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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fray myste | ffxiv | new player

[beaffrayed]

a. prologue: dark waters

[ At first, the darkness wrapping him feels almost familiar, but the ache of silence pressing in on him is quick to dispel that notion. The abyss is many things, but never this. Water peels off his armored form, and while he's not faint of heart, it's a skin-crawling sensation to feel it cling.

(To feel touch once again; not borrowed through another's memory, but true. To feel weariness tugging at a body wholly his...?

Well. He can handle those questions once he's not afloat in the middle of the ocean.)

The sea stretches to the horizon, lightless, endless, and there's only one way to any land at all. Fray is nothing if not determined, and so when the water shifts to glass beneath his feet, made solid by his surety, he takes one step and then another, steadily heading to his destination.

But if he hears someone cry out, sees or hears another's struggle, he changes his course; reaching without hesitation into the dark water to grasp their hand, to pull them up, to offer his hand to the drowning. ]

Walk with me. [ His voice is unwavering and brooks no question, projected perfectly with strength from beneath the concealing veil of his mask. You can do it, you will do it, he is not offering you a choice here.

Or maybe he's simply walking beside you, and you've encountered each other on the surface. Though it's clear he's observing you by the way his head turns, he doesn't seem much of a conversationalist... ]

b. feasting hall

[ If you ever wondered if it was possible for someone without even the hint of a facial expression to simply radiate disapproval, Fray certainly does. Clad in dark, shimmering robes and delicate strings of gold jewellery that seem to have somehow attached themselves to the pauldrons and replaced the longcoat of his regular armor, the knight paces around the hall and stands before each pedestal, contemplating the phantoms atop them, before finally, reluctantly taking a seat. ]

I can't say I'm much for these sorts of affairs. [ There's a dryness to his tone, but also a faint tinge of morbid amusement, as if it's a joke only he understands. ] Not much of the reputable type...

[ At later stages of the banquet, Fray can be seen reluctantly poking at some dish or another, facemask removed but veil decidedly not; he seems somewhat faded, less vivid than before. He's getting Very pressured to eat literally anything, and for a variety of reasons, he really doesn't want to...

But eventually, he has to; obeying his own, newly unpleasant instincts, if nothing else. Hunger snaps through him, red and raw and visceral, and though he approaches it like he's taking medicine -- he bites down on the taste of blood, and the memory comes forth, unbidden.

(cw for impalement, death)

It's a bitter loss, but it'd be less so if he didn't know what the consequences of it were to be. It's simply too much for him to handle; at the very least, though, Sid and Rielle have gotten free. He can only hope that Sid had some goddamn swiving sense and gotten Rielle to safety rather than trying to help him.

The breath goes out of his lungs as the knight shoves the sword through his gut with a triumphant shout, the pain radiant and sudden as it knocks him out of his trance, severing that moment of synergy with the darkness within.

(And yet, the abyss claims him as he bleeds; lovingly, without judgement. He can feel himself sinking, fragmenting...is this what death ought to feel like? He's not sure...)

He feels cold and hot all at once. Pain fractures up his back as the knight pulls his sword out, kicks him down the stairs, leaves his body where it lies. He crumples against the wall, pulling himself upright with the last of his strength, he'll be damned if he dies without some measure of dignity... The dim clatter of metal makes his senses swirl in confusion.

Generous of them to give me my sword back when I can't even use it on them, is his last, bitter thought.

Something hard is in his hand. The stone, still warm -- even hot to the touch -- tumbles from his palm, and he slips into darkness and death, and knows no more.

Fray simply stiffens, as if this memory is somewhat worn for him, but anyone else experiencing it: enjoy the Visceral Experience Of Being Fatally Impaled!

If he's not begrudgingly attempting the somewhat alarming ordeal of eating (still without actually showing his face, the veil makes it easy here) he's likely simply looking around the hall or observing his fellow diners. Though his eyes can't be seen through the mask he wears, his attention can be keenly felt, if it lands on you - as if he's looking for something.

(ooc: feel free to assume a dish for fray to Very Reluctantly eat/to be affected by besides the one provided! i can basically roll with anything o/) ]

c. unworthy

Hells--

[ What a time to not have his gods-damned sword.

There are people to be saved, of course. Why would it be anything else? He could run, likely, but for a dark knight - even one weaponless - there is no running.

That ever-present friend, anger, roils beneath his ribs and skin with hungry heat; his heart pounds, his breath quickens, and then he hears the first crack as his body begins to warp under the strain of the beast's presence.

