...well that's good to know, if nothing else.]

I...appreciate knowin' that. I'm surprised you're just willin' to tell me all of this without a catch, actually.

[shatteredlenses]

[Considering what Ignis just told and displayed to Wolfwood, he's really not looking for any more reaction than that shocked "Holy fuck," and for once the Murmur doesn't decide to act up, so the newcomer's thoughts remain nice and safe in his head. Ignis just wishes he could guarantee they would stay that way.

They both know better than that, so he doesn't even try.]

The answer to that is very simple: survival. If you wake up from this dream with us, surviving is going to be your first goal. Fortunately, you have experience with that from what you have told me of your world. Not everyone is so lucky or if they are, they may be like me and have something else that limits them. I couldn't do much the first month at all because of the pain I was in. If a few kind strangers hadn't assisted me, I don't know that I would be here talking to you.

[His time powers did help him out on more than one occasion, and Astrals know he wouldn't have made it through the last month without them, but there are a lot of things that manipulating time can't help with. Especially, when that power is finicky to begin with.]

I was trained to work with a group and that is even more important now that my vision is gone. Groups share information, so I now share what I know with you. I ask for nothing in return, unlike some of those here, though if it is easier for you to accept a price, then I'd just ask you do the same when you have the chance.

[lupusxylem]

[Survival...yeah, that makes sense. It would be kindof stupid to just completely isolate yourself, either because you're stubborn or distrustful or whatever else. Wolfwood has reason to be all of these things, but at the same time he's not completely stupid. He knows he has to play his cards right, otherwise this place will spit him up and chew him out. Hell, it nearly HAD already.

To that end, he feels pretty dumbly lucky to have just stumbled into someone like Ignis. Someone so willing to help and offer information when Wolfwood really has nothing to give him in return, other than gaping at him like a fish because he's struggling to comprehend everything he's learning. It's...going to take some time to process, that's for damn sure.]

...I'll keep that in mind. [He'd deny it with his dying breath, but Wolfwood...does care about people, and he cares whether they actually make it or not, in most cases. Sure, he wouldn't usually be reckless about it unlike some people, but still. There's no point in being intentionally malicious just for the sake of being prideful.] You're right, though. If we just split up, that's prolly what the head honcho here wants. It makes it easier to control us if we're all isolated.

[shatteredlenses]

[Ignis nods in acknowledgement, neither expecting nor asking for more. What is the point of putting more demands on people anyway? It's not like Sleep isn't asking for enough of that as it is.]

I agree. I've theorized that the reason Sleep forces the changes in our powers on us is because it makes us easier to control. We are unbalanced and unsure in ways we've not been before. Those who are confused or in pain will often turn to the strongest source of surety around which she makes certain is her; however, if we work together as a group, that gives people something to rely on that isn't her. We become a counterbalance to her influence.

One of the good things about the Murmur is that with it, even if someone wishes to be or needs to be alone for some reason, they still can reach out to us through it instead of having to reach out to Sleep instead.

[lupusxylem]

[Ignis makes a good point, and that concept is comforting, in a way. As much as Wolfwood thinks he'll never really like knowing people can hear his thoughts across this Murmur, thing...

He works his jaw thoughtfully for a moment, looking ahead at the others eating at the table across from him.]

I'm guessin' it'd be too much to hope that Sleep can't hear us through this "Murmur", wouldn't it? It ain't exactly a private network, I assume.

[shatteredlenses]

[The sad smile that crosses Ignis' face, should give Wolfwood his answer even before he speaks the words aloud.]

I would be unwise to assume that there is anywhere Sleep and her minions can't hear us, but considering they have used the Murmur to reach out to people on occasion, it would be even more unwise to assume it is private. Perhaps, if we can learn to manipulate the Murmur we might find some way of sending locked messages so to speak, but I have no idea where we would start experimenting with that kind of thing. These kinds of links don't exist on my world.

[The closet thing would be the bond that allows Ignis to share Noctis' powers, but there's not really a mental element to that. It's not like he can read Noctis' mind, though, things might have been a lot easier of he could.]

[lupusxylem]

Yeah...they don't really on mine either. The best you'll get if you wanna contact somebody back home is by sendin' a letter.

[He knows there's like...ways to connect with someone visually through lost tech, but most if not all do not have access to anything that advanced. And certainly nothing akin to being able to read peoples' minds.]

Just...hate the thought of someone bein' able to hear what I'm thinkin', even if I don't want 'em to.

[shatteredlenses]

You lost phone technology as well?

[Ignis isn't sure why he's so surprised considering what he's already been told about what happened to the people of Wolfwood's world, but he is. Perhaps it's because of how important phones are to day-to-day life on Eos. It's hard to imagine being without them.]

I'm not sure if it will help any, but should you know anything about strengthening your mental walls, I would put it to use. Perhaps, it will cut down on the amount of times the Murmur decides to share what you don't want shared.

[lupusxylem]

Mm...there's radios, I guess? Some people have and use 'em, but most don't. Otherwise, there's not much other option.

[It's one of those situations where they HAD a huge amount of advanced technology, but it all got lost with the near total collapse of the last generation. A pity, really.]

Strengthenin' mental walls, huh... [Wouldn't be that different from what he already does, really.] ...worth a shot. If nothin' else, I can just force myself to think nothin' but bullshit until it takes my mind off whatever else I'm caught up on.

[shatteredlenses]

I do know one young lady that basically played a song from her world over and over in her head to act as a distraction and as interference. It seemed to work fairly well for her. I'm sure a constant stream of nonsense would work similarly.

[Ignis hasn't had to go that far yet, thankfully. Being skilled in tuning out bellyaching teenagers and annoying councilman has come in handy when it comes to the Murmur. It keeps him at a distance, even though its something he generally remains connected to. Having a couple of strong tethers also has helped, though he does suspect that is something of a double-edged sword. It was his fledgling bond with Lortel that Ignis thinks opened him up to that unwanted sharing to begin with that first month.]