JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

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.

Watch on YouTube

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:

• 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.

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.

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.

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

• 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.

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:

• 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.

ᛗ

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!

network ᛗ logs ᛗ ooc ᛗ memes ᛗ navigation

code

Comments

'Hikaru' // The Summer Hikaru Died // New Player

[paravore]

((NOTE: I'm playing 'Hikaru' from the manga, canon point being Chapter 33. There could be (tbh, probably will be) spoilers in any of 'Hikaru's threads if you're watching the anime right now. I have an opt-out post if you'd like to avoid any tags from me on the TDM!))

1 ◉ sink down: exhaustion

[ Across many countless centuries of existence and non-existence alike, the something inhabiting the dead body of Hikaru Indou has never experienced anything like this.

The feeling is familiar, of course. Dark. Engrossing. It's not unlike the realm he once called home — where he himself was home, his own home, as much as the realm itself was. But the substance of it is all wrong. Where his world was cold and desolate, this feeling is warm and alive. It's possessive, and it demands to give him a new home, a real one, where he's wanted and needed. And in that way, it's completely foreign.

It takes a long time for him to make it to the shore. When his wet hand finally finds something dry — is this someone else's hand, or the surface of the palace's floor? — he rolls onto his back to try fill his dead lungs with something other than saltwater, only to breath deep the scent of dust and food.

And his hand isn't wet anymore at all. None of him is. Not his skin, or his clothes, or his hair. That flood of warmth isn't entirely gone with the water, but it lingers in the gaps between this body's insides and his own.

'Hikaru' lifts his hand and tries to touch his face, but finds something smooth and flat. ]

What... the hell? [ He speaks without thinking and is surprised by the exhausted, haggard sound to his own voice. Pulling the mask from his face, he squints in the low light. The ceiling is covered in vines and flowers. ] Where am I?

2 ◉ new flesh: addiction

[ Sat at the dining table is a young man, barely more than a boy, dressed in a white tuxedo. His one-eyed mask lays face-up on the table in front of him, discarded in his increasingly hurried feasting. His plate is filled to the rim with two hefty piles of deviled kidneys and mint-soaked lamb. With each bite of kidney comes a sudden piercing sensation in his abdomen, intensely painful and yet entirely tolerable. The sensation leaks out into those around him, until the young man switches to tender chunks of lamb. This comes not with a sensation, but with a repeating loop of discourse, frantic and confused and frustrated.

What do I do? ａ ｒｅｑｕｅｓｔ. DO I APOLOGIZE? It's too much. I have to think of something. IS THAT A REQUEST? I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS. it's a request. ａ ｒｅｑｕｅｓｔ. Do I kill him? Should I? I don't want to. I have to. I WANT TO. I don't want to. It's too much. ₛₒ ₚᵣₑₜₜy.

It's a jumbled mess, a struggle between restraint and desire, two competing directives incapable of cancelling the other out.

˙ʎʇʇǝɹd os

They weave together like a thrown of thorns, digging into his scalp while spreading out like kudzu searching to strangle everything and everyone around him. Each forkful of kidney and lamb is an icepick aiming for this prefrontal cortex, except it's not there, not really, and even if it were he'd mend it back together only to let it be mashed into nothing all over again.

He's completely stuck, and this vortex of physical pain and emotional antinomy threatens to suck in anyone who gets too close. ]

3 ◉ not worthy: rot

[ When the palace begins to crumble, something clicks. 'Hikaru', already convinced that all of this is real and not just some dream or hallucination, watches the vines snaking along the walls and ceilings spit black like burst pipes. The masked specters fold and collapse and split at their seams. Dread rises in him, and then, he hears it: "I am not worthy."

I already know that, is his immediate thought, disconnected from his dread. But something is coming. He can feel it — see it? The Dream-Vessels are moving. He grits his teeth and stands up suddenly in his seat at the table, his chair toppling backwards behind him. ]

You need to run. [ Said to anyone, everyone, who might be near. ] I can - I can handle this. Get out of here!

