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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Sylvain Jose Gautier | Fire Emblem Three Houses | tdm, brand fucking new

[laidtocrest]

1. glub glub sinking down

[And the funny thing is- the funny thing is that Sylvain has a thought that he can't shake. It's this: this is actually one of the better dreams he's had in a long time? It's terrible. It brings back old memories, memories that he would've said he buried with concepts like modesty. Constant drowning, sparks flickering between his fingers, rocks slowly crawling up his arm, with jellyfish intertwining with his legs and a pale white fish staring at him, following him as he slowly drowns. And it's actually not all that bad? The only fire is inside of him, the only death would be him, and if he's turning to stone it means he doesn't have to think for a while. It's very much the sort of dream he can give himself to because the alternative is worse, and it's just a dream, it's not as if the consequences are going to follow him around for a bit.

Ha ha, look, ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is bliss and Sylvain's enjoying thinking this is some fucked up dream he deserves. Loop number three and he's prepared to fall in, and then his hand catches on something and he turns to give whatever-that-is (or who is) a look.]

2. feast part 1

[Now, this is obviously a bad idea. He knows it, many other people know it, there's all signs of a tainted feast given the circumstances. This is like something out of-]

This is like something out of a book. [Hi, he's making conversation. He's going to pick up something safe, like- that fruit looks really normal, he's going to pick that up. Turn it in his hands, consider it.] Or an opera. You've ever been to-

[That's when someone- you? Someone else? NPC-kun down the table? That's when someone takes a bite of some kidneys and everyone impacted (Sylvain, you if it's not your memory) has to take a moment to relive something that no doubt involves blood and death and loss and pain and sorrow washing over them much like the dream from above had washed over him repeatedly, at great length.

The memory's over.

And Sylvain mutters something that sounds suspiciously like:]

How am I supposed to carry on a conversation like this. [And he takes a bite of the starpit fruit, and a long forgotten wish of belonging, like lily of the valley growing, sprouts up in the heart of another.]

3. feast part 2

[There's thorns, that's fine. There's flowers, and he's fascinated by them- really, he should probably be more horrified at the changes but all of this is a dream, yeah? It's not like where he left is anywhere better, yeah? It's not like he can do anything about it, and if he goes a bit further then he can warn anyone who comes after him because why not be the one who takes blows for other people...

No. No. What gets him is the fact that he pats the arm of someone or another, and then there's a branded sigil which- see, if he'd been made a different token, he could write it off. "Oh, it's the logic of a dream." But, even if Sylvain Jose Gautier doesn't know it yet, he's a pyromancer and fire burns in his veins and he set himself on fire once already in this dream (surprisingly refreshing, it was miserable but he didn't actually burn and it was nice surrendering to something else) and so seeing a sigil burned into someone else's skin- well. There's an obvious conclusion. Not the correct conclusion, but a possible obvious conclusion, the sort of conclusion that makes his heart fall into his stomach regardless of how true it is or not.]

Sorry. [About the branding.]

4. obligatory wildcard option

[Hit me with some random bullshit and I'll roll with it, shoot me a PM if you want to plot, and also I'm comfortable with both brackets and prose so just tag me with whichever your heart desires and I'll match. o/]

3.

[regulate]

[ A brush of arm against arm, so fleeting he would not have noticed if not for the sudden burning sensation that erupts on the very spot. He doesn't know when and how this man got here, the pull of the dream too distracting that Sunday had been wading through it as though hypnotized, which he should know better. He was once the Dreammaster himself, but here he finds himself demoted to a hapless dreamer, a slave to his own curiosities.

It takes him another moment to register that he's been marked as he pulls up his sleeve to inspect the wound, gloved fingers moving across seared flesh with a frown. Irritation also briefly flits across his eyes before vanishing, replaced with a neutral expression. ]

...It was an accident, I am sure.

[ He tugs his sleeve back down to cover the mark. ]

Do you know anything about our current surroundings? It is unexpected to find such a sophisticated dreamscape that is not constructed out of memoria.

[laidtocrest]

[It's one thing to feel it, and it's another thing to see it. As Sunday pulls up his sleeve Sylvain stares and mouths something that could be The Night Does Not Belong To God with a faint frown. Because he doesn't know what it means. If he marked anyone with anything along those lines, at the very least it should be a Goddess and not a God. (Not that he's the most devout of people, but you know. Holy Kingdom, Church of Seiros.) But something in his gut tells him that's what the mark means. He just knows.

The confusion gets immediately smoothed over to something pleasant. Neutral.]

