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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
Prologue: New Characters
You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
ᛗ
Sink Down Like Precious Stones
( content warnings: drowning, body horror )
Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.
• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.
ᛗ
You Taste Like New Flesh
( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )
The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm.
Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.
"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.
Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.
Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.
Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.
Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.
Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.
Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.
• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.
• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.
ᛗ
There's Something In The Way You Lay
( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )
Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten.
At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are.
You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.
NOTES
NOTES
• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.TOKEN EFFECTS
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.
• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.
ᛗ
I am not worthy
( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )
Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot.
First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence.
Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall.
They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.
"I am not worthy."
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.TOKEN EFFECTS
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).
• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.
ᛗOOC NOTES
➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
Silco | Arcane | New Player, Old RP Soul
[The familiar embrace of water was both a blessing and curse. It held him close, caressing his sallow skin, swaying the longer portions of his hair so that it caressed his forehead and ears. It was thick and cool and ambivalent, and it brought with it a reprieve from the complex twisted emotions that he last endured: fury, fear, pain, acceptance, and dare he give it a name: love. Everything always seemed to return to the duality of water with its sweet suffocating embrace.
He rose to the surface without a fight, recalling all the tasks that he had left to do and the first step was a single life-nurturing suck of air as his face broke the surface. Rivets of thick dark water caressed the landscape of his features, sliding through the deep etched scarring on the left side of his face as his red-orange pupil lit the darkness like a furious pinprick from the distance.
Silco floated like that for a moment, staring at the nothingness above, recalling the last few thoughts that had brought him to this place. Was this the domain of the Kindred? A life after death? There were stories of course, most of which were used to scare children of what lay beyond the veil of this cycle. He was reminded of the silence being peace and isolation, a reprieve from what it was that he would and had done to see things made right no matter the cost.
He shifted and his hands reached out, catching the edge of the water like it had become this solid glass-like floor. Without trouble, he pulled himself up and out of the cool watery embrace and rose to set one foot on the solid expanse of water and then the other. He uncurled his slim body and made a point of lifting his hands and pushing his fingers through his dark hair so it no longer fell into his face.
He stared at this expanse of seeming nothingness and with confidence, he simply chose a direction and began to walk. He left a trail of water in his wake as if he were shedding the truth of his own demise, but what was this place? It mattered not because he would find a way to rule it as he had his own city.]
ii. Just a Taste?
[Silco say unimpressed by the spread before him, the long table hosting people that he did not know and seemed less inclined to interact with him. He stared at them from behind the mask that he wore, his heterochromic gaze searching for signs of what this game’s purpose actually was. He did not, as a rule, eat much or often and certainly not from a stranger’s table.
That, of course, wasn’t to say that he wasn’t willing to play the part that seemed to be demanded of them in spirit. He took some food and set it before him, using a spoon to stir the stew or a fork to push around the plums, but not once did he make any effort to let it touch his thin lips. It wasn’t even a particularly crafty ruse either, simply a faint effort to make it clear he would play a game up to a certain point.
Instead, he observed with the intention of determining the point and purpose but more how this particular feast was meant to play out. Others around him were either not eating at all, eating mechanically as if it were their very life’s purpose and others still were willing at their own pace. Those were the people that his gaze focused on, fork toiling with the items on his plate purposefully even as thoughts, emotions and memories not his own picked at the corners of his consciousness. He became aware of it and it suddenly made sense.
Food built connection in many cultures. Food opened people to dialogue and experience, commentary and reminiscence. Of course. How pathetic. Except, he was not immune from those close to him and it was becoming abundantly clear that he would partake one way or another whether he liked it or not. Still, control was important enough to him that he would let other’s memories wash over him and drag him in. Why? Because it might make them useful to him later.]
Do enjoy the food. It’s quite delectable it seems. [Said the man who wouldn’t eat and clearly needed at least one solid meal in his lifetime. For now, his refusal is overlooked, but it was the slight he fully intended it to be.]
iii. We Are Not Worthy
[Ah, so the palace of luxury would be corrupted in time, was it? No wonder the golden sister city glimmered on the surface but was a fetid sweltering sewer of filth and rot. This place, that place, they all were no different and all of them stood on the backs of the downtrodden, the used, the sick and the dying. It was all full circle, but he took actual pleasure in seeing the palace break down, decay and come to ruin. It was like a dream come true, a momentary truth that he always knew was possible with just the right effort.