Spine-chilling clarity dawns. This is not the malleability he is used to. It's something else.

Some remnant of the overwhelming light of the First? Some void-bound infection from the Thirteenth? He bites down on any complaints - useless as of now - and runs towards the thing, trying to drag people away from it.

All the while, trying to keep himself from changing more, futile though it might be. His breath, his heartbeat, it's spinning wildly out of control; white and gold cracks through his armor like he's stone underneath, misshapen feathers poking their way out.

Listen. Listen...

His heart pounds in his ears, his gut wrenching with how wrong it feels.

What in the hells has he gotten himself into? ]

d. wildcard

[ Anything else, i'll roll with it! i'll be playing Fray as an offering, specifically a seraph, hence the feathers and all. since i think everybody starts out looking kinda normal he doesn't look too weird Yet but as threads progress i am sure that will change hahah ]

b

[consumingly]

[ From his left comes a reply in a dismissive tone: ]

You don't gotta be reputable for this kind of thing.

[ That's Endo's two cents as a guy who's covered in tattoos, looking like the opposite of someone who'd attend a banquet. He isn't all that reputable either, all things considered, but that's never stopped him from walking in high society if he wants. ]

You just gotta act like you are.

[ That's what he does! And it works for him perfectly, so who's to say it couldn't work for a guy covered head-to-toe in armor, presumably with some questionable past behind him? Disreputable folks gotta look out for each other and all that nonsense.

Besides: ]

This ain't the kind of place that cares about that, anyway.

[beaffrayed]

[ He glances over to his left, observing Endo as he speaks. The tattoos are certainly interesting - he's never seen the like, not exactly - but ultimately they're one part of a whole, a story writ around a stranger's skin.

The words get a huff of laughter, some of that tension in the rigid set of his shoulders ebbing. ]

Aye, there's truth in that. It's not about whether you've earned the right, you only need act like it. Though I'd rather not act too much like a pompous arse.

[ It's that last bit that catches his attention more sharply, though. ]

Why the trappings, then? [ He sort of gestures to the

everything. ]

[consumingly]

[ Endo's eyes track his gestures, and then look beyond, to the "splendor" around them. The atmosphere reads a little more eerie to him than the kind of fancy he'd expect from a formal banquet, but there's no denying that it's nice — elegant, even. Plus, they're dressed up like this is some kind of treat — a reward after half of the attendees nearly drowned.

Almost like a distraction. ]

To make it appealing.

[ He's pretty sure they'll all be expected to eat eventually, just as he's sure that means they shouldn't. But should or shouldn't won't play into it; it'll be a matter of consequences. ]

Dress up a place like this, make everyone feel a little better, and no one's gonna notice the shit underneath.

[ Or: a lot of people will be taken in by the beauty of it all.

It's not unlike tactics he's used in the past, though the circumstances, and his approach as a whole, were pretty different. Still, like recognizes like. They aren't here for the experience. They're here to be drawn into something that probably won't end well. ]

[beaffrayed]

Funny, that. I've never seen anything of this sort without already knowing there's worse things lurking. [ He sounds faintly bitter about it...Ishgard's pristine walls and clergy were naught but a cover for the festering rot within, as far as he's concerned. ]

Though not everyone's the knowledge to be so suspicious of beauty of this sort. [ It works well. He knows that too. ] That's what makes you and I disreputable, mayhap?

[ A faint sense of amusement tinges those last words. ]

[consumingly]

[ Hey, that sounds like familiarity — a glimpse at a sense of comradery. Endo's been a little lax in the making friends department since he arrived here, but he really needs to step up his game if he's going to get anywhere. While he's capable of taking care of himself, it'll be a hell of a lot easier if he's got contacts to call upon. That's how he managed to be so successful back home — he had a whole network going. He figures this'll be the same deal. Whether he's looking for an escape route or establishing a temporary base, he's going to need a few people who're worth something.

All that armor could come in handy, too.

Returning that hint of amusement: ]

Yup. That's part of it.

[ Among other things. ]

The real question is what do we do with that knowledge?

[ Go with the flow? Buck the system? Two people at a disadvantage, correctly identifying secrets but having only limited options in this place. ]

[beaffrayed]

[ Fray doesn't usually look for camaraderie in the traditional sense - he has limited options, would be the most generous way of putting it - but out on his own...well, he knows better than most what comes of never relying on another. ]

Aye, that's one thing to ask. Another would be -- what can we do with it here? It'll do neither of us any good to suffer meaninglessly in defiance. [ Even though it might feel satisfying...for a time. He drums his fingers on the table lightly, in thought. ] If there's rot underneath, how will it choose to reveal itself?

a;

[fromfire]

[ Ah, sinking yet again.