Only that things can get weirder and some people have been here much longer than you and I have. [Memoria and dreamscape get filed away in his head. They're going to go back to that.] And, uh- careful with the food if you haven't tried any just yet.

[regulate]

[ His gaze briefly wafts across the feast that is most assuredly meant for them. As hungry as he feels, he's not keen on eating food even inside a dreamscape. He doesn't trust anything he did not create himself. ]

Which one of those dishes got the better of you? Or did you learn by pure observation?

[ A pretty sound tactic, considering they are all in unknown territory. There is no telling what effects dying here could carry on to their physical bodies, and he's not fool enough to believe the answer is simply 'nothing.' He's learned that lesson before. ]

[laidtocrest]

Little of both. [Shrug. It is what it is, and if he doesn't have the strongest self-preservation instincts at the moment, the least he could do is weaponize it on behalf of others. (Or something along those lines.)]

Kidneys bring back bad memories, for you and anybody sitting next to you. [Ask him how he knows this.] The fruit, something you want.

feast-1

[hallowedly]

( Gasped breath hot against Seishirou's collar, white-knuckled fists tight against cutlery strangled to points of bend and skin-bruising indentation. The young woman to Seishirou's left has certainly been exerting herself in the name of culinary exploration.

A bite of the scouse here, a smear of mint there, a sip of flaxen brandy, and certainly the main course calls for for red-blooded fare — kidney reeking of ferrous game and the sport and delight of the true connoisseur. And of course he'll help cut her meat, when her shivered hands break and fumble and fold, when she's trapped in the throes of febrile, bright-white, wild-eyed gluttony.

Shew chews like rodents do, blunt and decisive, snapping morsels between drip-drip-thickened droplets of waters leaving her mouth, spuming strange over blood spatters. Her nose leaked first. Then, the sad, turbulent squelch of her malformed swallow — and the table reverberates in echoes of mundane ache and soulful domestic tragedy.

How touching. How... disturbingly exhibitionistic of an experience. And so, the kidneys, Seishirou notes, are perhaps not the cook's best. Little is, though both his time — a function of their lady's patience, prickling his skin, grazing his awareness the longer he expends on his fast — and his resources are running remarkably thin.

It's when the woman's head slips down on the table after the next bite, limp as a marionette on cut strings, that it occurs to Seishirou it'll be an unfortunate thing to find a new blissfully ignorant tester for the remainder of the evening's courses in this economy.

Until one volunteers, muttering across the table's distance. Well, then. No time like the present to cleave his mouth in a summery, molten smile. )

I apologise for my... ( Friend? ...ah. No. They're no man's men here. And she was a woman, besides. ) Dinner companion. Heavy fare disagrees with her.

( He taps her shoulder neatly, as if to signal their familiarity, their fondness, their great undying connection. More spillage from her. Well, then. ) ...as does drink.

( A beat, then, carefully, slipping the dessert carousel before this sweet, healthy young man. ) To think she missed dessert. What a pity.

[laidtocrest]

[He smiles, and then, smiles a bit wider. He takes in the woman and how she...well, okay, she's not at her best and does he really care? Kind of. Feelings are mixed. He cares just enough to want her to get her way to a bed and maybe have her face washed off; Sylvain definitely doesn't care enough to volunteer.

That doesn't matter. What matters is the other guy, pushing the dessert before him and Sylvain takes a moment to lick off the last of the fruit from his fingers.]

Tell me what the fruit did first. [A counter-offer, said very pleasantly. Tell him what he wants to know and he'll get a blissfully self-aware tester.]

[hallowedly]

( Care is expected. A pause, consideration. This young woman has invited her downfall, yet society must now stop to admire its spectacle with heartfelt stupor and deliberate the set of palatable platitudes that can escort her into heavenly pastures.

It would be inconvenient, if she hadn't served enough of her purpose that even Seishirou can tick the box of shallow sentiment and gently peel her mantle off the back of her chair, then shroud her back and head. A little dignity. Only a spoonful.

...less, certainly, than the sweet morsels before the young man Seishirou has generously accepted as her heir apparent. What did the fruit do? A fair question, then. His mouth curdles. )

...inconclusive. ( One experiment, one instance, one amorphous audience — and the collective sensorial ambush of the entire table at hand. He hesitates, before assessing: ) Too much white noise. ( No. ) A positive experience. How did it feel?

[laidtocrest]

It was...

[How did it feel? Complicated question. He's still not sure how it felt. But he can start simple.]

