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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Nicholas D. Wolfwood | Trigun Stampede | New Player

[lupusxylem]

A) Sink Down Like Precious Stones

[He, maybe, used to have faith. Once upon a time. When he was still small, and the cruelty of the world hadn't yet beaten him down. But what does it mean to have faith, anyway? To be faithful that God is going to save you? That the next breath you take won't be your last?

Maybe it makes more sense to say that he's clung stubbornly to hope, not faith. The hope that maybe shit would get better, despite knowing good and well it won't.

He's drowning. It feels like a long, drawn-out nightmare as he struggles to claw to the surface. Being already unable to swim in a world without water likely doesn't matter here, because there's something else pulling Wolfwood down. He feels it heavy on each limb, like extra weight hell-bent on absorbing him into the mire. The waves around him thrash like he does, and it makes the feeling of listless panic worse.

He doesn't have his vials. There's no dry land he can reach. He is going to die.

Yet, even as his body begins to stiffen and movement becomes near-impossible, he manages to see over the water's edge that people beyond him can walk atop the water. There are others like him that can't break out, but even more still that move across the surface as if it's solid despite the violent churning around them. Somehow, the sight alone makes him angry.

Fuck! Help me!!

He won't die here. He has to help himself.

And it's that anger- that defiance- that keeps Wolfwood from sinking utterly like a stone, even as crystal that flashes like diamonds coalesces across his skin, meeting at the mask that sweeps forward with a cracked beak and sharp, furious eyes.

His hand explodes from the churning swell and grabs your ankle, and it won't let go.]

B) You Taste Like New Flesh

1. Abstain (Not eating anything)

[The Palace feels ethereal, unreal, and wrong. All Wolfwood knows is that he deeply doesn't want to be here. He wants to just wake up already, likely face-down in the sand somewhere being cooked by the sun and pecked at by vulture-like desert wyrms. That's the only thing that could possibly explain having this sort of vision, he reckons.

But his body feels tired from fighting to stay afloat for so long (how long was it, really?) so he will have a seat at the table, at the very least. There's food here, and quite a lot of it too. More than he's ever readily had access to, so it makes sense that he would want to partake. The urge to eat his fill from everything he can see is undeniable, yet he's too leery to trust any of it.

So, for a while, he refrains. In doing so, it makes the temptation to feast all the worse. His stomach aches, hunger gnawing at his senses as the color leeches from his form. He can feel something- no, someone- watching him.

Eat. Eat.

His mouth feels dry beneath the mask, and before he even realizes he's done it, he reaches up to wrench it off. But with Sleep watching, the feeling taking it off gives him is so immediately wrong that he ends up slipping it back on again, the bird-like visage hiding his true features. He's been so tangled up in this dream that he has yet to even realize the changes in his own form, such as the mottled wings he cradles against his back that occasionally drop feathers as he moves.

Eventually he speaks, but it's hard to tell if he's talking to someone sitting beside him, or to this presence he wishes would look away.]

I ain't hungry.

[He lies.]

2) Marigold Brandy

[Eventually the pull becomes too great to ignore, but as stubborn and distrusting as he is, Wolfwood still refuses to eat anything. But...he can't hardly pass up alcohol. The golden liquor is just too inviting, and his mouth too dry.

He drinks, and it's the first time he sees the talon-like claws on his scarred fingers curling around his glass. He startles when he notices it, but the feeling doesn't last long enough for him to really process it. The feeling of elation that wracks his form is so sudden and overwhelming that it actually brings tears to his eyes that burn at the fringes of his vision, and his breath leaves him in a rush, an exhaled shaking laugh. The memory is one he thinks of often, of a crowded orphanage with children who shriek with delight as they play in the courtyard. Both he and you sitting nearby feel the warmth of the sun on your face, can almost taste the dust being kicked up as you run and play tag. You have no responsibilities, nothing to fear. The world is cruel and unforgiving, but you have bigger things to worry about. You're It.

The memory ends as quickly as it began, and he wishes he could more easily reach under the mask to wipe his eyes. He can't, so he'll leave it be as he laughs again, his head tilted back towards the ceiling.]

Haha...what the hell...?

[He doesn't realize that anyone else saw- felt- the same thing.]

