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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Cooper Howard | Fallout | Existing Player

[vocalistyodels]

I. YOU TASTE LIKE NEW FLESH

[He's not a fool, but this is clearly a dream like before. The last dream he'd gotten blown up and been just fine, so even though he knows better than to gorge himself on the food and drink here- honestly he doesn't give a fuck. He's not even really hungry, but something wants him to drink, to eat and hell if he doesn't want a drink.

Several. Enough to fucking feel it.

He's already a couple drinks in when anyone happens upon him, still the same ol' ghoulish appearance, but his outfit has gotten a bit of an upgrade. No longer the tattered duster and cowboy outfit layered in dust and filth. Cooper actually cuts a pretty dapper figure considering, though he's torn the bow tie off and discarded it, along with undoing at least a button on the shirt. Can't be too stuffy.

The brandy pulls the happiest moment of his life to the forefront, it's a quick burst of joy, the crying of a newborn baby. Janey. His Janey. She'd been so small, but perfect. Whoever is close will feel the same impossible joy, the overwhelming love he'd never known he could have for someone else. All for his daughter, the sunshine of his life.

Or perhaps the deviled kidneys, didn't look the most appealing, but Cooper's ate worse looking things. Worse tasting things too. It's actually quite good considering, but the memory it drags up doesn't echo that. All the searing, unbearable pain of his body going through the process of becoming a ghoul. The radiation poisoning feeling like it's tearing his body apart. Skin sloughing off, partially healing and repeating the same process, until something changed and the radiation become a healing balm and not something slowly killing him. Not before the soft cartilage of his nose fell off and his skin was marred and left scarred from it.]

Fuck... not nearly drunk enough for none of that.

[Better not do that shit every time he eats or drinks.]


II. THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE WAY YOU LAY
(20+ for this prompt please! Cooper is rocking the α for this. Also super down for characters to be all "lol no" at his advances.)

[The buzz and warmth of brandy works through his blood as he finds his way into the veritable den of sin, the warmth spreading even more but for different reasons now. Noises leave little to the imagination and it's been a little while since he's indulged in such delights. Being buried six feet under for a prolonged amount of time does make it hard to fuck, though guess being buried alive could be considered getting fucked. Not how he'd like it.

Maybe he finds a suitable partner through one of the doors or bumps into someone when he's not paying attention. Eyes wandering to the filthy displays through open doors, moans and cries making him hungry to have someone like that for himself. His hand shoots out to steady someone, fingers firm around their arm. The ghoul's eyes are dark, hungry as he takes them in.]

Down here all alone? Not that I ain't opposed to a party...

[But maybe he'd prefer to focus all his attention on one for now.]


III. WILDCARD

((Cooper is going to be dying in I Am Not Worthy, but I'm planning on tagging around out to others stuff regarding that. If you have other ideas for poking the crusty ol' ghoul by all means please hit me up via PM (for new or old players) or his OOC plotting post (for old players)!))

brandy

[followfires]

A nearby stranger lets out a soft sigh, the euphoria gives way to pain, to longing. His hand is steady but he sets the glass down, as if he fears he'll spill it. He knows that joy, there had been a hospital room full of that joy. A baby in his- not his- but the weight of the baby in someone's arms. Someone had held that child, small and wonderful. (It wasn’t him.)

He forces a strained breath out. In. Out. Not his daughter. Not his son.

The mask doesn’t cover his watery eyes, but he reaches for it all the same. There’s more than enough time for Cooper to see the familiar face it hides. The hands warp- talons scrape and fumble against its smooth bone surface- and the man gasps. Black feathers cover the surface of his arms, shining with the filthy iridescence of an oil slick. The mask clatters out of his grip.

[vocalistyodels]

[The shared feelings between them grabs his attention more than the sight of the stranger beside him, head turning to look... the ghoul's eyes might be watery too, from past joy, but as he sees that face. That fucking face, it's like he sees red.

A hand shoots out to grab one of the man's arms, curled tight around the feathers there.]

You-!

[The pleasant feeling is gone, replaced by a hate so sharp it could cut.]

Look at me.

[His words are a demand, grit out.]

[followfires]

(Look at me.)