It tasted perfect. It's the most satisfying thing I've had since forever, satisfying enough I almost can't be mad about whatever you saw because of it. [Almost, because it's a perfect fruit in taste and smell and texture - but it's still revealing pieces of him he'd rather keep hidden.] Felt, I'm not sure? It's complicated. It's like... [How to describe it.] Like trying to catch smoke in your hand.

glub glub

[dedicate]

[ interrupting that thought of his is another hand. someone has caught sylvain's hand in theirs, and from where they stand just above him, they offer a bright smile as they look back down at him. ]

You look like you could use a hand. Here, I'll pull you up.

[ his self-proclaimed saviour is a plain looking man with a striking scar cutting across his neck, sleeves rolled up and perfectly dry despite the ink-like sea that he's standing on. right, because what should be ocean under his feet is pitch black and glimmering like obsidian, its surface just bright and reflective, but failing to pull his shoes into its depths.

another hand clasps around sylvain's forearm, and choi begins to pull him up—where his fingers touch, the water that clings to sylvain's sleeves turns to small marbles, tumbling down until they can melt back into the sea once again. ]

[laidtocrest]

[He can probably see the flash of surprise that crosses Sylvain's face, the momentary confusion because he'd expected a lot of things, sure. Water. Fish. Maybe some specters, ghosts of the past haunting him in the way that all things tend to haunt in a dream. But Sylvain hadn't expected help.

He's not questioning it, and the surprise is there and gone again. The water turns to marbles, sure. He's climbing up as best as he can, trying to help as much as he can because Sylvain doesn't have faith in a Goddess, and his faith in his country has taken a beating, and the less said about himself the better, but he can believe in a mysterious man who turns water into marbles. Because nothing makes sense here. What's one more?]

Thanks.

[This is breathed out as he wobbles like a drunk penguin on the surface of a surprisingly solid ocean. He wants to let go. But also, does he?]

You don't mind if we... [He squeezes the hand he's holding onto.] Until we get to something more, you know. Solid.

[dedicate]

That's right, upsy daisy~

[ as long as he's out of the water, that's what counts, right? it definitely gets crazier than this, so don't think too hard on it. choi's relieved he doesn't at least—he's fielded all kinds of questions, but he doesn't have the answer to very many right now. the important part is that the ocean underfoot has returned to smooth glass, and though it still slowly rises and falls beneath them, it's no longer trying to swallow one of them whole.

and choi? he's content with that. he's about ready to let go when the other asks his question, and as hard pressed as he is to say 'no' to something that simple... ]

Are you sure? Ah, I don't mind though, haha. It's just that 'something more solid' might take a while.

[ with that, he'll tip his head in the direction of that very something—a small, distant structure. it's close enough that it seems reasonable to walk normally, but together? their palms will for sure be sweaty if they make their way all the way over there. ]

3 - cw reference to self harm

[saudades]

[Dazai is no stranger to marks on his body. Scars are a mosaic across his entire body, a not-insignificant amount of them self-inflicted; he wears bandages covering much of himself for a reason, after all. His palms are visible, though, so the brush of another against it is able to leave its sigil.

Dazai looks at it, intrigued. He doesn't appear the least bit disconcerted. Indeed, he smiles, honey-sweet, before suddenly reaching out to capture the other man's wrist, curious.]

Don't be. Now we match~

ftr I haven't read bsd in a hot minute but I've read Enough to remember Dazai

[laidtocrest]

[Now, there's a way these things usually go. This is usually the point in which he'd have to play it off somehow, with apologies (not Sylvain's usual tactic, but when you brand someone with a sigil and don't know how you did that apologies usually happen) or a joke.

He doesn't expect his wrist to be grabbed, and a mark made in return, and he freezes like a rabbit caught in a snare before a little laugh escapes his mouth. Like it's a good joke or something.

...actually, it kind of is?]

Yeah, I guess that's fair. [Matchy matchy, like a friendship bracelet! (No it is not.)] So I guess this is the point that we drink to our newfound friendship and matching friendship... [...uh.] ...brands or something?

glub glub, rubber ducky

[sworntoher]

( Startled into consciousness by the pull of violent, freezing waves crashing down on him was both a shock and great offense. Instinctively, Hubert tried to pull himself up, and was surprised when the waters held as firm as glass. He found himself standing tall, soaked, irritated by his unkempt appearance, but proud of whatever he had just effortlessly managed.

Taking in his surroundings, he made his way to the stone cathedral in he distance that beckoned him, ignoring distant cries for help, unconvinced the voices were real, and not some sort of distraction or trap. This was his plan, to keep his eyes firm on his destination, until he tripped over a limb rising from below him, grasping blindly at his feet and robes. ) Foul creature, unhand me!