3) Deviled Kidneys - CW: torture/child experimentation/body horror

[But the delusions of happy memories long past aren't meant to last forever, and eventually Wolfwood's hunger becomes too great for him to ignore. He could partake in anything here- something sweet, a fruit, another drink- but he's drawn inexplicably to the deviled kidneys. Maybe it's the familiarity of it, as nothing else here quite reminds him as much of the worm-flesh he'd live on back home. Disgusting and gamey in a way that this evokes in a more distant way. At least this is edible. It's...

The memory- the trauma- hits him like a truck. The fork he'd been holding clatters audibly to the plate as he grips his head with one clawed hand, and you as well will be unfortunate enough to have to experience it alongside him. You can feel the way your limbs have been strapped down to keep your body from thrashing as you're injected with all manner of experimental drug. You've been Chosen, and you will become the perfect human specimen. The agony of your body being broken apart and reformed, over and over again, is just a stepping stone towards greatness.

Wolfwood doubles over in his seat and screams into his hand, muffled. Despite his pain tolerance now eclipsing what he used to feel back then, the memory is so real that he can't control his response to it, and perhaps neither can you.

It's better you than the others. The others are safe.

It's over as the last of the bite is swallowed, but the metallic aftertaste remains. Wolfwood might have accidentally smacked someone nearby with his wings in that moment, but he can't be entirely sure. He wants to get up and storm out, but the desire to continue eating overwhelms him, and without thinking he reaches stiffly for his fork again.]

C) Wildcard

[Hello, my name is Chi and I'm TDMing Wolfwood here for this game! I'm planning on having him be a Valkerie for the game proper so I wanted to play with it here. If none of these prompts work for you and you want to play with him, feel free to reach out to me via DM or winterbolts!]

3 (child abuse mentions to go with it)

[dethangel]

[Toki's up for trying a little bit of everything tonight, but he's in between choices when suddenly he's not here anymore. At first he feels like he's a kid, chained up for screwing something up yet again, but it's not the whip on his back he's feeling this time.

No, this is new, and, head down, Toki shouts into the food on his plate until he remembers where he is, and it's not wherever that is. There might have been a wing hitting him at some point, one that wasn't one of his own demonic pair, but... well, he kind of has to try to shake that whole thing off before he considers his surroundings. Literally. He shakes his head vigorously, hair going every which way, before he glances over at the guy who's next to him right now.]

Wowee... [he breathes, shaking his head again. Is he just hallucinating stuff? Maybe he's not. Maybe it's something everybody saw and he's fine, actually.] Uh. Did. Did you see that?

[lupusxylem]

[It's fucking harrowing, is what it is. It's not even been that long since he's thought about it, but he sure does try not to. It's a memory he keeps buried deep and compartmentalized, because if he didn't, he's pretty sure he'd go absolutely mad. It's a reminder that he doesn't have his vials here, so if something does go wrong...well, he'll just be dead, won't he?

Ironic, that.

It's an unfamiliar voice in his ear that actually saves him from going another unintentional round, his claws flinching half-reaching towards his plate before he manages to ball them into a tight fist, claws digging at the palm of his hand in a way that momentarily grounds him. He doesn't think he'll be able to avoid eating more of this food forever, but at least he can for now.

He wishes he could escape, but he's tethered to his seat for better or worse.]

Yeah...yeah. [He swallows thickly, waiting for the pounding between his ears to subside.] I saw it.

[And he's not going to elaborate, or talk about his feelings, or any of that shit. He has to hope that Toki isn't the type to ask if he's alright.

He wishes he had just normal water to drink, but the table seems absent of anything but the food that keeps pulling these unintentional reactions out of them, so he has to try to refrain for now as he pulls his wings in close, a few of the feathers falling to the ground from the stress.]

Fuck, all this fancy shit and there's nothin' to smoke.

[God, could he use a smoke.]

[dethangel]

[Toki's shoulders relax, and he hadn't even realized he'd been hunching them. That is, of course, a massive relief. If he was the only one seeing it, then that'd be pretty scary, but if he's not the only one who saw it, then it probably wasn't produced by his own brain for reasons unknown.

So it's probably fine, actually, and so he doesn't really think about asking if the guy's alright, because he doesn't seem to be all that concerned about it. Not enough to talk about it anyway, although Toki still thinks it was a weird enough experience to mention.

Oh well. His dinner companion moves on, and so does he.]

