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.

Watch on YouTube

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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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Jaskier | The Witcher (netflix) | New Player/TDM

[licensetotrill]

I. SINK DOWN
It's a delightful novelty, being able to walk on the water like this. A lovely dream. Jaskier laughs every couple of steps, looking down in amazement as he watches the water moving under him- and yet it's no worse than a shallow puddle with water just deep enough to splash, even as he sees jellyfish and other stranger fish deeper under the surface.

Jaskier is a performer, an artist. He couldn't have made it as far as he did without an unshaking faith in himself above all else. And doesn't all this just prove him right?

The sound of splashing catches his attention- the flash of a hand above the water before it too sinks, flailing, and Jaskier rushes over to grab hold, to try to pull them up.

"I've got you, friend!"

How one could fall into this water he has no idea, but he can worry about that once he tries to get them out.


II. YOU TASTE LIKE NEW FLESH
Has Jaskier heard a hundred legends about monsters or demons offering food to wary travelers for it to turn into a trap? Certainly. You know what he's heard a hundred times more than that, though? People dying of starvation on the road for one reason or another. Moreover, he has seen the wasted away bodies such things left behind.

So yes he's grabbing another small custard tart and downing it in two bites, washing it down with a pleasantly sweet brandy. If the fae want to steal him away that sounds like the fae's problem.

The memories come back, what's a dream for other than nostalgia to run wild? Leaving his home behind him to pursue his education, to attend university - that small stab of regret at leaving his best friend behind almost entirely drowned out by the sharp pain in his arm from the intense bruising that the lord's bastard son didn't care about giving to even another noble. He couldn't have stayed. Not unless he wanted to die there.

He is who he is because he left, and the next overwhelming memory is if one of many times he played music at an important social event. Hundreds of faces watching him and listening to his music with clear appreciation, including a set of yellow eyes that tried to claim otherwise. Performing was what he was meant for.

"Oh, try the brandy. It's floral and sweet, I must ask the host about it, I could drink a whole bottle myself!" Jaskier happily explains, cheeks already a little flushed. This is not remotely his first glass.

((While 'Eaton Mess' and 'Marigold Brandy' are the ones here, Jaskier doesn't need supernatural encouragement to try everything and get to dancing and will be doing both.))

III. SOMETHING IN THE WAY YOU LAY
Pleasantly full and wine drunk, Jaskier has never turned down a party in those circumstances. He tried to party when his throat was being ripped out of him thanks to a jinn, okay. 'Oh no, strange questionable circumstances!' Whatever, more fun for him.

And he has, quite visibly, thrown himself into it. His shirt is just gone, leaving his rather well made chest fully exposed aside from the fine dark hair that covers much of it, curling around stiff pink nipples. His necklaces just draw more attention to them, small golden tuning fork hanging between his cleavage from the thin chain. The flush on his skin is more than just the drink of the already forming hickies are any indication and there's the after effect of the glow showing a symbol on his skin he's yet to notice. Lipstick is smeared across his mouth in a way that indicates he didn't start the night with it, but it just makes him look more like an invitation to debauchery.

Somehow his trousers are still on, but they're hanging low on his hips, laces loosened. Jaskier leans out a doorway, calling out-

"Hey, y'see a guy come through here? Big, pale hair- we were in th' middle of somethin…"

Through the way he looks people over shows he's not opposed to finding someone new.


IV. I AM NOT WORTHY
It takes far too long for Jaskier to notice something is amiss. He was busy. Chaos has fully erupted into glorious decay by the time he's noticed. What's a humble bard to do under these circumstances?

New abilities or not, Jaskier does what Jaskier does best in these situations: he hides under a table.

There's no shame in it, okay. If he tries to fight he knows all that really does is make another target for the enemy and something to need to take into account for those on his side. Covering his own ass means removing one distraction from the field for his allies, at least.

Speaking of, those are not the trousers he started the night with.

He's not selfish about it, mind. Seeing someone else in the chaos he calls out as loud as he dares-

"Psst! Under here! Come on!"

V. OTHER?
((Wildcard? Idk, if you've got an unrelated idea, hmu. I can also make a custom starter if you'd like! Playing around with what to make Jaskier so it may change by the thread since he's on TDM time. Apologies in advance for formatting weirdness, I'm on mobile for at least the rest of the day, but I'll match format!))