[ But, something doesn't feel right, either. He squeezes his hand, pressing his fingernails into his palm. He blinks his eyes. Perhaps he's only now realizing it, but... why does he feel different? Why does it feel like something else is flowing under his skin now, not his insides or the boy's, but a third thing? ]

4 ◉ wildcard

[ Or, tag him with your own prompt! For the most part 'Hikaru' is going to be very vulnerable to pretty much all aspects of this scenario, so I'm open to all of them. If in doubt you can PM me or message lazdo! ]

2. addiction

[hallowedly]

( The boy's open like a fissure in a rock, like a crack for dawns, like a wound's scab unstitching — open and unraveling and there's the meat of his anguish, the bile of his exasperation, the wet knot of his intestinal exasperation. He's all innards and gutting and bare for the table, and Seishirou — smile trailing like scratches on vellum — has had rather enough of both the bread and its circus.

It's all well and good to treat the world to a kaleidoscope of petty horrors, a theater of magical colors, a palace of shared-memory wonders. But pointless angst is sport juveniles feel compelled to graduate to Olympic excellence — and opposite Seishirou sits a proudly chewing male of the teenage species.

Now, now. This won't do. This — and it will be a tiresome farce, but his hand somehow, through the most mysterious exercise of clumsiness, whips across the table to fling the boy's bowl onto the floor in a crisp, tinny shatter — is quite enough. Then, Seishirou politely reaches for the salt, presumably to season his own perfectly empty plate. As people do.

Excuse the open sigh. But, really. )

Children... should be seen, not felt.

[paravore]

[ Chunks of kidney, lamb and sauce fling into the air along the path of the bowl, spattering Hikaru's white tuxedo. At first, he does not appear to react. His greyish eyes stay affixed forward, his fork paused in the air.

Then, another harsh stabbing sensation emanates out from him... but this time, it hurts. Searing hot and intense, it's the kind of pain that would disable the average person. Hikaru grits his teeth, drops his fork, and hunches his shoulders, seeming to acknowledge the pain for the first time. ]

Wh... Wha...?!

[ Jerking his head upward, he glares at the stranger with one eye. His pupil flashes red, like an animal in the dark. The pain and confusion pulsing out from him twist and tangle. He's eaten too much, and the memories demand to be acknowledged. The craving is an ultimatum. ]

N... No, I... I don't want to kill you! [ As soon as he says it, the craving comes back in full force defiantly. But is "kill" the right word? Or is it... something less concrete. Swallow? ]

[hallowedly]

( ...well, then. Going to war in a public venue against a disobedient child is a tiring proposition, even before the arsenal is reduced to a wilted catalogue of pickles and a desolate salt shaker. He notes, with a carefully measured quiver: half full.

The options, gently displayed before him: weaponize the salt, cast half of it in the eyes, store the rest to redeploy later, either as a distraction or to stir and agitate any open wounds. He contemplates, in one glance, the remaining artillery: the butter knife is a red herring, past the easy flourish as a blunt stabbing weapon, a third-rate sake. The spoons in both scale are suitable only for the gouging of pleura, soft tissue and eyes (and the boy's, so rabbit-red).

The fork, now. Seishirou's fork, daintily swayed between thumb and forefinger, has remarkable potential. All four tines at the ready. For now, equipped with the best munitions the modern age and its illusionary circumstances can provide, he eases into his seat, resisting the urge to verbally eviscerate an impulsive child punishing the twain with pulses of sheer, steely ache. Mouth tight, lips a brittle line.

He holds the boy's gaze as he might have once done to a dog, rabid, or a spirit feral. )

No. You don't. ( Careful. Choice. ) That would be uncivilized.