You could try smoking that, [he jokes awkwardly, pointing at one of the plates of food that doesn't look remotely smokable. But that fruit probably has some planty stuff you could roll up into something, if you tried really hard.] It'd probably suck, though.

[Usually these types of fancy parties are more concerned with alcohol than anything else, though.]

2) Marigold Brandy

[shatteredlenses]

[Wolfwood may become more aware something unusual is about when a memory slips into his mind on the heels of his own. A reserved, but obviously excited boy of six or seven is explaining a problem he solved all on his own despite it being way above his level to a middle-aged man who is doing his best to listen, but is obviously extremely tired due to having just finished a long day in meeting after meeting. It's an intimate and happy scene, obviously cherished by the one who it belongs to.

That person is currently sitting on Wolfwood's left, looking down into his glass, though from the blindfold covering his eyes and the scars peeking out from said blindfold, there is no way he actually can see it.]

Is that how it is for children who have nowhere else to go? I went to my uncle, but it all happened when I was just a baby.

[lupusxylem]

[It may not be his own memory, but he feels the joy in it regardless, as if he were that kid explaining the problem that he himself- a grown man- can't even begin to comprehend. To that end, it's hard to really find it in himself to be too upset that his memories have been spied upon, now that it's dawning on him that that memory has mingled with someone else's.

The sweetness of the brandy is still lingering on his tongue as his gaze slides over to Ignis seated next to him, his claws tapping the edge of the glass. Normally, he might not be quite so eager to talk about his past, but...that feeling of contentment is still very much at the forefront of his mind, so it loosens his lips much like the brandy would.]

Yeah. 'Least, it is where I'm from. That Orphanage was our home, just as much as anybody else's.

[Our home. So he's in familiar company, it seems.]

Never knew my parents. I don't even really know if I ever had any that lived long.

[shatteredlenses]

I have a picture my uncle gave me.

[A crooked, bittersweet smile crosses his face as he turns his attention from his glass to the person speaking to him.]

I was five or six months old when they were killed. There was an attack on the city. A lot of people died. They call it the Founder's Day Massacre now.

[Ignis isn't usually one to share so easily either, but after being here for several months dealing with raw, newly exposed emotions, he's coming to accept it even if it still feels odd.

Besides, it's not like he's gotten a chance to talk to many other orphans. None would have dared to approach him after he was appointed the crown prince's advisor at age six. Even if they had, his responsibilities would have kept him too busy to spend much time with them.]

It seems like it was a good place to be. Were you all something of a big family?

2

[saudades]

[It's perhaps not a surprise that Dazai would gravitate to the brandy; his happiest memories (no, not his, but close enough) took place in a bar, after all. Three glasses of whiskey in a hole-in-the-wall bar, a nondescript place he was once told he would be a fool not to see before he died. It was nothing special, but the man had been right.

(He was glad to visit it at least once before the end.)

The taste of it doesn't disappoint. The joy is purer and clearer than anything he's ever really felt -- he's never quite managed to grasp his hands around something he could identify as happiness before it had already slipped through his fingers like so much sand -- and yet, he knows it all the same. Yes, he had something like it, once. In that bar, talking about nothing with a man he threw it all away to save.

He drinks, and keeps on drinking, even as the other man pauses to laugh, apparently startled by his own joy. He drinks until his glass is empty, and reaches for more even as he speaks.]

Something that happens in this place. Our minds are regularly tampered with, and the intrusion is shared with all and sundry.

[He doesn't sound especially apologetic about it, though.]

[lupusxylem]

[God, Wolfwood could go for a good bar right about now. They're not uncommon, back home, but good ones are a dime a dozen. Usually, the good ones are isolated to the big cities with actual running water, like Julai. Too bad Julai doesn't exist anymore.

Fuck it, he thinks as he knocks back more of the drink, which means his companion will be fed even more images from the orphanage, though it'll still look much the same as before. It's just pure, simple joy. The innocence of children playing outside on a hot day, blind to the world's horrors.]

Dunno how I feel 'bout that, if I'm honest.

[He hates feeling like he's being controlled by something- or someone- but that doesn't seem to be enough to stop him from drinking more.]

But you say that like you know somethin' I don't.

b-1, abstain

[sacral]

[ This is not his table, these are not his ghosts, but Subaru is seated anyway, abstaining perhaps in hopes of luring the eye of the one who watches them out. In truth, he holds little hope for an audience in a display as grand as this, but it seems right to attempt. Yet it's the surly protest of someone near to him that draws his half-blind gaze aside to the man awkwardly-winged, moon pale and morose green behind a soft veil rather than a mask. ]

I see. Would it help... [ He ventures, hypocritically disinclined to see anyone suffer the same fate he's suffering. ] if we shared something? I can go first.