II

[vocalistyodels]

The ghoul is looking for more of said brandy when he's bombarded with memories of a life that weren't his own flash behind his eye lids. Like a movie he should know all the words to already.

"Sure you ain't already?" The ghoul quips, seeing that impressive flush on the other man's face.

"Prefer you pour me another glass before you do that." Please and thanks.

[licensetotrill]

The mask can only hide so much of that face and Jaskier's half mask doesn't hide the brief cringe at all. Ew.

Well, whatever.

"You're lucky I'm in a generous mood and used to ignoring surly attitudes," Jaskier says, lofty and magnanimous. He does indeed take up the brandy bottle to pour himself a 'second' (fourth) cup as well as refill Cooper's.

[vocalistyodels]

"'Surly', ain't we using big words." Cooper chooses to ignore the obvious reaction to what his mask doesn't hide. It's old news by now, but the man does fill his glass and cheers to that!

"If you weren't inclined to share I'd just have to take my fill." He smiles, bringing the glass to his mouth to enjoy another sip.

[licensetotrill]

Jaskier pointedly rolls his eyes.

"Would you prefer 'brisque'? 'Boorish'? 'Curmudgeonly'?" Jaskier offers, since Cooper apparently wants big words. Not that he cam stay too annoyed. Not with that burden of joy with the brandy once more, the sense of appreciation, of applause leaving him warmed and like he wants to do something with all this pleasant energy.

[vocalistyodels]

Ah the rush of applause, it used to feel good for him too. A long long time ago. Cooper hums after another drink, swirling it in his glass for dramatic effect.

"Mm, I'd prefer you shut the fuck up and drink." Mr. Synonyms over here.

1

[laidtocrest]

The last few bubbles trickle up from his lungs and everything goes black and peaceful for a moment...

...the dream loops. With a gasp, he falls into the wat- his hand's caught. His hand's caught? His hand is, apparently, caught, and Sylvain makes an effort this time to resist the pull of the water, to frantically- well, he's doggy paddling desperately even as he feels the water reach for him, but look at the situation. He looks at the hand even as he tries to claw (claw?) his way out of the water, and asks the obvious question.

"How?" How the fuck is someone walking on the water.

[licensetotrill]

"How-? How are you drowning?!" There is a separate emphasis on those last two words, both of them strange. Credit to Jaskier's ego, he doesn't consider for the moment that could be him next. Clearly the redhead is doing something wrong. "That armor can't be helping!"

Even with the criticism, Jaskier doesn't let go. He's no Geralt but he is stronger than he looks under his fancy clothing.

[laidtocrest]

The guy asks a perfectly good question - how the hell is he managing to drown - and Sylvain responds with that universal fuck all if I know noise. He doesn't have the heart to admit that this is his third time going underwater. It feels like saying that would just ruin the mood.

"I'd take off-" And a bit of water gets in his mouth, and Sylvain splutters. Drowning also makes witty banter really difficult?

And yet. And yet, there's something about this guy...maybe it's his surprisingly firm grip, maybe it's the fact that Sylvain desperately wants to wittily banter with him but can't if he's drowning, or maybe there's the part of him that helpfully notes that if all of this is a dream then there's no reason why he can't also walk on the water, and so he starts to climb atop the water one soggy metal-encased limb at a time. One arm, the other arm, it's like he's a polar bear trying to surmount some surprisingly stubborn ice.

"Haven't you ever drowned before?"

[licensetotrill]

As Sylvain makes an effort to get up out of the water, Jaskier does offer encouragement. He's used to being a personal cheerleader and he's damn good at it. And maybe there's a bit of teasing thrown in because well, you can take the cowboy out of the rodeo but you can't take the rodeo out of the cowboy, or something.

"Come on, Ginger! You've got this, steady now-" Jaskier urges as he leans his full weight back to be a counter balance, pulling Sylvain up as he pulls himself up too.

IV

[consumingly]

[ Look: Endo isn't immune to everything that's going on around him. He is appropriately disgusted (plus a little fascinated) and pretty concerned about being fed upon, but does that mean he's going to let his unsettled feelings show for all of those around him? No. He's going to keep an eye on that monster while acting perfectly calm and looking for openings — or anything else that'll help once he's targeted. He's skilled in fighting, and while it's obvious that fists aren't going to make a huge difference here, his real talent is in his agility — dodging, jumping out of the way, blocking. Most likely, that won't be a huge help, but it might give him some time to come up with a better plan.

