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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alba / oc / new player

[roil]

A. SINK / INTRO

[ no-one can say that she doesn't have faith. in fact alba can readily say that she only has faith in herself and not much else. so she doesn't drown, but she can't say she's happy about that either, because she is very much not home. nothing's familiar to her. there's too many things to panic about, and so much she can't control. in the litany of things she has to complain about, the first thing she blurts out in dismay, almost a scream, is: ] My - my dress! And my hair!

[ look, a lady is having a Difficult time. as she reaches the shore with her clothes sopping wet, she punts a jellyfish to the sands. ] Get lost - ow! [ the tentacles rip from her calf and burn. she ends up sitting on the sand, sobbing in frustration. interestingly enough, in her frustration, she snarls, ] Am I on Earth?!


B. NEW FLESH

[ she is very much not on earth.

but the castle and its offerings are familiar and smack of the empire's excesses, at the very least. alba is still feeling like she'd rolled in the sea for far too long, the ocean wreaking havoc on her once perfectly coiffed hair, which she now braids as she thoughtfully inspects the decor. she has nothing to say about the dress. it is not hers. only that: she is suddenly dressed for the event against her will and is expected to be seated and perform. not having any other cues, alba is at least familiar with that kind of expectation. she was trained to be a host in another life. one doesn't always forget their training -

- or the inherent dangers that come with it. she is reluctant to eat, but being in the ocean and being here has sapped so much of her energy and she's hungry. she waits for others to start eating before she reaches for a dish. alba takes a delicate bite of the deviled kidneys.

a memory comes, unbidden; your character will be in the perspective of alba: a man taking her hand, kissing it gently on the back of it with practiced gentility. someone behind him is saying: - as part of your family's penance to the royal family, the martin-hersilies will take stewardship of you, your assets, your portfolios, and everything else under your name. emrik, of course, will be your husband. as a security risk to the minister of defense, you will undergo training that will protect him -

alba drops her fork. she is very pale and frightened. ] I - [ she brushes her skirt clean and dabs her mouth with a napkin, smeared red from her lips. ] I'm sorry. That was - [ a pause. alba feels helpless. but she is not allowed to feel such things. so by rote, she just repeats again, insistently, ] I apologize for inconveniencing your dinner.


C. OOC - WILDCARD

1. Currently leaning to beastkin right now for Alba!
2. I am down to play any of the prompts in the α or Ω prompt, but I prefer we hash it out first. Feel free to PM me.
3. If you want something else other than the prompts above, let me know! I'm steering away from the Abomination fight for now, but everything else is fair game.

b, we're going down the darkest timeline together I hope you're excited for this

[laidtocrest]

[In a sense, it's for the best. He'd been about to drink from the Saints Breath Chalice, and who knows what would have happened. Instead, a memory: not his, he feels the terror, it's actually...

Rather familiar. The background radiation of his life. (Not that Sylvain knows what radiation is, but if he hears the phrase, he'd say yes, that.) All thoughts of dubious drinks are set aside.]

You have nothing to apologize for. You're beautiful; beautiful women have rights the rest of us don't. [And that's said with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, because he's operating on instinct, and his instincts aren't the best.]

wow ... thank you ....

[roil]

- You find me beautiful?

[ alba leans forward, every bit a lady, her fingers composed over her fork and knife. the conversation is easy and familiar. this stranger is one in many that she's had some training with. whether or not she's able to discern his terrible instincts is something else entirely. this is what she focuses in on, rather haughtily, transporting sylvain back to the terrible parties of his hometown in ways he least expected: ]

In what way am I beautiful, good sir? A man ought to be specific, or else he's not sincere. And if you are confident in saying such things to a lady, then you ought to be specific in your praise!

you're welcome! the toxic energy will be seen from orbit!

[laidtocrest]

[Inwardly, he kind of hates this woman already. Outwardly, he just maintains his confident and somewhat cocky smile. If it wasn't for the fact that this is obviously more than just a dream, he'd be tempted to go back to that ocean, throw himself in, and drown a couple more times to get away from her.]

How am I supposed to be specific? It's like picking my favorite parts of a summer day: it's not the individual parts but the whole that makes it beautiful.

[roil]

Oh, you're a professional! [ repaying him with the same honeyed tones, just to further drive the need for him to get swallowed by the ocean. ] But referring to a lady as a 'summer's day' is rather clichéd at this stage! I'm not one to be swayed by such paltry comparisons.

What else do you have for me? Or are you ready to concede your place to other suitors? [ not that she has them here, but you know. they can both pretend. one just happens to enjoy the game more than the other. ]

A

[consumingly]

[ In contrast to Alba, Endo is the picture of calm. His languid demeanor doesn't waver, not even as he's surprised by that loud, superficial exclamation. This isn't exactly the time and place to be worrying about appearances but — he gets it. He knows someone who would be having similar complaints right now, despite the fact that everything is eerie, unsettling, and very mysterious. It's because of that person that he stops to take a good look at her. But when he decides to talk, he's motivated entirely by practicality. Gotta make a few acquaintances when faced with the unknown, right? Better to start forming tentative alliances now, before he's thrown into the thick of whatever's to come.