( He prepared a spell to cast it off if it persisted, hands beginning to glow an unnatural green, but was delayed by the sudden nauseating wave of brine that salted his mouth and choked from his throat. ) Urgh...disgusting.

( Hubert wiped his mouth with his soaked cape, recognition settling onto his face, seemingly unmoved to take action. ) Oh. It's you.

oh shit hello again

[laidtocrest]

[He hadn't meant to grab onto anything, not exactly, it's more the reflexive thing that happens before you sink beneath the waves again. Coincidence. Chance. But once that thing started to fight, he clung all the harder because he's not sure if he wants to be saved, but like hell is he going to let whatever-it-is kick him off.

That lasts until astonished, surprised recognition. There's a moment of hatred, knee-jerk instincts that were engraved on him over the last five years of war. The part of him that's Faerghus demanding that he somehow drag Hubert down into the deep with him and do his duty. And then that almost immediately gets smothered because, unfortunately...

Hubert's smart. And from what Sylvain remembers, pragmatic in a way he can respect. Unfortunately. All of this would be simpler if he wasn't.]

Yeah, it's me. [And Sylvain's absolutely using Hubert's foot as just enough leverage so he can try to look around. Not much, just to see if, say, Dorothea was going to walk along next and he could say hey to her.] Seen anyone else around or is it just the two of us?

2

[omertosa]

[She really should know better.

This is a much more trussed up affair than the quietly enticing and open garden that had welcomed the vessels the first time Sleep saw fit to hold them captive within the space of a dream, and all the more alarming for it. So, Texas knows the food isn’t what it seems. And she’d watched and waited long enough to see its anticipated effects run scattershot through the more impulsive souls in attendance at this surreal banquet.

When the compulsion to take a bite finally gets the better of her, she doesn’t know whether to blame that insistent, invisible pressure from the god watching them all or the feral wildness that’s been growing harder to tame within herself over the last couple of months. Hell, it’s probably a little of both. Either way, it’s somewhat of an unthinking act that leads her to spear a morsel of those kidneys with a fork and bring it to her lips.

And at once, for a long and lingering moment, she’s no longer in that opulent dining hall, but in a familiar office of her childhood home, furniture scattered and broken in the tell-tale remnants of a fight.

More obvious is the wet heat of blood splashed across her chest, dark even against the red of her shirt. Her hand, sticky with that same crimson, pulls away from the hilt of a sword spearing through the chest of a man and pinning him to the chair he now slumps lifelessly upon. A man with strikingly similar features to her own—the same dark hair and lupine ears, the same amber glint to his eyes that even in death still stare hatefully up at her.

It’s with that same numb anger that she fishes into her coat pocket, her own amber eyes still locked onto the corpse of her father before her, to pull out a silver lighter. And with the click of the lighter’s top being flipped open and the flame flickering to life, the memory ends, and the banquet hall is once again filling her senses.

All she really has for that is a tired sigh, one of the ears atop her head flicking slightly when the man beside her mutters something under his breath. She eyes him, eyes that fruit he’s got in hand.]

Maybe don’t—

[Ah, nope. There he goes, taking a bite. And inciting a bit of dizzying emotional whiplash in the process.]

yoooo

[laidtocrest]

[Under different circumstances this would be accidental, but with her? With Texas and that memory? It was an entirely intentional choice, one that was veiled in thoughtlessness. Because the similarities didn't escape him, between the girl-she-was and the woman-she-is with the man that had been killed. Because- well, he tries not to think about Miklan, and have been staying the fuck away from those kidneys for a reason, but sometimes people randomly cut deeply?

So, the fruit, and there's a simple wish of belonging, something as tender as a flower. And he just gives her a pleasant smile as if he had no idea what the hell it was he had done, like he hadn't taken whatever that was and slapped it as far away as he could. Under different circumstances, this would be the prelude to a shitty flirtation, but in this case?]

Sorry, didn't catch that. [And, also.] Fruit's pretty good?

\o/

[omertosa]

[Texas has always been one to play things close to the chest, so it comes as no surprise that memories like this being dragged to the surface and dangled in front of others hits in a very aggravating way. Not that she allows it to show much beyond the way her brows knit together ever so slightly, but she still has half a mind to excuse herself and avoid the awkwardness altogether.

But then there’s the fruit, intentional or not, smoothing things over with a shift in sensation. And maybe it’s that gentle desire for belonging that it stirs up, or maybe it’s something else that’s fostering that nagging little feeling to push it all aside and keep seated—either way Texas is eyeing him a little more closely for a moment, before finally exhaling a huff that’s not quite a laugh.]

