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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[commitments]

[ The jaws fall back and a human voice escapes, one weary. ]

Yeah.

[ Because what would be left if Yoshiki stayed here? Suffering? One of Adolphe's wolf ears turn as he picks up the sticks of the monster approaching, footstep heavy if one can call it a footstep. It sounds like flesh smacking the hard floor, then a crunch of bone.

He half-circles around Yoshiki as he regains his form, almost like shielding him, even though the chorus rings through the hall regardless. His ears pinned flat against his head, trying to stifle its deprecating words. It's echoing in his head, insistent and annoying, but the question has his bright gold eyes blinks with clarity. His tail lashes as he wonders what is with this guy? ]

Is that really important right now...? I'm okay. Not sure what's going on, either. [ He thinks. At least right now, he feels in control, though looking down at his paws has his mind spinning with some doubt. ] But we shouldn't stick around.

[ Adolphe lowers himself for Yoshiki to hop on. It'd be faster and better than watching him run and maybe trip because his leg turning into a puddle. ]

[for_sake]

( the response is pleasantly surprising, more so as he processes the rest of it, processes every detail he catches. flattened ears, lashing tail, circling—not leaving. how can the other ask if it's important but linger instead of escaping? isn't that too kind? )

It's important to me, ( a response so quick and certain it might be hard to believe he's struggling to string words together, though he has no arguments about sticking around.

like a child being offered candy to stop crying, yoshiki touches adolphe's back. someone cool enough to turn into a huge wolf (real wolf!) is helping him… the positive emotion stabilises him enough to hop on, awkwardly but quickly.

unsure how to hold on, he apologises for the trouble and settles for something like a hug, hands brushing upwards carefully to settle on adolphe's lowered ears. in return for this kindness, yoshiki can at least try to blot out the chanting. the sickening drag of flesh and splintered bone scraping the floor. pivoting. he can talk over the noise, if nothing else. )

Besides, you could've left me... You're real nice. ( yoshiki will need to thank him properly later. first, how to escape? ) D'you think it can follow us if we go back to that ocean outside?

[commitments]

[ Adolphe isn't sure how to respond to the answer... It doesn't make much sense to him, but he doesn't think he can afford to reason it out right now. Yoshiki seems so certain and he can sense the child-like wonder emanating from him. It reminds him a bit of home, the orphanage he holds dear.

The apology is accepted, though he thinks he should be the one apologizing. He isn't used to this form, isn't used to his ears being something that can be cupped and folded under hands. He doesn't long to become used to it, either. Once Yoshiki is securely on, he rises again though it may be a little clumsy. ]

It wouldn't be right. [ He could have. Maybe if Yoshiki had a different personality, Adolphe would have no qualms leaving him behind, but he has this temperament... And Yoshiki helped him. Despite his usual tone, some of his fur roughly stands on end. ] It's worth a try, but I don't remember how we entered...

[ For now, he ducks into one of the connected hallways, adding distance between them and the abomination that starts its supper. The chanting can still be heard, distant and muffled, though it is still clear in their heads. ]

Does this place even have a front door?

[ This hallway they dipped into seems to go on forever and ever. ]

[for_sake]

( to yoshiki, ‘it wouldn't be right’ sounds like their outlook is similar. he'd been told certain things might not matter in this dream, yet here they are, asking after a stranger, carrying them. choosing what matters. it endears him to adolphe, even if it's only a matter of right and wrong. he would comment on it, bring it full circle by asking why his fur's on end, but he's dumbstruck by their predicament.

now that adolphe has said it, yoshiki finds a similar gap in his memory. no steps to retrace, no entrance to aim for. )

I... don't know. I don't remember windows, either.

( but that matters little in this tunnelling hallway. the growing distance between them and the abomination is a relief, but the sounds of its gorging echo sorrowfully along the hallway. those yoshiki can block well enough with his hands over adolphe's ears; as for himself, it's not unlike struggling to tune out an argument, though it's more disturbing. its sorrow more attractive—he shakes himself from the thrall.

those sick sounds flinch around them, the chanting continues within, and the hallway stretches on. )

Maybe the exit's different. ( if it's a dream, won't it continue until… ) How d'you usually wake yourself up?