Giving her a patient smile: ]

I can help you with that, if you want.

[ The dress is a lost cause, but Endo happens to be very good at styling hair — he does it all the time for the aforementioned someone.

His own hair is a little wild at the moment, as his version of taking care of it was running his hand through it, which is why he adds: ]

I'm better at fixing hair than I look.

[roil]

[ she is still untangling her hair when he comes, and at his statement, alba replies rather tersely, ] I find that quite hard to believe! I want my hair to look good, and not like someone had dragged a turnip in its prime!

[ it might be endo's hair. that might be the one thing that's convincing her he's going to ruin her hair despite his offer of aid. she tries to grab her handkerchief in her pocket; that's also wet. feeling rather defeated, alba just wrings it over the sand. ]

[consumingly]

[ Fair enough, fair enough. He doesn't exactly look like the poster child for prettying up anyone, especially when it comes to hair, so he gets it. But he does have hidden depths — and a decade of experience taking care of someone.

Far be it from him to explain that, or to shed light into exactly why he has experience. Though he isn't at all affected by her comment — aside from being mildly amused by her choice of turnip — he isn't going to grovel. ]

Look around.

[ At various other people in various other states of disarray. ]

You don't got many choices. Might as well give me a shot.

[ Otherwise she'll be stuck as a mess — what an embarrassment! ]

[roil]

[ that's true! she doesn't have any other choices. no-one else around her seems inclined to offer her very important aid, which disappoints alba, because isn't that the point of suffering together, or whatever it is they'd mentioned at her PR classes and so on when it comes to charity? further evidence, to her, that the finishing school truly hasn't come up with anything innovative or insightful for a lady's survival. she should've listened to her husband when he recommended her basic combat, but the schedule and amount of physical labour clashed intensely with her own schedule and regimen and image. how was one supposed to reconcile such things together? ]

... I suppose you can try!

[ which is what she says in a rather defeated voice. mostly because her hair is giving her a lot of problems, being as long as it is. she'd really not rather have it be ruined as it dries in the open air. ] But if I feel you are no longer qualified to care for it - you will be dismissed!

b

[commitments]

[ Adolphe is here seated, growing warier by the second as he comes to his senses. The mask stays on because he frankly has forgotten about it to the events that are cascading before him. Wasn't he taken by the tide? Wasn't he sinking before?

And now he's here at this extravagant banquet fit for royalty, except it's unsettling all the same. The vines. These marionettes of guardians hang above... With one figure who seems to still draw breath, yet he's expected to eat?

Everyone dines first, which whets his growing hunger. He guesses he will also have a kidney and mid-chew he's assaulted by the memory—dread sinks. They've made a mistake. ]

We can forget about it. [ There's neither reprimand nor anger. His gaze pins onto the dish instead of her. ] I won't ask.

[roil]

[ alba nods stiffly at his remark. ] I do appreciate a practical man.

[ but doubt still plagues her. a memory that is horrifyingly shameful to her is made available to others with little interference from herself. how violating! and while he seems to be pragmatic about forgetting it, she still finds it embarrassing. there is no form of decorum or social rule she can lean on for such things.

alba mutters, ] I am afraid to eat further! I am very hungry, but the risk of revealing myself is too much for me to bear ... what a pathetic thing to be concerned about!

[commitments]

[ Cool. They're on the same page, though he can see her struggling to reconcile. He does his part in staying calm and keeping distance from what he saw, maybe overly calm as a coping mechanism to their strange circumstances.

Quietly, ]

It doesn't make you look less pathetic muttering all of that... [ He says this without any actual heat. It's a throwaway comment, as rude as it is. Back to speaking volume, ] It's normal to be concerned. You didn't get a choice.

[ Decorum is lost on him, but what can anyone expect from the common man. When she talks about hunger, though... He gulps. Insatiable, goring hunger. ]

[roil]

- I am concerned about it regardless! I have the right to be upset at everything as I please.

[ how frustrating to just have to pout about the state of things, because he's right, she doesn't have control over anything. nothing about this situation is under anyone's control or anyone's to change, for that matter, not hers or this man's. so alba is left in the deeply annoying problem of having to figure out what she can eat that's good for her and a portion that is feasible. ]

I don't think it's normal that you are taking all of this in stride, either. One has to imagine that being prisoner has somehow smoothed over your concerns!

A

[inverseye]

H-hey! Watch it!!

[ The jellyfish Alba kicks sails through the air and lands near another person who has finally made his way to the shore, as sopping wet in his suit as she is in her dress. Saheon looks up in shock as it slams onto his foot. Wow...a beautiful chick is in distress right next to him... She looks rich.

...He kicks the jellyfish back at her! ]

You get lost! [ Well don't actually, that ruined dress looks pretty expensive. Maybe he could sell it. If you're gonna cry, just hurry up and die? ]

Why are you kicking shit like that around? You're going to hurt someone!

[ Pot. Kettle. ]

[roil]

Hurt someone?