He doesn't feel resigned to drowning, but he doesn't feel the same rush of panic as the first time he drowned. It's not the best way to go, of course, and he isn't fond of it.

Yet just as he was mulling over how to stop the continuous death he's experiencing, he is pulled up from the waters. He chokes and spits out the dark waters; his hand lifts to wipe the liquid away from his chin. Of course, it's pointless; his entire body is soaked down to the bone at this point.

Twisting, he lifts his head up to stare at the one who saved him. ]

Given the other choice I have... I guess I'll take you up on your offer.

[ Walk it is! ]

[beaffrayed]

If you'd rather drown, I'll drag you about until the feeling stops. [ His voice is dry, and he doesn't let go of Verso's hand, so it feels a lot more threatening than reassuring. You are being helped, please do not resist.

The lightless expanse has no wind, so he's no idea how long it takes to get dry here, but at the very least they can both keep walking towards land. The glassy surface of the water fragments beneath their combined weight as Fray hauls the man up and out proper, fracturing out in spiderwebbing cracks -- but it does not break, that's the important thing. ]

Can you stand?

[fromfire]

I think --

[ It's a shaky breath before he is pushing himself up and onto the surface of the water. ]

-- I can stand so long as I got your hand here. [ Because the veiled man is standing, he believes he'll be fine so long as he holds onto him. It pushes away the doubt that he'll keep sinking, at the very least. Not that Verso has put two-and-two together but he does know he won't be experiencing the sensation of drowning again. ]

Ah, well... [ Threat or no, he's glad to no longer be sinking into the water only to slowly drown. ] ... I mean, if there was a fast way to drown, I'd love to hear it. Actually, I wouldn't. So let's not talk about that, okay?

[beaffrayed]

[ An easy solution, then. Fray tightens his grip a little, just to make sure the other man doesn't fall in once more, but it's not to the point of discomfort. ]

Then it's settled. [ A tinge of dry amusement. ] We'll not talk about drowning, fast or otherwise. This strange ocean might get ideas, if we give them voice.

[ Does it actually work like that? Fray doesn't know. Is he going to act like it does? Absolutely.

He turns his head to the light in the distance, for lack of another conversational topic. ]

What do you think of that structure, over there?

b

[lupusxylem]

[What an awful memory to be brain-blasted with, holy shit.

It would probably be a lot worse for anyone else, the experience of what is essentially just...dying a horrible death. And the thing is, Wolfwood's never died, at least not permanently, but he sure has gone to the brink and back more times than he'd care to count. He's been shot, crushed, burned and stabbed.

So when the memory does finally fade, leaving him sitting there stiffly next to Fray as he exhales slowly in the wake of it, it's maybe surprising the way he laughs under his breath, humorless.]

Impaled. That's a new one.

[beaffrayed]

It's not any more pleasant to experience it in the flesh, I'll say that. [ Fray's voice is dry, but he does glance over to the man, his hidden gaze concerned. ]

Though you sound like a veteran of fatal injury, yourself. In that, I'm your junior - for I've only died the once.

[ Near-death experiences he's seen plenty of, but those weren't what he'd call his. He was separated from those memories, and he'd hardly claim them as his own. ]

[lupusxylem]

Listen, you don't gotta die to experience a fatal injury. Just gotta get reeal close. Like stupidly close.

[Like "my heart stopped but I got better", close.

He sighs, shrugging one shoulder.]

Can't say I'm a fan. Wouldn't recommend it.

[beaffrayed]

I've certainly witnessed a few, and that was bad enough. [ How many times has the Warrior been brought to the brink of death? More than he likes to think about.

That last sentence gets a snort. ] Would anyone? Save your enemies or the death-obsessed.

[lupusxylem]

Hmph, you'd be surprised.

[Sometimes he thinks Chapel purposefully raised him to be so desensitized to the concept of death and dying that there'd be no possible way he'd ever falter when he needed to pull the trigger. It would explain a lot, that's for sure.]

I sure ain't seen a place like that before, though. [From the vision, he means. A sword, instead of a gun?] Where exactly are you even from?

b., early stage

[pointedlook]

[ Truthfully, he's not really made for these kinds of events, either. Boys from suburban America rarely got to brush elbows with the kind of wealth needed to put on this kind of display. And even in the couple of times he has, it was on false premise: at the heart of his career, he's still a criminal.