(Look at me!)

(The creature wouldn’t look at her. It couldn’t.)

He doesn’t taste the brandy anymore, just bile. He raises his face to meet his. Under Cooper’s grip the stranger changes, twenty five years falling away in an instant. Through it all he holds his gaze. He’s rigid, nearly expressionless.

“I don’t think I have what you want.”

He speaks slowly.

ii

[dethangel]

[Toki is, frankly, just browsing for the moment, so he's not particularly busy or anything when he feels a hand on his arm. Doesn't stop him from being a little startled, though; his attention was already divided between the stuff on the wall and some lady's chest nearby. After he jumps, he turns around, head tilted to the side. It takes him a moment to place it, but he's pretty sure he's seen this guy before. Last dream thing, right?

This time around feels a lot less dangerous.]

Oh, hey.

[He's been given the omega designation this time around, so he somehow finds these words suddenly way more interesting than what he'd been looking at already.]

Just, uh... looking at stuff. Did you see all this?

[vocalistyodels]

[Hey now, he'd take that personally if he knew he felt less dangerous. Then again, the nicer, cleaner, outfit probably helps. Even though Cooper has by this point popped a few more buttons to help with the building heat.

The question posed seems so funny considering they're utterly surrounded by debauchery.]

Might be old, but I ain't blind or deaf.

[His hand falls away from Toki's arm, but he doesn't move away from him, admiring some folks who are entirely far too enthralled with one another in one of the rooms.]

Been a while since I been in a place cooking this hot.

[dethangel]

Yeah, backstage stuff isn't usually this busy. [Even when you've got five different people all doing their own thing.] And usually you have to make someone go get all this extra stuff.

[Not that he hasn't collected a few accessories over the years, but sometimes in the moment you need to send your roadies/servants out for a few things you might have forgotten.]

It's like... you can just watch stuff all day if you wanted.

[Not that he's not perfectly happy to go grab someone and maybe check things out himself, but it's easy to get distracted by a pair of tits or a creative use of some implement he's never even seen before.]

I.

[vixenish]

Don't you look sharp!

[ she's smiling. she remembers him, if only from the murmur; his presence and voice are familiar.

that said, she eyes the brandy in his hand rather critically. ]

Hm. Are you quite sure about drinking that?

[vocalistyodels]

[They've not met in person, but her voice is easily recognizable from the murmur. Funny enough the red hair matches her personality, or what he's seen of it.]

I've already partaken matter of fact. If it's a good idea that's yet to be seen.

[Cooper smiles, taking in her attire as well.]

They did you right. The green matches your eyes, goes with your hair.

[vixenish]

[ ... oh!

that's rather unexpected from him. Lortel smiles with genuine warmth. ]

They did, didn't they? [ she lifts an arm, and the smile on her face turns crooked. ] ... it feels strange to see such a lovely thing after so long.

[ it's his kindness that's won her honesty. ]

i.

[goty]

[There's that half-second stare, the double take people make when they see a ghoul for the first time. But Ellie just thinks she's seeing someone with severe burns. Don't be an asshole, she thinks, don't be a fuckhead.]

[And then she feels it, the burning kiss of a nuclear warhead. Skin scloughing off like liquid, her nose a tumor slowly excising itself from her face. Ellie feels the urge to drag her fingernails down her face and dig; whatever's left will be stronger. She'll be stronger. Even in someone else's memory, the destructive conviction to survive pervades.]

[Her vision swims, clears, and her gaze refocuses on him.] What the fuck. [She reaches for him, unsure what else to do.]

[vocalistyodels]

[He's seen every kind of look, heard every unsavory thing someone could say about his appearance, about ghouls. It's nothing to him at this point, just what he is. Surviving is the name of the game and he's gotten pretty good at it.

He won't reach to steady the girl, but he won't push her hand away either. Just slides a look her way, second guessing having another drink.]

That's the nicest thing you can say bout it.

[Hell, he'd even forgotten just how much everything had hurt, it'd been so fucking long since it all happened. Pain is such a dull sensation to him now.]

Wouldn't recommend it, laying in river of fire might actually be preferable. Though burns scars are helluva lot tougher, harder to move.