His lips twisted in a sharp smile as ruination fell around himself from the roof and bodies twisted, bloated and came apart. He stood his ground, unperturbed by it all. It was just like home honestly, and who was he to deny how he wished this rot to spread to Piltover, to be revealed as the dolled up corpse that it was.
But then, all the pleasure was sucked from the room as disquiet slid across his narrow shoulders. As the abomination pulled itself and formed from the bits and pieces, he took his first step back. He avoided its extended claw at first, a light sheen of sweat breaking out across his brow as the first hints of doubt festered in his belly. You’re nothing but a filthy little thing, aren’t you? A truth he had laboured to climb over for all of his recalled life.
Anger burst forth like a curse, blazing his eye but the first seeming caress of the Abomination sent him jerking aside. You are and always will be less than them. Silco fled immediately, breaking like a horse from a track gate. He would not endure that; he had mastered himself years and years ago, expunged the doubt and buried it under layers of finery, cruelty, confidence and delusion.
So he’d run, unable or unknowing how to wake himself. The beast followed, crashing along, reaching and seeking as if knowing there were so many experiences that scarred him below the surface. He fled in search of reprieve or… another victim to take his place.
When he came upon another, he didn’t hesitate to move beyond them to set them between himself and the Abomination. There was something about this person that he sensed, a weakness and thus they may become a worthwhile sacrifice.]
It’s coming for you, you know. It smells your weakness.
iv. Wildcard
[Greetings! Don’t see something that tickles your fancy when it comes to Crime Daddy™? Please feel free to launch your own starter at me! I’m also available for plotting at
I am also willing to match preferred writing style: prose vs bracket. I also tl;dr most starters. No apologies.]
i.
is this her punishment for all the crimes she has done? the countless blood that's been smeared on her palms? isn't her being in this world already torturous enough? but she should have known her "JINX" would catch up to her in due time, and in truth, she is angry at her curse for taking its sweet time to screw her over like this. 'you still have something left to give.' — the voice of sleep buzzes in her ears suddenly, and her limbs thrash around like a wild dance as if to break away from their invisible grip on her. there's a fish that's observing her with no purpose to assist or to harm her; and the bluenette had a brief thought it could be sleep in the form of that fish. and it feels like a mockery the way it stared, and if jinx had more fight in her, she'd tear it to shreds somehow. maybe cook it until it's nothing but ashes.]
[when jinx gets cast to the surface for the millionth time, her breath catches as her head swims in a daze and hangs low. through her sleek bangs, she spots a man in the distance, a man dressed so distinguishedly (while soaked) that there would be no question, no doubt of who he is. she parts her lips purely out of instinct to utter out his name, even with her voice being beyond brittle at this point. but before she could, jinx gets heaved under the waters again.]
no subject
Someone was failing, floundering, losing themselves. As the distance closed, he felt a spiteful ring of pleasure as they thrashed in weakness. Not everyone could rise, not everyone could thrive; these were the rules that they had all been living by since the moment they had been born. He hadn't decided if he would watch them stiffen their spine themselves or if he would offer assistance that came with a price.
That was until he heard his name. He stopped walking and stared, not sighting the family long twin braids that defined a legacy that he had left behind. There was no doubt in his mind though; he would know her voice in pitch darkness while being eaten alive from his toes upwards. Strangely, her voice didn't come to his ears but seemed to caress his mind.
He didn't hesitate as she slid beneath the surface of the water even if the pang of phantom pain in his chest reminded him of their last encounter. She had killed him; wasn't it only comeuppance that she die too? No, no, she was perfect and his legacy, the one person who had simultaneously made him strong and weak at the same time.
He rushed to where she had gone, spying her beneath the surface fighting for her life. Without hesitation, he plunged an arm into the water to grasp her wrist and pulled her up to greet the air and him. His daughter. His pride. His joy and ruination.]
