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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
[Greed shifts and with a cross of his foot, he starts to lead along the water's still-flat surface.] Ha - ! Well, no need to push yourself if you don't have to, hmn? Won't do you much good in case this place decides it has a few more surprises in mind. [Which, considering how he ended up here, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch. The darkness around them is endless; the only interruptions, small blips of things, creatures, flitting underneath.]
[The Sin clicks his tongue, and a lace of thin ash weaves itself between the vents of his mask.] Just Wolfwood, then. [Humming, he continues towards the flame coaxing in the distance. All the while, he lets his gaze wander: over the crystals stuck to the man's body like barnacles, on the sluggishness of his shoulders. Across those wings of his, haggard with the drink. And it's there, that he pauses. Because something about them - he's seen it before, hasn't he? Not feathers, not exactly, but the point where human and animal come together and oh, oh, oh, does it strike a chord. Enough so, that he doesn't notice when the tips of his teeth nip at the inside of his cheek.]
[Zttt, and a hiss of red static sizzles against the side of his mask.] Might not know where we are, but I do know one thing, friend. Whoever's running this place - [His words trail off like smoke; the tone of his voice, smoothing to a purr.] - well, let's just say that it would take a whole lot more than usual to bring me here.
no subject
So he knows he has to be careful. Greed is helping him so far, but he can't rightly trust the man as far as he can throw him, can he? He's going to have to be on his toes with every interaction he has going forward, and not just with Greed alone. It's something he goes over in his mind, keeping that slight uncertainty out of his features and wobbling gait as much as he possibly can, even if he is still kindof hacking up watery sludge as they go.]
I'd believe it. You say that like you've been here a while.
no subject
[Call it what he is, call it his nature - he wouldn't be him if he left something behind now, would he?]
[Greed breathes from his nose, letting out a short huff.] Sorry, but looks to me like we're in the same boat. I just got here. [Even that, though, is putting it mildly. He didn't just wake up here like something out of a wild dream. Hell, he doesn't even think he's ever dreamt before until now. No, where others may have drifted in, night after night, his had been sudden. His one-way ticket to the void, ripped apart and shredded to spit him out again.]
[The Sin steps, and a fish darts underneath his foot to disappear into the endless black. The banks of the shore are closer, now. The path, seeming to squeeze itself between teeth of rocks and glass. Greed pauses, snaking his arm away from Wolfwood.] Right. Before we get to that, we should probably take care of that little problem of yours first, huh? [Absently, he flicks out his wrist, forcing all five of his fingers stretching as wide as a cat, testing its claws.] Might wanna stay still for a second.
[But does he wait for permission? Does he wait for a sign? No, of course not. Not when those crystals are in plain view, weighing at parts where they shouldn't. With little (or more accurately no) warning, he tries to shove the crook of his nail underneath one of them to peel it off - the motion of it like a flathead screwdriver, driving under a wedge.]
no subject
What he isn't expecting, though, is the way Greed very suddenly reaches out with his claws to try and just
PEEL OFF one of the crystals on his body, and really it doesn't much matter where on his body it is, it doesn't change the fact Wolfwood recoils like he's been burnt. It's not the pain that bothers him- his pain tolerance would alarm most normal folk- it's the audacity of just reaching out like that to volunteer to remove it for him.]
Oi, th'hell you think you're doin'!?
SORRY FOR THE DELAY ...
[The Sin pries his nail away with prick of his finger, and both his eyebrows bury themselves in lines up his forehead.] Ah - ? [A light grimace tugs at the corner of his mouth; his breath, hissing thin behind the slats of his mask.] Hey, hey. Calm down. Just looked like those were becoming a bit of a problem, huh?
[He hooks his claw to point at the crystals at a distance, and the tone of his voice drops deep in his chest.] Unless you're supposed to have them. Eh - [Slowly, he pulls his hand back in retreat, forcing the weight of his thumb to settle on his hip. Any sort of anger, however - it's missing. His irritation, a mild annoyance at best. Greed slumps into his shoulders, and the toe of his boot pats against the surface of the water as it trembles - its ripple, a brief moment of doubt.]
[But as soon as it comes, it's gone again, and the homunculus clicks his tongue with a resigned snp.] - should probably get moving anyway. You can get back at me once we're there. [Stiffly, he holds out his elbow as an olive branch of sorts.] Fair enough?
No worries!
...look, whatever. S'fine. Just...prolly not a good idea to go tearin' shit off just yet, yeah? S'much as I'd love to take off these wings, for example, ain't no way of knowin' if I'm not just gonna bleed out.
[The crystals might be different, but how is he supposed to really know? Knowing his luck, they're actually grafted to his skin now and removing them would be the same as trying to peel off his own flesh.
Regardless...Wolfwood is aware that he's still kindof staggering along, so it's with a bit of reluctance that he'll take Greed's arm so they can keep moving.]
no subject
[As soon as Wolfwood grabs his arm however, whatever tightness in his shoulders melts away. Their temporary treaty, putting him in a sleek sort of ease.] Got a point there. Would be a real shame if you went and bled out on me now. Still, sorry about that. [He shrugs it off just the same. Bumps in the road aren't anything new for him. They're common. Where wires inevitably get crossed, and his nature always, always, gets the better of him.]
[Greed slows his pace as the tide below them begins to shrink at the shore.] So, you didn't have those before? [He asks, if only to break some of the ice. Whatever changes this place has in mind - they haven't hit him yet. They're simply waiting below the surface. Like a sickness writhing, incubating, in the relentless pit of his chest.]
[The homunculus brushes past a point of stone knifing out of the water's edge, and his heel claps back; the ocean, now a shallow sliver underneath.] Looks like someone's expecting us. [He hums, the frames of his sunglasses red-hot and orange under the fire's beckoning tease. With a stretch of his leg, he settles his heel into the shore, leaving his arm extended as a lead for Wolfwood to follow.]
Might as well see what they're offering. And after that, you can get yours, as promised.
no subject
Yeah...M'mostly a normal human person, if you could believe it.
[Calling himself "normal" might be a bit of a stretch, but as far as his physical form goes, he is. Should be, at any rate. Now he looks like this.]
Pretty sure these fuckass wings are why I almost drowned back there.
[WELL...that, coupled with the fact you cannot actually swim, yes.]
no subject
[Greed leads on, unaware of the way the ground seems to heat up slightly beneath his boots as he passes.] Oh, I believe you. Always more than meets the eye, isn't there? You'll have to tell me about it sometime. If we both make it out of here, that is. [There's only one path to follow, and that's where he goes. If he cared, maybe he'd have more to say about it. The way things constrict around them, more similar to a single-shoot made for the slaughter. But, then again - he's already seen death twice before. If something's waiting for them, well.]
[He's all-too prepared to give it a good run for its money.]
[The homunculus slows, matching Wolfwood's pace.] Might take a bit of getting used to, but you'd be surprised what a new body can do when you put your mind to it. Could come in handy. [And what the hell could that possibly mean? Nothing he's about to elaborate on, that's for sure. Not when they're this close, not when they're so near, and certainly not with that pit of his screaming for the chance to crack the door wide, wide open.]