[goty]

[Her hand moves away on its own, quick like she's touched something hot. The memory of her skin as sludge, oozing between her fingers-- she shivers. And she'd always been afraid of dying in the cold.]

How- how did you-... [What little sense she has catches up with her. Her affect becomes flat, losing emotion; the presentation of a young veteran.] Sorry. None of my fuckin' business.

(ii) i was going to go with dancing but this seemed like the funnier option lmao

[deathstealer]

[ Sex has not been an issue or a particular need for Ranni for centuries, now. Ever since she discarded her flesh, so too did she discard its earthly desires: hunger and thirst, the need for sleep, the wish for closeness and intimacy. It suited her well enough.

But since being pulled into these dreams, into the abandoned city, the god that dwells there has been provoking feelings in her. Cold, for the first time since she was human. Uncertainty, the barest glance of. And a desire to find someone to hold close, two entwine limbs and dig out their secrets. Thus far, Ranni has found it mildly irritating.

Here, upon wandering down to the place beneath the party, full of writhing bodies and heated gasps, Ranni thinks: why not? She casts her reluctance aside, and decides to embrace the feeling. Still, as others have fallen into a state of Ω and have become pliable and submissive, it would take far more than more desire and need and mild bodily changes to make Ranni pliable. The hand that grips her arm will be met with a chill like snow-capped mountains, the aura of her frost magic permeating the air around her -- and, additionally, met also with a long, searching look of her own.

Cooper. They have met before, as the man was struggling with his new magic.

Slowly, a smile spreads across both porcelain and spectral lips, small and sly. ]

Should I have wished to be alone;
it would have been wise not to wander into this den.
Fie, this heated air gets even to me.

[ She reaches up to curl a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in so that she can murmur into his ear, cold lips brushing skin. ]

Dost thou truly want to catch mine eye?
There are much more common options than this body.

We like to have a little giggle here~

[vocalistyodels]

[He may not have realized who it was at first, she does look a lot different from the first time they met. Cuts a much finer silhouette in the dress she's wearing. It's beautiful, intricate, but he's not really looking at the details on the dress, he's looking at what it doesn't hide.

And if he hadn't been interested, he sure as shit can't help he heat that races through his body when she, even being quite a bit shorter than him, reaches up and pulls him down so she can murmur into his ear.]

Darlin', you may have noticed, I ain't the common option here either.

[And he'll reach up, hand taking the one at his neck to hold it. The porcelain does feel different compared to skin, but even his own skin isn't like regular skin. Rougher and worn, from ghoulifation and life out in the wastes.

He'll bring her hand to his lips, pressing them to the back of it, against her knuckles.]

But if you're looking for someone more princely, I ain't offended.

oh u know 👀

[longwillows]

[He's likely not to recognize the woman whose golden skin lights with runes under his touch, as she doesn't make a habit of attaching face to name when she utilizes the Murmur. But she recognizes him, the light of familiarity clear as day in her eyes when she turns and sees the one-of-a-kind face he'd shown her in response to her playful advances.

It's a bright and beaming grin when she meets his gaze, but there's salacious intent in the curious tilt of her head and the appraising glance she takes over his form. Though her face isn't familiar, the mischievous lilt of her voice is unmistakable.] I hadn't intended to be alone for long.

[Despite being relaxed in his grip with pliable, receptive instinct, her body language doesn't lack for confidence as she squares up to sidle a little closer to him. She's not exactly dressed to the nines—or perhaps she is, depending on one's perspective of the current circumstances. The silken shirt hanging off her elbows like a cover-up is large enough that it's likely not her own, but the frilly set underneath fits like a dream. Appropriately enough.]

I don't know that I need warming up right now. But I've got plenty of other needs to attend to, if you're so inclined.

oh i know 👀

[vocalistyodels]

[Recognition doesn't click until she speaks and it only makes this more amusing. Little miss likes to keep warm. Funny considering she looks like sunshine radiates out from her skin.

Kalmiya is receptive and Cooper's hand doesn't leave her body, but it will shift to slide under the shirt that clearly isn't hers to rest against the small of her back.]

How could I leave such a pretty thing like you here with needs that need taking care of?