[commitments]

[ His fur is no longer raised and bristly, having settled while focused on escaping. This isn't good though, but he presses on as they simmer on solutions. He pads down the hallway, footsteps soft and quiet in hopes to not draw attention while the abomination goes ham in the banquet. The grotesque sounds reach Adolphe easier, faster, and it comes with vivid imagination with how clear it is. Fortunately, not as clear as being there.

... He knows there are other people likely laying waste to the monsters' machinations, but he can only focus on himself and a few. ]

I'm fine. You don't need to keep covering my ears. [ They are far enough where its influence at most will tickle him, he thinks. A pause. ] I can sleep through nightmares.

[ Which to him feels is unhelpful rather than gloomy. It means more sleep for him? For the windows that do appear, spare as they are, he lingers only to see darkness through glass pane. Hm. ]

Pinching yourself?

[ This is childish. ]

[for_sake]

You're sure?

( despite asking, his hands slide away to instead dedicate themselves to clinging. then he turns his head, pressing an ear to fur with a puzzled sound. sleeping through nightmares? that's impressive. it sounds terrible. )

So you usually see how they end? Mine usually wake me up. ( except they're typically memories, meaning… neither of them have a nightmare ejection strategy? ) Are we hopeless?

( the question is mostly a joke, lightened further when he laughs quietly, considering the suggestion. he pats around harmlessly, as if searching for a spot to pinch. )

If I pinch you, you'll throw me off. ( unfortunately, he's not above being childish. ) Or... you could try throwing me through one of those windows?

( a suggestion braver than he is—but a potential exit is a potential exit. though it banks on him not melting about it. )

[commitments]

[ His ears perk up and forward now that they're free. ]

I think so... I don't remember a lot of my dreams, if that counts or not.

[ Maybe that is ideal. Getting rest, surviving the terrors, and then forgetting them. Adolphe wonders if it will be the same this time, too... But this is the most lucid he has ever felt. This dream is enchanted as they can see, haunted by multiple souls.

It's good that Yoshiki still has the spirit to make a joke, considering Adolphe is generally dour. He doesn't admonish him for it and lets him pat through his fur while he wallows over their situation. Maybe they are hopeless? Pinching?

He shakes his head and focuses. ]

What if you splattered onto the window? We're not doing that. [ Already, he's moving further away from the window. ] A pinch isn't going to have me throwing you off, but if you're worried you can get down.

[for_sake]

Hmm, maybe... but s'probably a good thing, forgetting them.

( this dream is certainly better off forgotten, though yoshiki wouldn't mind remembering this bit. plus, those ears are distracting—no, this isn't the time. he makes a sound like the start of a protest, stopped by the fact that he can't control this… shifting. he can't promise he won't stay splattered. what he can do is sulkily accept the veto of his window ploy. )

Get down? No way, I'll never get a chance like this again.

( disregarding his shifting issue, riding a wolf is cool even if it's away from a horrific, voracious nightmare. that's still the problem, so… pinching, then.

yoshiki would rather not hurt someone helping him but if he tests it on himself and it works—he doesn't want to leave adolphe stranded. )

Okay, m'gonna try pinching...

( if only he knew where would hurt less… but this might be their best bet. (why does that fit dream logic so well?) he pats a spot on adolphe's shoulder apologetically then pinches it, quick and firm. )

[commitments]

You know that I'm not usually... This, right?

[ Is he a large dog? A wolf? Adolphe can't tell, but he knows he has certain features by how his body movies and some passing reflections. Either way, it's muttered quietly in some disbelief, but Yoshiki's future disappointment can be shelved for what's important.

Adolphe lifts his head when Yoshiki gives him the heads up. Instead of tensing for what's to come, he tries to relax. If his muscles were taunt and tense, it may be more difficult to pinch and the pain may be mitigated. Wolves don't quite have eyebrows and brow muscles like dogs do, but if he could make an expression it'd be a small scowl of discomfort when the pain splinters a small area around his shoulder. ]

... We're still here.

[ His tail lowly lashes as he starts picking up the pace again. ]

[for_sake]

... We are.

( part of him had really hoped that would work. he feels like they both did, if that lashing means anything. it makes him wish he had more suggestions, but— )

Think I'm outta ideas.