3

[dedicate]

[ even if agent choi expected things to go wrong, it's happening far too quickly for him to be fully prepared. people scream, and even without being told what to do, some run away from the amalgamation that's begun to coalesce; others meander towards it.

he doesn't have time to stand by and watch. the first person he lays eyes on—a boy who's also urging others to go. "he'll handle this"...?

while perhaps some of the others may listen to his command, choi can't help himself. instead of running away, he sprints towards the boy, and—and truthfully, he almost has a hard time stopping. he's two steps past the other, pulled in as if by magnetism when he manages to turn around. as he does, he grabs hikaru's arm, yanking him in the opposite direction of the beast. ]

Are you crazy? Come on, let's go!

[ playing hero can only get you so far—choi, of all people, would know. and what does a kid like this think he's going to do anyway? no, choi isn't about to watch him die right in front of his eyes. and with no ceremonial blade, no books, and not even so much as a dokkaebi lantern on him to put up a fight with either, the only choice they have for now is to run. ]

[paravore]

Whaugh - hey!!

[ There's a sudden yank, and Hikaru finds himself stumbling backwards. The dead boy's human instincts kick in to keep him from turning into a ragdoll, but he can't help but keep his eyes on the Abomination as it forms from limbs and hair and organs.

It's so familiar. Like one of the holes, actually, although clearly not the same. Not an impurity, either — he'd be able to tell. And, yeah, this stranger is probably right, he can't actually take that thing, although not for the reason either of them are thinking. ]

Hey, let go! Where are we even goin'?

[dedicate]

Turn around properly then. Stop looking at it!

[ the abomination is still well behind them, seemingly focused on those nearest and most susceptible to it. when it comes to a high-level monster—no, disaster like that, even just looking at it can sometimes cause contamination to spread. choi has no doubt that it's already taken root, and perhaps it's only a natural result that the ones most thoroughly polluted by this place would be the first sacrifices to become something so much worse. but even as the distance increases, the pull stays the same.

'I'm not worthy.'

it rings though his mind, tempting him, but the complaints of the boy stumbling alongside him keep him grounded. behind them, tendrils of the vines follow their path, branching out overhead and oozing with pitch black pus, but the beast doesn't seem to accompany them.

that doesn't mean it won't come at all, but... for now, at least, once they round a corner choi's running peters out to a stop. he releases the boy's arm next, looking him over as if searching. ]

Are you alright?

2

[commitments]

[ Adolphe is seated beside him, but keeps his mask on. Not out of necessity or dependence, but he had simply forgotten in the ebb and flow of the dream. He's... Disoriented and tries to find his bearings as he scans the hall. Guardians, vines, a feast, and—people.

Hunger, however, was not paramount in his mind's frenzy, but quickly it crops to the top. The voice is unsettling, the food, too, yet he reaches for the kidneys. He's only afforded a sample of meat before he's pulled into a roller coaster of emotions, a ride of vested interest and investment he didn't know he had.

It's foreign and it's driving him mad. He doesn't understand a single thing about what's happening. The pain in his abdomen, the struggle between two desires, and the pull—he just wants it to stop. ]

Hey. [ Before he can lose his head, he grabs Hikaru's shoulder. ] Slow down.

[ He doesn't know if this is the source, but if these embedded sensations are out of his control, then at least this is within it. It's a desperate grasp for agency. ]

[paravore]

[ The hand on 'Hikaru's shoulder makes him wince. With narrowed, confused eyes, he looks up at the stranger who'd been sitting beside him, and —

it's not him anymore. He sees Yoshiki, his best friend, his only friend, his obsession, his ward and protector both. That hand on his shoulder is no longer a hand, but Yoshiki's shoulder, as he grips the knife embedded deep in his abdomen.

It didn't hurt back then. But, oh, it does now. Even when he'd started to feel pain, it never hurt like it does in this warped recreation of this moment.

But the conflict in desire is just the same. Yoshiki looked up at him back then, having failed in his attempt to kill him, and asked 'Hikaru' to kill him instead. The unfettered storm of emotional roils the same way. What do you do when the one person, the only person, you have any devotion to asks you to kill him?

And you want to? ]

I —

[ His eyes begin to water. ]

I don't want to kill you.