He doesn't feel the exact same sense of being other here, perhaps because he's been marked by Sleep for long enough that there's a measure of acceptance. Or maybe, more likely, he's grown used to the lingering unease of being a chosen Vessel.

Either way, he, like Fray, is restless, walking the length of the hall to get a better sense of what was being said here, in the silence between. Without aught else to look over, he finally lets out a sigh and hooks his foot on a chair leg to pull it away from the table. There is, at least, a bit more observance of manners as he sits, reflexively flicking his jacket vents aside before he does. ]

Don't think anyone was actually for these kinds of things. [ Arthur glances over at the source of the comment, dark eyes quickly scanning over their drape of black and fine chains of gold. ] Well, maybe egoists.

[beaffrayed]

[ Now here's a man dressed in clothes he's not seen before. Interesting.

His movement around the hall had caught Fray's eye before; another one not so quick to come to the table. That means he's properly wary, which is all to the good. ]

Pompous arses like those in the nobility love the things, in my experience. [ Slight tinge of bitterness there, as well as dry amusement; that bitterness soon ebbs, though. ] Not that I've ever been invited to one, or that I'd attend except to ruin it.

No matter who runs the things, it doesn't leave me with a wealth of experience.

[pointedlook]

That's because their parents didn't hug them enough or something, so they show off. Gotta get their kicks somehow. [ Whatever dry humor is being offered, he returns in kind, mouth twisting in a wry smile. ] Been to a couple of these things, before. Depending on what you want out of it, they can be useful.

[ A large enough crowd to disappear in, if you're not high profile. That was the real trick of it, he's learned (from Eames). Tailor the persona. Identity could open doors as well as close them, if leveraged in the wrong way. He's never perfected the art, choosing to let a master draw their skilled brush across the varied canvas of his fake identities, instead.

But, it was good information to know, regardless. ]

Either way, this one is sure to be ... less like anything most people have experienced. You won't be the only odd man out.

[beaffrayed]

Well, if everyone's as reticent as I, then I'll not stand out at all. Save to our host, perhaps. [ He can feel that pressure prickling on the back of his neck; being watched.

He considers what the man had said before, giving him a thoughtful, considering look. ]

My calling's not the kind to lend itself to subtlety, so I'll have to take your word for it. You sound like it's well within your interests to attend for such use, though. Is it for profession, or passion?

[pointedlook]

Reticent or not, our host has ... certain expectations of her Vessels. [ His mouth twists downwards at that, clearly unenthusiastic about being asked to worship some unseen deity. He's still not entirely sure he knows how that's being defined. Or if by existing in the ruins of Manhattan, they're slowly succumbing to her thrall anyway.

Putting that worrying thought aside for now, he focuses on his tablemate's question, weighing it out. ] Little of both. Professionally, it serves a purpose. Personally, I just like to be good at my job.

[ Arthur shrugs; being in dreamshare has always been the intersection of both those things, for him. There's no disentangling them, especially not at this point. ]

What's your calling, then?

c.

[sorte]

[ aventurine is pulled out of the stunned daze he's been caught in with the abomination's sudden formation and appearance when he's grabbed. turning his head to look, the stoneheart sees a black knight with armor cracking in an ominous way.

that can't be comforting at all in this situation, but aventurine can immediately sense that this individual is an Offering subtype from the way the individual 'feels' with them physically touching. the abomination is causing their abilities to go haywire, then...? ]

Who are you?

[beaffrayed]

Name's Fray. [ Growing, prickling pain and his own rising trepidation keeps his words short, but his grip is firm and steady as he pulls Aventurine away from the thing. ] I'd ask for yours, but I'm not certain this is the time for pleasantry.

[ The abomination cries out, its screams rippling through air and flesh, and the armor-clad man bites back another hiss of pain as more feathers push forth from his shoulderblades. ]

[sorte]

Aventurine.

[ pleasantries or not, it might be useful if Fray knows his name later for whatever reason.

he grimaces at the sound of the Abomination's screams, but his attention is drawn quickly to the other who is clearly suffering far more. ]

We really need to get you away from it. I don't know why, but it's directly affecting you and some others that Sleep has given the ability to shapeshift to.

[beaffrayed]

Aventurine, then. I'll remember it.

I'd not asked for it, so I've no idea why it's been given to me... [ The grumble is half-hearted, more an expression of how the pain is getting to him more than anything else. He's trying to put a good face on it, but his breathing is labored. ]

If there's no-one else who needs assistance, I'll go, but--I'll not stand idle if another's in danger. [ Perfectly willing to run right back in, this guy! ]