( —the one thing that comes to mind feels too morbid to suggest. and what if it doesn't work, like the pinch? all that leaves is evading that thing until the dream ends—because it must end, right? but that feels incredibly unfair, he's not doing any of the work.

for now, he rounds back to something he can contribute to. )

Ah, by the way. S'fine if you're different. A lotta people changed when that thing... uh... I'm usually less... this, too.

( it's strange, watching his hand that looks nothing like his hand lightly pat the spot he'd pinched. but it's still a hand. it must be stranger, then, for… yoshiki really shouldn't keep thinking of him as 'nice wolf guy', should he? )

What're ya usually like? And what's your name?

[commitments]

[ He has the mind that perhaps they could hide... But none of the furniture makes good cover as he passes them by. No doors appear, either. His ears don't pick up any new sounds aside from the distant horrors, no new scents except for the distant horrors...

They may need to keep running until they naturally wake. The thought of getting caught has his stomach churn, but the pat grounds him. He focuses and tries not to think about it being a weird shape for a hand. ]

Right. You'd be tall for your age if you weren't melting. [ Yoshiki would be less a slime, he's sure. ] Adolphe. I'm a regular person, nothing special or different.

[ Which is a conflicting thing for him, but at this moment he wants to be normal. ]

[for_sake]

The melting's embarrassing... ( if he'd died because of it, yoshiki wouldn't have had the face to show up in the underworld. though it's probably best he can't reliably move, still drawn to what they're running from.

either way, he feels a little too seen. )

M'sorry we met like this, Adolphe. I'll look forward to meeting the regular you after this...

( as the hallway stretches on with little deviation, its plainness makes yoshiki wonder as much as the emphasis on regular does. what does dream logic usually do to corridors…? while he keeps a weary eye on their surroundings, he feels compelled to pat adolphe's head, and does so with his fingertips. he's never resisted patting anyone's head before. )

But you left out how nice ya are. I'm Yoshiki. Pretty regular too, except for my height. My little sister's been convinced I'll be three feet tall soon.

[commitments]

[ He ignores the nice part... He will continue to ignore it. Not because he's Cool and Aloof, but because he's embarrassed and disbelieving. Yoshiki can pat his head as he wishes, even if it were with fingers. It doesn't stop Adolphe in his search, though he eventually stops to start sniffing around.

Like anything is different. It isn't. Even the smells are the same, except for the scent of black substance from the banquet hall. He tries not to think about it. ]

That would be a problem. [ Three feet taller? Would Yoshiki fit anywhere? Maybe he'd be able to intimidate the abomination. ] If we meet again, you should tell me about your sister.

[for_sake]

( yoshiki, who is known to "act smart but be a dummy" at home, does not pick up on that part going ignored, happy to continue petting until adolphe pauses. suddenly, while peering into another of the many rooms ruined by those stained, splitting vines, he's struck with the fear that only dead ends await them. he bites it down. )

Ah, true, I'd be forced into a life of sports... ( the horrors of reality seem so funny now. strangely, for the first time, he thinks he wants to go home. ) Okay, deal. I'll tell ya all about her.

( he has nothing remarkable to say. only little things, like how he's her trusty errand boy… he's starting to feel stable, talking like this. maybe he can help now, properly. )

How about you, anyone who'd call you a plant if you got taller?

[commitments]

A life of physical labor?

[ It gets a laugh out of Adolphe, even though sports aren't really a thing where he's from. Becoming part of enforcement or doing physical labor may be the closest. It makes the feeling that they're going to meet a dead end. It approaches like a dark shadow and it's something they can't escape now.

... But Adolphe keeps padding on ahead. They can only keep moving forward. ]

Mother. [ A very easy answer, the very person who raised him. The next, ] And my sister.

[ Close ties, yet said almost distantly like they are too far to reach. In a way, they are. Yoshiki and Adolphe are here, away from their family. ]

I'm done growing, so they don't say that anymore. They'll get used to your new height eventually.

[ The vines, the sludge, it's taking over this hall... The dream is going to come to an end and despite the casual conversation, Adolphe can feel his fight or flight kick in. His fur becomes coarse, raised, even though the petting is comforting. ]