[ If there's any malice in these offerings (which he's certain there is, and if not malice, then perhaps something more gently insidious, like stakes...) then it would be proven out by him first. ]

[lupusxylem]

[The soft voice beside him gets Wolfwood's attention, and he glances over with dark eyes without moving his head or body to meet his companion. His wings are still being held tight to his back, more instinctual than purposeful since he can barely control them yet. They're just...kindof there, a vestigial reminder that he's not on No Man's anymore.

He swallows thickly, finding his mouth and lips to be uncomfortably dry. He'd kill for a drink, and he's not had clean water in what feels like forever...liquor doesn't really count, but he'd take that if he had it. And sure enough, there's some on the table, along with a thick, dark cordial. Neither he's ventured to try on his own just yet.

To that end, the self-sacrificing way the person beside him offers to try something first rings just familiar enough that he ends up exhaling on a hollow sounding laugh.]

Share? You serious?

[sacral]

[ Subaru is sensitive to the suffering of others. A diviner's facet. And, if he had to guess, the sun-shorn rumble of laughter the other man emits at his offer is a symptom of it, left to fester for far too long. He was born with all the reflectiveness of water; he can feel the rattle of famishment, the ache. ]

I'm serious. [ Smooth and sullen, there's a directness to his answer that implies he lacks the energy to argue about it. ] If you want to confront our host, there are better ways.

[ His arm extends across the table, fingertips plucking at the cups. Man can starve for longer than he can thirst. He pulls them close, one by one, setting the golden liquor down between them first, then the cordial. ]

Here. I'll be alright.

New Flesh, Wildcard-y - Free to pick any food(s)

[snaggletooth]

[ Momentary flashes of an even more absurd feast bleed freely into the Murmur. Ivan is reminded of every table Unsha ever set. There was always a place for him at the end, smaller, stacked high with human-approved foods. The first time he was brought before one he was starving, yet so full of apprehension for the strange new situation. Another stray may have simply descended upon the food like an animal. Instead, watching what the other segyein guests did, he mimicked them.

He was applauded.

Ivan continued to practice etiquette and Unsha continued to be praised for raising such a well-behaved pet.

He has his fork, knife, and napkin out now, cutting off small pieces at a time, maintaining good posture in antithesis to the feasters that have bent themselves over their plates to get at their food faster. Some of the entrees are so sumptuous even he can't stop himself making a little mess, however. He brings his knife across the fibrous capsule of a deviled kidney, or maybe it's an uncarved piece of lamb, a too-plump blueberry? Regardless, juices spray over the side of his neighbor's face, his mask, whichever is bared at the time. Immediately picking up his napkin, Ivan moves to mop up the substance. ]

I'm sorry. [ Despite everything, he's smiling. ] Allow me.

[lupusxylem]

[Unfortunately for perhaps both of them, Ivan chooses to take a bite of the deviled kidney. In the same moment that the side of his mask gets sprayed with its bloody juices is the moment that both of them are enveloped in a memory...and not a good one.

Ultimately, it will be Ivan's, given that he was the one that partook. What that is, ultimately, is up to Ivan's subconscious to decide, even as he leans in to try to wipe Wolfwood's mask for him.

Reflexively, he finds himself flinching back, but not entirely far enough away to avoid Ivan's reach.]

Oi. Watch it.

[snaggletooth]

[ It's one he often comes back to.

His body is dangling high above the city, held up only by the fabric of his shirt that's slowly slipping upward, snatching painfully tight in the pits of his arms. He's here because he misbehaved according to the ape-like creature staring him down over a fist bigger than him. He doesn't fight. His muscles are tired. His mind is tired, too, of the way things are, of the life of a mutt-child. It might end here and he feels... nothing.

He hangs limply, watching the stars while he waits to be sent into a freefall toward the planet below. He notices then that some of them are moving. There are bright streaks traveling through the black of space, one after the other after the other. Where could they be going, other than somewhere far from here?

The segyein gets bored of threatening him after a while, but he's still thinking about that sky so beyond any of them, utterly indifferent to their struggle below it. ]

The stars are cold. But beautiful.