[commitments]

[ Adolphe doesn't know what 'Hikaru' sees, but he can see in his glassy eyes that he doesn't quite see him. He sees past him and beyond, through him to someone else who may not even be here. There's the mind to gives the boy a wake-up call smack to the cheek and force him out of his reverie, but then the tears start welling in those eyes.

How old is this guy? Sixteen? Seventeen? While that's young adult where he's from, it's the way 'Hikaru' sounds so lost, much like a child. Adolphe ushers a tired sigh, somehow not put off by his strange and unsettling words. ]

If you don't want to do it, then don't.

[ His tone softens, losing its edge earlier. The grip on 'Hikaru's shoulder also slackens and turns into a comforting hand instead of a steadying grip. He understands being torn between two conflicting desires, even if he might not know 'Hikaru's whole deal... ]

You're hurt, right? [ The pain in his lower abdomen throbs, echoing pain that doesn't belong to him. ] Whoever you're seeing—they're not here right now... But I'm not going to do that to you, okay? So don't cry.

2.

[saudades]

[Dazai has always hated pain. He hates it and yet, the pull is familiar. Moth to a flame, he has always sought his own self-destruction.

(That's correct, and isn't. Another self was the one who never found a reason to live. He was -- is -- isn't that person, whose memories have made him what he is, now. His reason is finished. All there is left is to sleep)

He thinks he ought to complain about the sensation in his gut, the way he'd prefer to have it torn out entirely and have done with it. In another life he would've whined childishly about it, sulked and bemoaned having to tolerate such a thing. He opens his mouth to do it, perhaps simply of a misplaced sense of habit, but the confusion and panic sets in instead, and he feels --

...wrong. He can't put words to it, the way it unsettles every nerve and fiber inside him, to feel this existential contradiction, all the moreso because there's shades of it that are familiar. He wanted to die. He wanted to find a reason to live. He wanted to die. He wanted to save Odasaku, wanted to be by his side but he couldn't, because if they were friends, he would die. Things had to be different so he could live, but oh, he yearns -- for what belongs to another life, another man. What another man lost, and he could save.

The boy in front of him is suffering. Dazai's heart has never connected well to others. An emptiness inside him doesn't echo the pain of others in the way most do, even when he's forced to feel it directly. He isn't stirred, and yet --

"Odasaku, what should I do?"
"Be on the side that saves people. If both sides are the same, then become a good man."

All at once, there appears to be nothing left on Hikaru's plate. The food is the cause of all this, isn't it? If the boy stops eating, it only stands to reason that it will stop.]

You don't have to do anything, actually. Not even decide what to do.

[paravore]

[ That makes sense. It should work. And maybe it would for a regular person, an average person, who's better equipped to deal with what's happening to him right now. Better adjusted to dealing with these emotions and these memories.

But 'Hikaru' is in a truly terrible state. Not only is the power of this palace completely new to him, but he's eaten a lot of this food. Now, the pain and confusion of this event in his past is on loop, like a scratched record. The only thing that will work is to confront it, whether 'Hikaru' does or this stranger does.

But, you know... getting rid of the food certainly helps. ]

...Wha? But I...

[ His hand has stopped. He stares where his full plate used to be. ]

It's... a request. He asked me to, so...

[ 'Hikaru' lifts his head to look at the man addressing him. His eyes are watery. In the low light of the dining room, the edges of his irises seem to wobble. ]

You... want to die, too?

Exhaustion

[untilldeath]

[A face appears above him, staring down at him from beneath a veil. A frown mars his expression before something like a bit of relief crosses his face. This guy is moving. He's breathing. He's alive. Holy fuck, Till is convinced he's not cut out for this 'hero' business. Thank the light, Ivan was there with him. He's the brawn.]

Damn, kid.

[Releasing an exhausted breath of his own, Till allows himself to sit on the ground, too. He's also dry now, miraculously. He's not even going to question it, because everything here is just fucking weird. All the damn time. He's tired after having pulled as many hands as he could from the water.]

Are you alright?

[snaggletooth]

Should we try to stand him up?