[What kind of gentleman would he be! Ha. Cooper himself is still mostly dressed in his gala outfit, but his suit jacket is over one arm, the dress shirt underneath with more than a few buttons undone. It's warm down here, he's just getting a little air. The skin that shows of his chest is no different than that of his face and neck. Marred and warped from ghoulification, radiation sickness is a hell of thing when it gets you that good.

Cooper presses in closer as well, wanting, needing to be close to her. There's a distinct desire to bury himself in her any way he can, teeth, fingers pressed into her skin, to taste and scent her. It's a bit dizzying in the best way.]

Why don't you tell me all bout your needs while we get comfy, darlin'?

{ deviled kidneys

[hellpriest]

( the sudden onslaught of another's memory shocked the cenobite's mind and electrified his nerves. he felt every sensation of the other's irradiated, excruciating change, reminding him of his own - when the leviathan had taken a broken man and made him into something greater, and given him purpose. it was exhilarating.

the mask sleep had bestowed upon him hid his own disfigured features, though soulless looking black eyes shone through. despite hidden expression, the baritone of his voice conveyed a hint of eager curiosity, and no trace of horror or disgust. )

Your transformation was exquisite. Tell us more?

( with casual action but obvious intention, the new artificer pushed one of the alcoholic offerings towards the ghoul, hoping to encourage him to continue in the way he had stated might make doing so bearable. meanwhile, pinhead selected a plate of the kidneys for himself, unable to resist the shared communion of suffering.

what a gift this feast was going to be. )

[vocalistyodels]

[Exquisite.

That's not a word he's heard anyone use in relation to ghouls or the suffering radiation put upon folks. He actually has to laugh at it.]

What? You didn't get enough from that?

[He's happy to take the drink though, there's not enough liquor here dream or not to make him want to relive that time of his life. At least not through those flashes of memories. Swirling the drink lazily he'll regard the other, those blackened eyes staring at him through the mask similar to other ghouls, but he doesn't seem like one. Or perhaps he is? Some ghoul who gets off on the suffering others went through? Fuck if he knows. People are something else.]

Think it's only fair you share a little first.

I. Deviled Kidneys.

[sculptedash]

[Look. Ash is struck by the scenes of Cooper burning, irradiating, changing, and honestly she's incredibly quiet for a moment. She doesn't exactly seem disgusted by the images. Quite the opposite actually.

And it shows when she finally speaks up to him.]

Dude.

You are so hardcore.

[vocalistyodels]

[He's had many different comments to the shit he's gone through and he must say this is the probably the most amusing. Sure he's had folks react with interest before, but then there's this.]

Hardcore, huh? That what the kids call it?

I.

[sorte]

[ Aventurine hasn't met or talked to this man personally, but he has heard his voice through the Murmur time to time. Often he's been reminded of someone back home that's got the western thing going for him, but after catching those to memories? Now it reminds him of Boothill even more.

So, Aventurine will do as he does and go stroll over and sit down casually next to Cooper, not looking at him just yet, but instead at the array of food. ]

So, they got us going through that kind of involuntary show and tell crap with our minds again, huh?

[vocalistyodels]

[While he's not met this fella before either he's heard his named tossed around plenty over the murmur. Popular ain't he? As for the food, the ghoul gives a little push to the plate in front of him, nudging it away.]

Bingo. Not an encore I'm fond of to be honest. Think our host needs a new schtick.

II

[licensetotrill]

[ Can one grimace while also checking someone out? They sure as fuck can because he's doing it right now, recognizing Cooper from their earlier scuffle.

But now Jaskier is barely dressed in his only half-laced pants and when Cooper grabs his arm to steady him, runes bloom across his skin at that touch. He feels so fucking warm... and that touch feels so fucking good...]

I had company...

[ But he seems to have misplaced it. ]

[vocalistyodels]

[The runes that appear on Jaskier's skin have him feeling a certain way. It makes the man his, marks him.

Even if in his righter mind that would be stupid as hell. Cooper's hand moves down more towards Jaskier's elbow, pressing in closer.]

What they couldn't handle ya?

[He handled him before, he can handle him here too.]

Guess they couldn't handle all that lip.