[ alba stops crying and wipes her eyes dry, standing up to her full height, saltwater on her skin and hair be damned, because - look, there is something more important here, and that is this fact: ]

You're right that someone is hurt, and I am that person! You should be considering how to comfort me, as expected of someone of your station!

[ she is marching closer to him as she scolds him, her dainty foot stomping on that jellyfish as she does. ]

oh i love her

[inverseye]

[Ew. No. Get away from him. Saheon backpaddles, but as he is not focusing on his beautiful belief in the precious and ephemeral nature of his life, the ocean behind him acts like water and he doesn't get far. ]

My station?? What are you, some goddamn heiress?

[ He's so aghast, a bit of his rural accent is coming out. It's a free and equal country, doesn't she know? He can vote...

But with escape cut off, Saheon shakes his head furiously and draws himself up to his full height to point back at Alba.]

You kicked it at me first. I could sue for abuse and reckless endangerment!

b

[opheliac]

[unlike alba, there's very little to almost no reaction when her memory gets planted dead center in jinx's mind. she had been here for a little over a month, and receiving other people's thoughts or memories was becoming the new norm. needless to say, the bluenette still wishes she could do without and yearns for solitude, but it seems that dream won't become a reality any time soon. not if the goddess, Sleep, has anything to say about it.

the teen casts a glance towards alba; nonetheless, the vulnerability glows briskly on the woman's cheeks and eyes, but jinx's main attention is the hair. it's braided similar to hers except in a singular twist instead of two. and the color is a different shade too, darker, perhaps? regardless, the raven dismisses a shrug and stretches for her glass, speaking while chewing.]

Don't sweat bullets about it, Lady. Royalties are my least favorite thing, and giving them any of my attention will cause me to break out in hives.

[roil]

How crass ...! But I suppose it can't be helped. The excesses of our station need not the approval nor admiration of anyone.

[ alba sets down her cutlery, suddenly not interested in eating. she is hungry but the food is making her apprehensive.

she'll just have water, she supposes. ]

Still, you seem so cavalier about the experience. I suppose this isn't new to you at all ...?

cw: schizophrenia + hallucination

[opheliac]

[the way she articulate her words and her vocabulary brings a snort out of the teenager, and she flings her gaze to the left of her—thumbing back to gesture at alba while she says:]

Ha, get a load of this chick, huh?

[but what makes this unsettling is that jinx is talking to... nobody. there is no one on that side of them, and yet she is acting as if there's a whole person there. is she unwell? without warning, the bluenette bounces out of her seat, only to twirl the chair backwards to seat incorrectly, man-spreading (in a dress), and folding her arms along the top rail. how unladylike!]

Bbbbuuut! If you gotta know, then no. This isn't all new to me. ... Curious?

a

[vixenish]

[ Goodness gracious.

The whole display startles Lortel, a little, a shocked little smile on her face as she watches the woman sit down to cry. Moved by a mix of understanding amusement and sympathy, she approaches the other woman to offer her a hand. ]

This is a dream, if you can believe it. Are you alright? Your poor leg!

[roil]

How could it be? So many horrible things have been so far inflicted on me, and yet I haven't woken up!

[ maybe she needs to stop it with the sweets or whatever concoction the dietitian keeps asking her to eat to maintain her figure. literally anything else but this.

alba gingerly takes her hand, and inspects her leg sadly. ]

I thank you .... oh, it's marked my skin! [ there are welts, even. she is distressed. ]

[vixenish]

I assure you that it is, though not a normal one.

[ the injury she spares a glance of concern, but there truly isn't time. ]

I very much doubt it's safe to stay here. Come. I'm sure we can at the very least get you dried off and warmed up.

[ they need merely follow that bright beacon beckoning from the dark, though who knows what awaits them there. ]

b.

[guidingbookworm]

[Sirius also felt trapped by a similar expectation. Without a world and on the run he was hardly the king he once was, nor did he want to be, but some of his training ran deeper than others. It was too easy to slip into his old role and he did his best to keep his composure despite the disturbing affects of the feast.

The erratic flickering of his glowing silver eyes reflected his inner unease as yet another memory came unbidden into his mind. At least it wasn't his. He immediately felt guilty for thinking like that as he watched Alba's memory unfold and his expression softened with sympathy.]

It is no trouble at all. Are you alright?

[roil]

No!

[ what a silly question. a lady is in distress. in fact a lady has been in distress approaching almost the entire day now and this is hitting her in critical mass. ]

How is one supposed to keep themselves fed in this situation? I am hungry, and yet nothing will do.

[guidingbookworm]

[Given her earlier hesitation to speak her mind earlier Sirius expected her to hide behind a polite lie. Her outrage was a relief and he quietly let her vent her frustration.]

Yes, our host seems to have peculiar tastes. The lamb is safer than most. It will affect the person you share it with, not you. The brandy also bring forth happy memories.

[Although that happiness felt a bit jarring to Sirius after being reminded of his greatest failure. His glowing eyes flickered with a hesitant glow that reflected his hidden unease at the memory.]