[ Ivan's voice comes from somewhere behind Hikaru, sounding magnanimous. Till has the better view from front and center, of how their latest fished-up new friend is doing in the consciousness department, so he'll be able to decide if—oh, never mind, haha, Till's decided he's down for the count, too.

Obliging the fact that they won't be going anywhere just yet, Ivan joins in, squatting down, where he gets an earful of the toad croak that is Hikaru attempting to speak. ]

A dream. [ A smile, one the strange atmosphere hasn't dampened at all. ] Nowhere that's going to matter. So it's best to relax, I say.

[paravore]

[ 'Hikaru's greyish eyes dart between the two strangers as his mind tries to connect the dots. Were they they ones who pulled him out of the water? Not that there appears to be any water here anymore. ]

A dream?

[ His expression darkens. That's impossible. He doesn't dream. Dreams are just the byproduct of a sleeping brain, after all... and 'Hikaru' doesn't actually use this body's brain for anything other than memory storage. He might get lost in his thoughts from time to time, yes, but whenever he indulges in "sleep," it doesn't come with dreams. ]

...S'no way this can be a dream. [ said, firmly. His voice still sounds phlegmy. Squinting his eyes, he presses his hands to the floor and sits up. From here, he looks between the two men again, like somehow that will answer all his questions.

When it doesn't, he continues, ] Yeah, I'm fine. Y'all pulled me out? Of... wherever I was? Thanks a whole bunch.

[ One of them seems kinda tired. The other one is weirdly relaxed. What is going on? ]

3

[airdrops]

[Alright, so this has just gone straight from dream to nightmare in the blink of an eye. Kind of on point for a nightmare, really.

What’s more important is that that thing looks dangerous, and Blaze hasn’t built herself a reputation for running headlong into danger for nothing. Dream or not, that doesn’t change here. All this means is she finally has something tangible to fight back against here, and like hell she’s gonna let it hurt anyone if she can help it.

So when a boy nearby puts on a show of bravado, insisting she runs… well, that’s not going to stand. The woman hurries to place herself between him and the source of the growing commotion, feline ears pulled back against her skull in defiance, tail whipping behind her in agitation. When she glances back at him, her icy blue eyes are narrowed.]

Are you kidding?! It’s too dangerous.

[paravore]

[ ...whoa. It's... an actual, real-life CATGIRL.

No, wait, now is not the time. ]

Is it? [ Taking a few steps back, he glances at the cat-person. It's not like he has any idea what this thing is, but he figures he's probably got a better chance of taking it on than some normal average human. Unless... ] Wait, do you know what that thing is??

[ ...it's rapidly getting bigger. Maybe running would be good. ]

[airdrops]

[Yeah, bigger seems like a bad sign.]

Not a clue! [Wow, yeah that’s real reassuring, and yet it’s an answer still delivered with confident ease.] But I don’t have to know what it is to know that it’s major bad news.

[It writhes in the near distance as if in confirmation, a thing of sickly flesh and far too many limbs. Retreat is never her favorite tactic, but it might be pertinent for the moment. Particularly when there are those who should steer clear of a fight still in harms way.

Blaze knows better than anyone that age is hardly an indicator of capability, but that’s never stopped the instinctive urge to keep kids from leaping right into danger when the stakes shoot way up. She reaches over to try to grab the boy by an arm, motioning with her other hand farther down the hall.]

Think it’s time to go.

3;

[cursedvessel]

[Yuji is still in his seat, his fork clenched in his fist as if the rest of his body hasn't quite caught up with the horror his eyes are taking in around him. The feral hunger that had been so consuming a moment ago now sits like dead weight in his stomach and he chokes down the sudden need to gag as yet another masked Vessel collapses next to him with a violent tear cutting through their torso.

It isn't until 'Hikaru' speaks that he finally snaps out of his shock. The denial is already on his lips as he forces himself to his feet as well.]

I'm not leaving anyone behind. We don't even know what's going on, but it's better if we face it together.