So he isn't retreating when he makes his way over to Jaskier's hiding spot. He is, however, debating breaking off a table leg when he hears that not-quite-whisper.

Though he has no intention of joining him for long, he slips under the table with the sole purpose of having a laugh.

Which is exactly what he does when he's face to face with Jaskier. ]

No way! Are you hiding?

[ Seems kind of futile to him! Also kind of cowardly — and therefore amusing. ]

[licensetotrill]

[ Wow well not everyone can be a shonen protagonist!!! Jaskier gives Endo a dirty look that would have him dead in an instant if such things could kill. ]

Do you have a better idea? Look at the size of that thing!

[ Maybe the kid is not reckless but just concussed or something! That thing is NOT something you fight, not unless you have several swords and freaky monster hunting blood, as far as Jaskier is concerned. He has neither. Hence, the table. ]

[consumingly]

[ Sad news for Jaskier: Endo's an antagonist and not exactly in the business of helping people. But he's resourceful when he wants to be, so that's something, right?

Probably not, because his arrogant amusement does not leave his expression. In fact, it only grows as Jaskier gives him that dirty look. Sure, sure, the monster is huge and they're all doomed, but as far as he sees it, he should try to puzzle his way out of this mess — because the alternative is giving up, which would be stupid. They obviously have plenty of time to plot, so why would he throw that away? ]

You got a brain, don't you? [ A brief pause. ] Maybe not.

[ Because he certainly isn't using it! Before Jaskier can answer, though, Endo sighs and scratches the back of his head. ]

Aaah, I'm wasting my time.

[ Maybe on the surface. But maybe he's also wondering what a human-shaped shield might do for him, once he breaks a leg off this table. He's keeping his options open. ]

[licensetotrill]

[ Jaskier yelps with the table leg broken off, needing to shove off and back as it becomes unbalanced and almost crashes down on him. The action of shoving with his hands does something else - when they slam against the table they ignite sparks, starting to catch it alight -- which only makes Jaskier yelp louder and scramble back all the more. ]

Fuck fuck fuck no no no-

iv

[merged]

[ Sharon can't tear her eyes away from the chaos—from the abomination's writhing form, or the way the entire world seems to quake at its arrival. Terror roots her in place, until a man's harsh whisper cuts through the noise from somewhere below.

She glances down, and the moment their eyes meet, some of that terror shifts, replaced by a sharp, urgent drive to move. It's not safe. It's not fucking safe. And he's curled up under the banquet table like that'll save him.

She crosses the distance fast, dropping down with a look equal parts panic, exasperation, and disbelief—all obscured by the mask on her face. ] Yeah, that table isn't gonna save us [ she snaps, reaching for him, tugging at his arm. ] That thing will tear through that. You want to live, you run.

[licensetotrill]

[ Sharon you would be amazed at the amount of danger he has managed to live through via careful use of table. Jaskier's own mask is a delicate filigree half-mask that hides almost nothing of his expressive features, so those wide blue fearful eyes are on display.

But even if the table is a tried and true method for Jaskier in the past, Sharon is at least offering an alternative. So yeah, he's not hard to tug out even as he protests-]

Moving will get it's attention though!

[merged]

I don't know about you, but I'd take the easy target over the moving one. [ Sharon blurts, her grip firm on him as she urges him forward, barely sparing a glance behind. The creature slams a grotesque limb down where Jaskier had been moments ago, the banquet table splintering under its wet, crushing weight. ]

As long as we're faster than someone else... [ The words are harsh, but they're true, and she knows it. Fight feels impossible, no matter how much she burns to rage against it. ]

[licensetotrill]

[ If running is the name of the game then running they shall do! He lets out a sharp yelp when he looks behind and sees the table get slammed into and completely shattering. RIP table. ]

Just one someone else? It's huge!