Jinx, just breathe. The more you struggle, the more you'll sink. Calmly now, just as I taught you.
cw: flesh ripping and burning + partial nudity?? idk how to describe it but something like that.
her pinks lock stiffly to his mismatched ones, her lower lip trembling in a combination of fear, chill, and disbelief. and it's that doubt that causes the ocean to claw at her ankles again, readying itself to plunge the girl back down with it for another tormenting punishment.]
Y-You... You can't be...
[before she could finish, his daughter winces and instantly grips onto his clothing, burrowing deep into him. something in her chest is scorching, and she felt this once before during her "first dream"... which could only mean one thing: it's the hex gemstone coming back. she had wondered what happened to it when she woke up, and she searched for it everywhere but only found a pair of boxing gloves as a ridiculous gift that sleep left her. as the burn courses its way towards her back, jinx gasps then shrieks in agony—the gemstone breaking through her muscle, skin, and her top attire to shine and settle itself.
once the pain passes, her entire body quivers, and a water wing forms somewhat gracefully from her back—it laps along the outline of the crystal, like an animal nursing its wound and cleaning away the blood.]
None of this is real, Jinx. ... This is just... a dream. I-It's only a dream...— Wake up. Please wake up.
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We Are Not Worthy
Covered in viscera from exploding corpses and cut tentacles, Clive has just finished freeing yet another person from the vile things when movement catches his eye. He hadn’t seen the beast chase someone so adamantly. Clive looked from the fleeing form to any potential exit and swore under his breath. If he remembered correctly, the way the man was heading would be a dead end.
He knew his magic was weaker here now. He had felt it time and time again, but there was no way he was going to get to the man fast enough without using it. In a blaze of fire that boiled the very blood he dashed across, Clive got close enough to sprint the last distance, just in time for the would-be victim to dash past him.
Whip quick, Clive grabbed the man’s wrist and spun him back in the direction Clive had originally come from.]
Then it’s in for a piss poor meal, and you’re running towards a dead end. This way.
[Without asking permission, Clive hauls the small man in his own wake as he dashes away from the Abomination. He makes a gesture behind him, causing a small whirlwind of pale green wind to rise and follow the monster, sucking up blood and viscera as it goes. Clive cursed under his breath at the size of the thing. It would have to do.]
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The contact did remind him of the benefits of a sacrifice as well, and what gnarly beast such as the one that stormed passed as he found himself redirected to a different avenue of the lair that he found himself in. His boots squelched in the viscera on the floor, slippery and intrusive as he followed the stranger to relatively safer paths.]
We need to find an exit from this place and trap the creature down here.
[Obviously, but he felt it was best to remind them both the objective to all of this. When fear and panic rose, it eliminated logical thought, and he was not interested in dying so soon after the first time. No, he'd sooner feed this stranger to the monster than succumb himself, not when he was still sorting through where exactly he was and why he was here.
He glanced back to ascertain the creature's location, noting the wind power.]
You're a mage, are you?
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Clive looked around, calculating in his assessment. He knew he couldn’t save everyone in here, it just wasn’t possible, but the more people he could get out before the beast got much more of its claws (tentacles?) into them, the better. The man with him was right. They needed to find a way to trap the thing.]
I doubt that will stop it, but it might give us more time to think of something more permanent.
[Clive wasn’t sure if he would be able to beat the thing, not with the strength of his magic diminished and without his sword. Even then, cutting the thing’s tentacles didn’t even seem to faze it.]
Mage?
[A foreign word.
Clive spots a small window, high on the wall. He wasn’t sure he would be able to fit through it, but the slight man at his side should be able to. He searched as they ran, bending to scoop a discarded skull.]
Sorry, don’t know what that is.
[He nods towards the window.]
Think you could fit through that?
i.
Haha, it's nice to see someone escape of their own accord. I was starting to get scared that no one here could swim.
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He recalled that single-most important question: Have you had enough?
Yet, he turned his head slightly at the sound of wet footfalls on the surface, spying the other who had been assisting those that needed to learn to save themselves.]
Why swim when you can walk? You seem fully capable of walking yourself, and yet you dally in this place. [Why bother?]