["I am not worthy." The voice reverberates all around them, from multiple directions. And for a moment Yuji hesitates. It aligns too closely with thoughts he's been trying to push aside. To ignore. It reminds him keenly of his failures. Of the people he couldn't save. It should have been him. Just him.]

We need to make sure the others can get out-[His voice breaks off when he feels something wiggling against his shoe. He glances down and immediately wishes he hadn't. Pieces of flesh and body parts from the dead Vessels have begun slithering across the floor, as if pulled by something.]

[paravore]

Watch it!

[ 'Hikaru's polished dress shoe comes down on a wriggling mass of flesh threatening to crawl over the stranger's foot. In the same movement, he grabs the sleeve of the stranger's shirt, preparing to pull him back in retreat, but the Abomination groans and turns its still-forming head in their direction.

The sight of it makes him shiver. He hears it again: I am not worthy. ]

Never said I was. [ he murmurs, responding to the voice like it said "you" and not "I." But he's finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the thing. ]

[cursedvessel]

[Yuji stumbles back away from the squashed mass, now extra aware of the placement of his feet, and trying to avoid being touched by the ever multiplying clumps of flesh moving across the floor.

A tug on his sleeve re-directs his attention from the floor to the monstrous being forming before his eyes. And he instantly regrets looking. It's almost like the creature is making eye contact with them, only its eyes were all over its body. A chill rolls down the back of his spine.

If this were a curse, and if he was able to use his normal techniques, he would try to fight it first, think of the consequences later. But this isn't a curse. At least, it doesn't feel like any curse he's ever encountered.

'Hikaru's' voice jars him from his study of the Abomination, and he reaches out a hand to lay on his shoulder.]

We should go while it's still forming. Still wea-[A long fleshy tentacle shoots out from the creature with a loud snap, cutting Yuji off.]

[hexrot]

[ everything had started in a panic. a blur. one minute things were . . . well, jayce couldn't tell where he had been beforehand, if it was in the water, the banquet or the lower level of the palace. the next, most around him dropped in splatters of gore and viscera, until they accumulated into a single mass of whatever that thing was. jayce isn't sticking around to try fighting it, not in the way he was now, powerless, defenseless, weaponless— he does break for it until he sees the teen stand his ground, and with a growing edge that felt biting, frustrated beyond belief, jayce goes back, pushing past anyone that comes barreling through to get to safety.

was there any safety at this point—? it didn't matter, he was not leaving someone behind, nevermind anyone that damn young and by the looks of it, fucking stupid— ]

Handle th—

[ dear gods, he repeats it out of sheer incredulousness. without thought, jayce takes the boy's shoulder and yanks him forth, pointing ahead. ]

You're a kid! You get out, now!

[paravore]

[ The boy's body jerks backwards with the force of Jayce's yank. He stumbles, regains his footing, and turns his head to look up at the stranger. Eyes wide like a curious child, but expression dark like a hungry animal. In the low light of the dining room, his pupils flash red, like a predator being lit by a flashlight in the moment before it strikes. ]

Wha? I don't need yer help, old man! Quit worrying about me and get outta here!

[ As far as 'Hikaru' can tell, Jayce is just a regular human. Or at least that's how his soul looks. ]

1 (lmk if u need more)

[sadpoem]

[He was drowning.

[He jumped into the lake after Basil. Something reached for him. He was drowning.

[Flat on his back in the sand, arms spread out on either side of him, Sunny turns his bone-dry head. Black eyes stare dully at Hikaru.

[He was drowning. They...were drowning...

[Right?

[Sunny can't explain, of course. He doesn't know where they are either; so, he remains useless, turning his head back up toward the black sky.

[This nightmare just gets worse and worse...]

[paravore]

[ This guy's guess is as good as his. Is he the one who pulled 'Hikaru' from the water, or did 'Hikaru' pull him out? Is there even a distinction in this place?

He rolls onto his hands and knees and squints at the stranger. ]

Hey. Hey, can ya hear me? Hello??

[ poke. ]