[ Wolfwood is caged in by his own seat at the table, by death sweeping close like a shooting star, allowing Ivan time to scrub away the mess. He works regardless of the past racing past his eyes.

Soon enough, the mask is clean. Slightly pinker than it was in one spot, but clean. ]

There.

3 (cw: mentions of magical poisoning, death, undeath, magical dissociaion)

[guidingbookworm]

[Sirius's fork clattered against his plate as he covered his mouth to stop himself from crying out as the memory hit him. His glowing silver eyes burned brighter as he instinctively tried to escape the pain by switching his conscious to his magic side, where his soul resonated with his magic and less his physical body. Unfortunately the pain came from a memory so there was nothing he could do to escape it, just like how in the memory he was strapped down and couldn't move as his body was agonizingly broken and reformed into the perfect vessel.

It reminded him of when he was chosen as the next star mage. He was slowly poisoned by his magic for a month as it reshaped him from the inside out, until it eventually killed him. His last memory as a human was that agonizing pain. As a mage everything felt like a fleeting memory after that. He hadn't felt pain that intense in years. Ironically it was that memory now that kept him from getting lost in his magic, and grounded him in his human memories.

The muffled scream to his side drew his attention. His hand trembled slightly as he placed a hand on Wolfwood's to stop him from going for another bite.]

Don't. Try the lamb instead. It won't affect you.

[It would affect Sirius instead but he didn't care if it would spare Wolfwood more pain.]

[lupusxylem]

[As the memory finally subsides, leaving Wolfwood feeling drained and hollow- same as it always does- he finds that he still can't resist eating something. It's like he's starved, suddenly, and he knows it's because he's refused the food for far too long.

Yet, as Sirius reaches out to place a hand on his, Wolfwood flinches and jerks his hand away instinctively, his eyes flashing with alarm behind his mask for a brief moment before they're schooled back into something darker. More measured.

It's taking a LOT of self control not to dive for the first thing he sees, fork trembling, but even so...the distrust is laden in his voice as he croaks:]

Nah...all of this shit has to do something.

W-what does the lamb do?

[guidingbookworm]

[Sirius retracted his hand as soon as Wolfwood jerked his hand away. His own glowing eyes flashed brighter as Wolfwood's hostility trigged a deep fear inside him. He didn't blame Wolfwood for his distrust though and he pushed the fear aside, offering him an apologetic smile.]

It makes your partner drawn to you. I admit I haven't figured out in what way exactly but as far as I can tell it should only affect me, not you.

➥ A

[nestingdevil]

[It's the sound that alerts him. How the ocean suddenly spits, gurgling from the depths. The soft ptt, ptt of water, bouncing against the solidness running sleek under his boots. At first, he doesn't think much of it. After all, he isn't the only one who's found himself out here, hovering on the surface. There's others - others walking, running, towards a single, final destination. The shapes of them level distantly on the horizon. Their shadows like a far-spaced funeral procession.]

[But then fingers (desperate, determined, clawing fingers) tighten around his ankle, and the Sin's heel stills on the water's edge. Whatever's happening behind his mask may be impossible to see, but it would be hard to miss the way his teeth clap together. The notion is as brittle as it is bitter. Their snap as finalizing as a pulled-sure pin.]

[Greed's knuckles tense white, and he violently thrusts his hand into the frothing waves. He'll try to wrap his grip around whatever he can: a wrist, an arm, a collar. And if it's a little rough? If the trap of his claws is just a little too tight? Well.]

[No one ever said beggars had much in the way of choice.]

[A dull crunch pops off in his shoulder. The Sin smogs a hiss behind his mask and as he begins to pull the nameless someone up and onto the firm side of the ocean, a rumble shakes in his throat. The tone of his voice sunk low, low, low in his chest.]

Hey, hey - you still with us there, friend?

[lupusxylem]

[It's kindof funny(?), because in the end despite Wolfwood's frantic grabbing, Greed ends up grabbing him by the collar in a very scruffed-dog kind of way. He doesn't struggle (though instinct tells him to, at first), and allows himself to be hoisted up out of the water with a thick, rattling gasp that tears its way from his lungs as he's pulled up, out, and onto the solid-enough ground.

He rolls halfway on his side, coughing and hacking up water in a way that suggests he's alive, at the very least. Not doing the best that he could, but...you can't cough if you're not breathing, right?]