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[It's a suggestion made with a cheeky grin, but Ain continues walking nonetheless. It isn't that he's done helping per se, but more that he doesn't see anyone immediately near the surface that he can assist. At some point, he may veer off to continue his helpful stint.
For now, a conversation.]
The more people survive, the better chance we all have of getting out of here anyway.
[He's assuming this is some spell, or pocket dimension, or something like that. Something trapping them here. After all, Ain was elsewhere before this moment. What goes unspoken is that his eyes are carefully seeking out people he knows, though so far he's come up empty in that regard.]
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ready to rise
. . . No, [ it couldn't be. his eyes behind his black-winged domino mask were, perhaps, playing tricks on him, burning with salt and blurry from brine. the dream was, uplifting old ghosts and turning them into affairs to fuss about. they always do with jayce, as of late. he's never had a proper night's rest after the attack on the council, much less after falling into a crevice in a long forsaken zaun. he just doesn't look the part, face youthful and shoulder broad, unhindered by malnutrition or even sickness. and yet! this spindly, crooked figure of a man jayce had once struck a deal that never came to fruition still stands before him. his brows keep furrowed, gaze narrow, and he asks, grave: ] you?
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The orange-red burning ember of his left eye allowed him to navigate the darkness, which was why he eased forward into the presence of someone oh so familiar and deserving of all malice, dislike and vengeance. Instead, the corner of his thin lips twisted into a snake-like smile. The right side of his face was covered in a gentle curved mask, covering the smooth skin and allowing the deep scarred lines to stand out by the shadows of this place.
Silco slowed his steps to stand before Piltover's Golden Boy. The Man of Progress. He knew better than to underestimate Jayce, of course. A simple conversation was all he had once needed to know that this one was sharp but... limited.] Well, well, well, if it isn't Councilor Talis. What a pleasant surprise to meet you in the dark oppressiveness of where this happens to be.
[He hummed softly, easing back into motion without a single issue. Confidence he had enough to choke a city upon.] You don't appear overjoyed to see me. How devastating.
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Forgive me if resurrection wasn't on my list of things to walk into, tonight.
[ maybe some other day, it would have been. ]
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ii
Everything ain't so bad, 'cept the lamb. Wouldn't be terrible if they didn't drown in it toothpaste.
[Okay okay, it was a mint sauce, but to him? Potatoe potato.]
Seems like you ain't touched any of yours though.
[The ghoulish man looks across at the other's plate. There's food there, poorly pushed about as if he's tried any, but he doubts he's actually tried anything.]
Picky eater?
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While he was in finery the likes of which he could wear because he had obtained wealth, he preferred the simplicity of his normal attire. None of this impressed him, and neither did the man nearby with an petrified corpse face.
His thin lips pulled back over his misaligned front teeth, and he made a point of pushing around said lamb with its 'toothpaste' more around his plate as he contemplating it. At least the rib bone could be made into a useful hilt of a blade if treated and reinforced properly.]
Why, I'm simply enjoying the atmosphere and the sounds of others revelry. What more could a man want in life?
[It provided useful information to what one might expect from all this food and drink, and besides, he had experienced the occasional disapproving gaze his way.]
Are you more preferential to a liquid diet then?
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Though he'd take offense
no he wouldn'tat his face being considered petrified. Rude.]Mm, could think of a few things.
[But he'll lift his glass, sipping from it before swirling what's in there with a hum.]
Already had my fill of dinner, I'd prefer to fill my glass and have a nice cigar with it, but guess they skipped that last one.
[Who figured Sleep would be a no smoking girly.]
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ii
When the thin man speaks, she finally tips her head his way. ] Tempting. [ Dryly ] But lately I've only been into canned goods. [ ...because it's the apocalypse, of course. ]
What made you wary? [ Something is strangely familiar about him, but she doesn't recognize him. A new dreamer, a new vessel. And smart enough to not immediately fall for Sleep's temptations. ]
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He hummed softly, making a point of swirling the drink in the cup he had been provided while no longer even hiding his disdain for the meal and the impulses occurring all around him. Flickers of memories caressed his mind, but he focused himself to the one he was speaking to.]
Is that so? Any particular reason for the choice?