[ He's not going to complain about the harshness of that statement. Maybe people will decide to play a hero and go 1v1 at it. ]

new flesh

[hexrot]

[ this isn't the first time jayce has been in one of these dreams, neither is it a first to be presented with tempting dream-foods that came with strange side effects. he's a little wary about it, to say the least, but he's cultured when it came to gala events. he didn't like them, never did, all dressed in pristine piltover white and the red-golds of his family crest, his mask a black domino with wings that looked like a butterfly's being spliced through dimensions. but, he knew how to linger in the boredom, even if it killed him. he knew how to keep his hostess pleased without actually doing anything. sleep encourages them; jayce simply holds a glass of marigold brandy he never once brings to his lips. god, he wants to get out of here. haul himself up in a quiet corner, or better yet! conjure a lab. that'd be the real dream.

but he's stuck here, feeling mismatched in his show pony colors when he's since foresaken that life what felt like ages ago. infact, the crowding leaves him feeling restless, like it's too much for his senses these days. isolation can, in fact, do a number on you. jayce's face doesn't exactly show it— it's clean shaven and youthful. the jewel like caps lining his forehead only look like further accessories. when spoken to regarding the brandy, jayce hovers his glass upward andmakes a brief face. he could've sworn he . . . felt something. imagined something? another party he's never been to. but the moment fleeting manages to tick his mood up just enough. huh . . . ]

Looks like you've already beaten me to it. [ he's friendly, if not a bit distracted in the sense that his interest wanes in sitting here, and he's feeling quite anxious, leg bouncing up and down to distract himself. that's nothing on jaskier, at least. ] Any noteworthy aftereffects—?

[ besides, you know. getting piss-drunk. ]

[licensetotrill]

[ Jaskier points to the deviled kidneys.]

I do not recommend those.

[ One bite was more than enough to let Jaskier know to steer clear! It's only fair he warns others, looking quite petulant even with the otherwise lounging in the chair, one leg thrown over the arm of it. It really shows off the new goat legs he's got going. He doesn't get why this weird dream has turned him into a sylvan - or something like it - probably in an act of irony. Whatever. The horns have gone slightly more prominent since he's started drinking, just thankful that the filigree mask is only a half mask and doesn't stop him from his drink.

... The whole wanting to dance, to imbibe more, all that? Yeah, he doesn't think to mention it, because he's always that way at parties! ]

[hexrot]

[ huh. if only jayce weren't a naturally curious person. the don't touch warning is clearly not enough to satisfy his interests. even as he tilts a cup in hand to pour the brandy, he's got his gaze halfway between the satyr and the kidneys in question. ]

A little . . . Exotic, for my tastes, [ but he will stay clear. he prefers his roastbeef or sandwiches. ] what's it cause?

[licensetotrill]

[ In truth it's a terrible warning since Jaskier would surely be encouraged to try it out himself from that. Still, one must try. He brings up his hand at the question, wiggling fingers as if in a wave - showing off the still healing burns on fingertips, like they were held over direct fire in the last week. ]

I vividly remembered these happening. It was like I was there all over again.

sink down

[sadpoem]

[Sunny would be one to drown. For a moment, he thinks he's finally woken up from this dream, found himself back in that lake, reaching for...

[Something. And he's reaching now, but he's sinking, sinking, his body turning to stone, lungs full and frozen like icepacks--

[Jaskier grabs his hand and pulls him out. He's a Hero. Sunny stares up at him with black eyes, shocked by his own breath. There's no need even to puke the excess water up. It's a small miracle, and Sunny...

[Stunned but appreciative. His blindfold is still cocked at an angle, covering only the right eye. He doesn't know what to say...]

[licensetotrill]

[Goddess, it's a goddamn kid. Okay, teenager, but when you're almost to the wrong side of forty teenagers are very much children thankyouverymuch. Jaskier's no warrior and he dresses to play down his physique - half of it having never gotten over his twink era in his heart and the other half being that for all being overbearing and powerful works for Geralt, when you're a bard it's far better to be as nonthreatening as possible. He's not going to be throwing logs for sport, but he can hold a kid with only a little strain and he's not about to put this one down and let him possibly fall in again and start drowning.]

Hey - hey, it's okay, I've got you - you're breathing okay?

[Jaskier shifts his hold so he can wipe some of the wet hair out of Sunny's face, tugging the blindfold away from his eyes further without thinking much of it.]

[sadpoem]

[Sunny sits frozen for a moment, forgetting to nod, still staring blankly at Jaskier. His brain catches up with him, he nods his head, he's breathing okay.

[But he can't speak. He doesn't know how to say thank you. His hand grips Jaskier's sleeve, eyes pleading for understanding. Thank you. The murmur whispers his sentiment without a voice. In these dreams within the more mundane, it feels easier, somehow, to manipulate these channels that connect them...]