Augh- fuck-

[Hang on, he's just...going to try to roll over on his back, at least until his wings prevent that and he's forced to roll back over onto his side. Ow.]

Fuckin'...barely..

[nestingdevil]

[Once he's out (out and breathing, though even that is giving it a lot of credit), the Sin crouches. He sets most of his weight on the backs of his heels; the notion of him, leaning and hovering like a piqued buzzard.]

[Greed slides his elbows along his thighs, forcing his hands to hang loose in the space between his knees.] Oh, ho - ! Almost thought you were a goner there for a second. [While the mask hides away most of his face, the shine of his teeth manages to break through the slats in the steel. They glint dry against the metal; the wideness of his grin as sharp as a collection of daggers, locked in a cabinet.]

[A laugh huffs from his nose, and the homunculus sways out one of his arms, letting his fingers fan in front of his face. However, as soon as Wolfwood rolls onto his side, his expression sours, if only slightly.] Ehh - [He tries to slip his hand under the other man's shoulder to prop him steady.] - barely's better than not, hmn? But I wouldn't move around too much. No need to make things any worse than they have to be.

[The Sin sighs, swearing something to himself, and he slouches in an effort to get Wolfwood partway onto the slump of his shoulder.] This might not feel great. Sorry.

[And with that, he begins to stand - his arm and half of his body, shoving to get them both upright.]

A.

[armwriostle]

[Wriothesley doesn't exactly have faith in the sense that he didn't see to some higher being nor did he follow a religion of some kind. It probably helped that his Archon was more of a celebrity than one who ruled over Fontaine with some iron fist. Still, he didn't have someone to look up to growing up when he was downtrodden and on his own.

But he does have faith in the sense that he believed in himself and what he was capable of. It's what doesn't have him sinking.

He's not one to let others drown and be abandoned, but it's also hard to tell what's happening around him also. The black abyss of the sea feels endless and noticing every ripple or every person under its depths is not so easy.

It's why Wriothesley is caught by surprise when he feels Wolfwood grab hold of his ankle. He doesn't try kicking the hand to free his leg, but immediately drops to his knees to start hauling the man out instead.] Damn, warn a guy next time. [He knows that's not actually possible, but hopefully it'll lighten the mood of...whatever this all was.]

[lupusxylem]

[Wolfwood can't say he'd blame this guy all that much if he had tried to kick him away. There's something too be said about prioritizing yourself in a situation like this, and while you can't in good faith say it's shameless, it sure is a blameless crime. After all, what is Wriothesley supposed to do if Wolfwood dragged him under the water, too? There's countless stories of people being drowned trying to save someone who's drowning, after all.

Fortunately(?) for both men, they aren't going to be drowning today. Wriothesley will manage to pull Wolfwood up out of the water with some difficulty, hacking up water the second he's on "dry" land. Ough./i>]

Aghk...f-fuck-

[Disoriented though he is, he does manage to let his eyes travel their way up the other man's form so he can look up at him properly, despite sopping like he is.]

Was either that or drown, yeah...?

b-i.

[sorte]

[ up until now, Aventurine has been silent. he has also abstained from eating and drinking, although he is preoccupying himself by constantly swirling the marigold brandy in its glass while being careful not to spill it (—since this place decided white attire at a banquet where you're being coerced into eating extremely rich and heavily rich foods with sauces and splatter is somehow an example of fantastic choices—) admiring the color of it like he's reminded of something or someone fond that is long gone (or at the very least, isn't here.)

when someone speaks up beside him, though, he replies gently and without hurry. there's no glance to Wolfwood, no glance, no acknowledgement other than the response. ]

It should be that way for all of us, since this is a dream and all, don't you think?

[lupusxylem]

Should be.

[He stresses in a low, slightly cracked voice, because whatever influence is over them right now is starting to wear on Wolfwood pretty heavy. Even if he says he isn't hungry, his body is positively screaming otherwise. It's trying to convince him that he's starving, he's parched in a desert, and there's no possible reason he shouldn't partake in what's in front of them. It looks perfectly fine!

It's fine.

He taps his fingers in a brief staccato against the table, his claws clicking on the surface until he stops and hides them in his palm.]

Take a look 'round. That ain't the case for everyone here.

[Because a lot of their company has already succumbed, eating like it's the last food they'll ever have.]