[He could guess, of course. No one lived a lifetime of food insecurity to not understand how it played out and many of the reasons for it.]
Multiple poisoning attempts. [The corner of his lip quirked, twisting the deep lines on the left side of his face.]
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Her gaze sharpens when he mentions multiple poisoning attempts, eyes narrowing with curiosity. He's either very popular or very unpopular. ] Sleep isn't going to poison you, not in a way that'll kill you, but I'm sure you've figured that out by now.
[ It isn't death she's after, no, Sharon thinks it's erosion. Bit by bit, thought by thought, stripping them down until there's nothing left but obedience or despair. ]
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iii
It can't be helped.
Oichi is sitting on the ground, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Even with the Abomination approaching, she makes no effort to run away, or even stand up. Instead, she listens to the sweet song of the monster, thousands of voices lamenting their own inadequacy and reminding her of her faults. She rocks back and forth softly, humming her own piece to match the concert in her head. ]
... Brother said the same thing. [ She says in a matter-of-fact way, as if this is something the man who's just passed her should also be aware of. She purses her lips in a child-like pout, though she doesn't seem terribly offended by the comment. ] That's no good... Ichi isn't tasty.
[ For some reason, that seems like what troubles her the most about the current situation. Death comes for all equally, no matter their status, achievements or desires. Why run? Why hide? Isn't it nice to have someone who will accept you...?
Oichi tunrs her head slowly to face Silco, giving him a questioning look. ]
If Ichi does well, will Ichi get praised?
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Do you truly believe it will waste time on us if it was based on a simple meal? Too many corpses.
[He watched her, meeting her gaze evenly. He was keenly aware of the closing distance of the abomination, but now that he had a sacrifice between him, he was willing to momentarily hold his ground.]
And what would you consider praise, hmm?
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just a taste
For those that have already born witness to the dream and the world beyond, this is the second dream. In the first, there had been an orchard with myriad fruit, and consuming those fruits had swayed one to great emotion. So, to, this dinner table seems to want the same. Others are falling into memory, or into hallucination, and Ranni is taking careful note of it all.
One that does not seem to be imbibing is a man by her side, a man with the lean, wary look of one who does not trust that the food is poisoned. ]
And yet not one bite has passed thy lips.
Canst thou truly promote fare one has not tried?
[ Ranni's reply is slyly amused. She hardly intends on trying to convince him; the spectacle around them as others eat is more than enough to put any cunning mind off of doing the same. ]
Unless thou seekest to divine its poison
by observing the symptoms in others.
In this, thy cunning is delightful.
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It didn't concern him what others around the table were doing; he had allowed many around him to indulge in offerings in the past. He understood that this was simply another manner in which their apparent captor was seeking to own them. Vulnerability and memory were excellent motivators, especially when shared with the intent to... what? Expose them? Forge links? Display power?
He hummed softly as he made a point leaning back in his chair as he pushed his plate away yet held a utensil in hand still.]
It seems pointless to add to the foolery when there is so much already. After all, there is so much information floating around the room that it would be a shame to not allow these dreams and memories and feelings to play out.
[He tilted his head so he could observe her next to him.]
Can't or won't eat?
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i;
He has been told his "go with the flow" attitude is irritating and irresponsible more than once. But what can he do? It is better to let things roll of his back than crumble underneath what might happen. He won't deny the disquiet that he feels; he will let it be his warning bell, but all that can be done is moving forward, yes?
As he rationalizes his thoughts to himself; he pauses to see that someone else is walking along, too. He lifts his hand in greeting to give a small wave -- an attempt to catch the man's attention as he quickens his steps to join him. ]
Nice day for a stroll, wouldn't you say?
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The other man who happened to be drawing his attention (t'sk, t'sk, sir) was another spot of white in an otherwise dismal quiet. His red eye picked up the motion of waving, and he altered his direction to investigate. Allies or enemies may be difficult to find, so it was best to seek out others who may be of use.]
Is it day? [He had always had an excellent internal clock thanks to living much of his life under the haze of chem-tech lights or flame or even simply navigating the dark.] Are you real or a manifestation? You experienced the voice, yes?
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