Better than some of the other offerings.

[Punctuated with a little shove of her plate away, because she thinks she’s had quite enough of that already.]

feast 1

[hanikamu]

[ It's a lot to take in all at once: the attempts at Sylvain's life by someone with the same red hair, the unwanted advances, the familiar pressure to become something he's not. A profound sorrow washes over Rinne. What kind of society would do that to a man? What kind of man would kill his own brother? The flood of memories shock Rinne into tears before he registers them running down his cheeks. But an Amagi doesn't cry. He quickly wipes his cheeks dry and scans the area, trying to put a face to the dream. He could have sworn he saw it in a mirror there, if not in the murderous gaze of his brother's eyes—

There.

In a few strides, Rinne closes in on the source of his nightmares and snatches the fruit before Sylvain can snack on it a second time. ]

Kyaha! [ The laughter is playful, foxlike. ] Hey, hey. Save some for the rest of us, man. [ He tosses the fruit over his shoulder, which lights up in flames and burns to a crisp. ] I'm a huge fan of apples myself, but we can talk just fine without the snacks, I think!

[ Because it's a monarch's duty to look out for the welfare of the people, and Rinne thinks Sylvain should be treated no differently. ]

Don't think I've ever been to the opera. I've only watched that stuff on TV. Say, anyone ever tell you you look like an idol?

[ It's a lot. He's a lot. Operation: Distraction, go. ]

[laidtocrest]

[He's a lot. It's a lot. More than that, there's something familiar about it that has Sylvain just staring for a moment. It's like his shell was cracked wide open for a second. Just a second? Just a moment of I can't believe someone's trying to distract me.

And it's gone again.]

Nope, never. [He pops the p. Sylvain doesn't know what an idol is in this context and knows it's probably not a false god or an object of worship. Context clues.] First time for everything? Though I did once have a girl tell me I looked like her reincarnated lover from a past life- long story, didn't end well.

feast part 2

[hibai]

[ Apologies for your fiery curse upon others who happen to be within arm's length, Mister Gautier. As for this victim's perspective, well... so much for acting like he's another NPC-kun, because they probably wouldn't get burned in the first place, not being significant for that hidden message. In this moment he's honestly just caught off guard by... it probably felt like something that should make you pull back a little, like mindlessly touching a hot pan. But also. ]

It's not like you actually have a hot iron in hand to make this kind of mark. What a strange thing to pass onto someone...

[ Yoichi's terrible enough to make a sort of stamping motion with his other hand like he had something to brand that mark. And with a casual smile too, but that really is because he doesn't mind and accepts the apology. That said, now we have more weird assumptions because surely, he'd know something to sound like that. It's a different kind of sorry, like in between an over-emphasized one with too much remorse and the other kind that isn't at all sincere, as it's a formality. To see if Sylvain does know anything though than just ponder, he holds his hand so they could both look at the sigil. ]

It's not ugly? It looks like a mountain, if I were to take a guess.

[ Optimism? Optimism. ]

[laidtocrest]

[He stares at it for a moment, feeling strangely guilty even though he doesn't know how he did it, why he did it, and then Sylvain tilts his head a bit and stares at it in a slightly different way because-]

Huh.

[He's never seen it before. He knows this. And yet there's a strange sensation that he understands what it means. It's like some instinct.]

How are you on religion? [They're starting there.]

[hibai]

[ He thinks he got the point across, so he's content with that to not wave his hand around or something. That's a curious response to seeing it though. ]

...It's not for me.

[ He sounds sure about that at least. Like in a literal sense, and/or he doesnt fit the bill of a good practitioner if he could. He makes a dismissive motion with his hand for emphasis. ]

And you? I could buy it if you got dragged into something, you dont seem the type.

Glub Glub

[closetdweller]

[A sharp swat with what seemed to be a bare foot met Sylvain's grasp on his third loop- the movement rough and impulsive, like a night bird startled from it's roost.]

Dude, are you dumb?

[Hanzo Urushihara, in his loose cargo shorts and plain short sleeves tee shirt, dark hair sodden with both seaweed and sea water, demanded with the gusto of an irate teenager. The words were punctuated with a heavy sigh- and both hands grabbing onto the stranger's before he sank once again.]

I don't know what'll happen if you do that too many times. Maybe your brains will get scrambled? I mean, more scrambled?

[He tugged, skinny arms useless for more and scuffed feet unable to find traction on the surface of the water.]

Come on~ I'm not going down with you, so you've gotta get your butt up here!